She became angry—with herself, as well as Remo—and shot back, “I can, too. At least you’ve got a nice view.”
“Well spoken,” Chiun announced, emerging from his room. “Back to your cave, lecherous animal.”
“Wait. You may want to hear this, Remo. Master Chiun, the bird spoke in its sleep. I think it has a message for us.”
Chiun looked doubtful. “Tell me the message,” he commanded.
She repeated the words of the bird, including the odd phrase, ‘“The more it eats the more it grows. The more minds it consumes, the more powerful becomes its mind.”
Chiun became thoughtful.
“This mean anything to you, Little Father?” Remo asked.
“It’s not the first time he’s said this,” Sarah added. “Once, days ago when you were away, he spoke similar words. But I thought it was the bird talking. Not—whoever. I thought it was just a phrase he had picked up from his former owner. This time he was more precise.”
Remo repeated thoughtfully, “Delay the coming of—”
“Hush!” Chiun snapped.
“Is it one of the names of you-know-who?” Remo asked.
“I know the word. It is on the tongues of a thousand peoples of the Amazon River. It is one of their pantheon of gods.”
“Sounds like you-know-who,” Remo said.
“For what it’s worth, hyacinth macaws come from Brazil,” Sarah said.
Remo was weighing the facts. “Seems odd that the bird would mention an unrelated god.”
“I cannot know all,” Chiun stated flatly. “But it is an assumption we must make. The name spoken is two words. Mboi is ‘snake’ and aku is ‘big’.”
“But you-know-who isn’t a snake, Chiun. He’s a squid. Or an octopus. A squirmy thing with lots of tentacles. Not a snake.”
“Neither is the Kraken in all stories, nor the Hydra, nor the legends of the South Seas islanders. The deity of which the bird spoke is capable of changing shape at will. Maybe it is him. Regardless, the message itself means little.”
“It can’t mean nothing,” Sarah insisted. “What can we do to follow these directives?”
“Stop feeding it?” Remo asked. “I don’t see how.”
“Stop feeding who?” Mark Howard appeared in the open doorway. He took one look at Sarah in her see-through Snoopy shirt and Remo in his sleeping shorts and snapped, “What’s going on?”
“Look, he who we can’t name eats seafood,” Remo said. “I’ll bet he eats squid mostly. There were a lot of squid around when I paid my social call.”
“Yes,” Chiun agreed. “The waters are channeling through him and carrying the bodies into his maw, to be consumed.”
Mark grew pale and Remo saw his skin become cold. “You okay, Junior?”
“I dreamt of that. The first dreams I had were of being in the ocean and being boneless, being swept along helplessly. I was about to be consumed. I knew it. I was one of those squid.”
“I’m guessing there’s an inexhaustible supply of squid in the oceans,” Remo suggested. “We can’t stop them from getting carried in by the current.”
“No,” Chiun agreed. “Perhaps that is not the meaning of the message.”
“Then what is?” Remo asked.
Chapter 33
Smith had a wife, who for years saw little of her husband as he dedicated his life to, as far as she knew, running the Rye, New York, sanitarium. As Mark Howard proved himself capable of handling the daily operations of the hospital—and CURE—Smith began spending more time at home.
But not now. Not when the world was in a crisis. He remained at his post and monitored the growing danger of the amassing ice cones on the Antarctic continent. Watch, and wait, was all he could do.
Unexpectedly, the old office was the scene of an impromptu 5:00 a.m. meeting of CURE’S entire staff.
Plus one.
“She must stay, Emperor, for she is the fount of this knowledge,” Chiun said with an ingratiating smile. “The bird spoke only to her. My efforts to speak to it just now were fruitless.”
“She’s the one with the intel,” Remo explained. “Just accept it, will you?”
Smith nodded sourly. “You wish to be here, Ms. Slate?”
“Yes, Dr. Smith, I do.”
Dr. Smith stood, leaned over the desk and extended one hand. “I suppose this makes it official.”
“Yes.” She smiled seriously and they shook on it.
“Welcome aboard.” He offered her the nicest chair in the office.
“What just happened?” Remo asked.
Smith’s sour face became a grim smile. “Ms. Slate is now an employee of our organization.”
“Really?” Mark Howard asked.
“You didn’t even bicker over the salary,” Remo said.
“We came to our agreement weeks ago,” Smith explained. “It became clear that Ms. Slate was fully knowledgeable of the existence of our organization and the identity of Master Chiun and yourself, Remo. Also, she seemed determined to remain with Mark.”
“She is?” Mark asked.
“As far as I can tell,” Smith said offhandedly. “She had also become honored in the eyes of Master Chiun, and that sealed her fate. She could not be assassinated so I was forced to hire her.”
Remo said, “God, Smitty, you can be so sweet …”
“So,” Smith interjected loudly, “I discussed it with Ms. Slate and we came to an agreement. She was not certain of her long-term intentions. I extended the offer of employment. By coming here today, she accepts my terms. She has previously given her oath to maintain the anonymity of CURE.”
“CURE?” Sarah said.
Smith nodded. “CURE.”
“Stands for?”
“Nothing. Ms. Slate is now executive assistant to the assistant director of CURE and Folcroft Sanitarium.”
“Welcome, Sarah,” Chiun said graciously, apparently entirely without surprise.
“You’re Howie’s secretary?” Remo asked. “Aren’t you worth millions?”
“I didn’t take the job for the salary, Remo,” Sarah explained.
“She’ll obviously be more involved in the CURE operations than my own secretary has ever been,” Dr. Smith said. “She knows the risks of being associated with this organization. I have not glossed over the fate of past CURE associates. And that supposes that we have a chance of surviving the dangers the planet faces now. I hope you have something positive to tell me?”
“Perhaps,” Chiun said. “Hush. Please speak, Sarah.”
Sarah reported again the words of the sleeping parrot, and wrote, rather than said aloud, the name the parrot spoke. Chiun explained the possible interpretation.
“Mark?” Dr. Smith asked. Mark Howard had paid little attention to the momentous events of the past few minutes. He was behind his desk pounding out commands.
“Not much on the name that Chiun hasn’t told us already,” Mark reported.
“The facts are slim and circumstantial,” Dr. Smith decided aloud. “The bird might be from Brazil but just as likely is a pet bred in North America. The deity in question might be an interpretation of the Sa Mangsang myth or not. The suggestion the bird provides is improbable.”
“We must heed it, nevertheless, if a way can be found,” Chiun said.
“The problem is how,” Remo said. “Nobody can get near the vortex where you-know-who is, let alone move in an operation big enough to plug its feeding tube.”
Chiun glowered.
“Maybe we can poison the squid.” Remo mused. “Kill off the food supply.”
“An environmental catastrophe,” Smith countered.
“So’s Armageddon.”
“There’s no way,” Mark Howard replied. “There’s not enough toxin on the planet to kill all the squid in the ocean.”