"You heard the voice?"
"Sometimes I hear it in my head. Sometimes it comes out of me."
"Is that why you've come here?"
"Smitty, you know the crap Chiun believes in. The legends of Shiva?"
"Chiun has explained it to me."
"It's just superstition, isn't it?"
Smith hesitated. He had seen Remo when one of those spells had overtaken him. The Remo he knew had talents that outclassed the greatest athletes and martial artists ever known. The Remo who had spoken in another voice was utterly alien to anything human and displayed attributes far beyond the amplified skills that could be explained by Sinanju training.
"Define superstition," said Smith.
Remo turned away from the window. "Oh, come off it, Smith. You can't tell me you buy any of it."
"I buy nothing," returned Smith in a crisp voice. "But since my first encounter with the Master of Sinanju, my natural skepticism has taken successive pummelings. I prefer not to dwell on things I cannot adequately explain."
"I'm not talking Sinanju. I'm talking-" Remo waved his arms "-that Squirrelly Chicane bull!'
Smith leaned back in his chair. "I do not believe in reincarnation, if that is what you are driving at."
Remo suddenly returned to the desk, set his hands on the desktop and leaned close to Smith's thin face.
"Smitty, this place is full of specialists. Ever hear of a condition that could explain this voice I hear?"
Smith considered. "Yes, there is a condition known as Psychogenic Fugue State. Its chief symptom is a complete personality displacement in which the subject's personality is sublimated for that of another's. In profound cases the subject talks and acts in a manner distinctly different from his usual self. I have sometimes wondered if it applied to your case."
"Case? I don't have a case!"
"You are hearing voices. You admit this."
"I'm making the voice. Or my throat is."
"Would you like to see a psychiatrist, Remo?"
"Yes. No!"
"Well, which is it?"
"I'd like for all this metaphysical junk to just fly away. But I'll settle for somebody explaining it for me."
"Dr. Gerling might be able to shed some light. Would you like to speak with him?"
"Let me think about it. Okay. If I've slipped my track, I'm not sure I'm in a big rush to find out."
"What if I simply explain your situation to him and get back to you on his opinion? "
"Okay. I can live with that."
"Good," said Harold Smith. "Is there anything else?"
A desk drawer began ringing. Smith opened it, lifted out a standard AT ephone the color of a fire engine and lifted the receiver. There was no dial.
"Yes, Mr. President?" said Harold Smith after clearing his throat.
Remo turned his back and pretended not to be listening, but every word spoken by the President of the United States over the dedicated line to Washington reached his ears.
"Dr. Smith," the President said in his hoarse but mellow down-home voice. "How are you?"
"I am well, Mr. President," said Smith in a voice that communicated his mild impatience with idle talk. Smith let the silence hang between Folcroft and the White House.
"Well, yes. Glad to hear it, Smith. I need your input on something."
"Do you have a matter requiring my people?" Smith asked.
"Yes and no," said the President uncomfortably.
"Which is it?" returned Smith.
Remo made a hand motion that meant speed it up. Smith ignored him.
"I wonder if you've read about-I hesitate to bring this up-Squirrelly Chicane?"
"I have," admitted Smith.
"Well, she's a friend of my wife, who as you may have heard, has appointed herself head of the Presidential Commission on Tibetan Independence, and she's bound and determined to go to Tibet and see this thing through."
"Who-the First Lady or Squirrelly Chicane?"
"Squirrelly. The First Lady appointed her a special envoy of something when this crazy lama thing was announced. Myself, I don't swallow all this New Age stuff-and let me say that neither does the First Lady-but as I said, she and Squirrelly are friends."
Smith furrowed his pale brow. "I am not following this."
"My wife has asked the Chinese state department to expedite Squirrelly Chicane's visa application to enter Tibet."
"Mr. President, don't you realize the implications of that act?"
"Well, we can't stop her. Either of them, actually. And Squirrelly's free to travel where she wants to go."
"Yes, but her presence in Tibet could lead to open revolt."
"Isn't that what they have over there already?"
"Lhasa is in an uproar, but the countryside is relatively passive now. The introduction of a volatile and unpredictable element like Miss Chicane-"
"Unpredictable is correct," the President said wryly. "I recognize the seriousness of the situation, but as I said, she's determined to go, and the First Lady is especially interested in the situation over there in Tibet. I know I'm not empowered to order you to accept assignments, Smith. I can only suggest them-"
"A built-in safeguard designed to avoid executive-branch abuse of CURE."
"And I want it clearly understood that I'm not insisting on this," returned the President. He lowered his voice as if to protect against an eavesdropper. It became ingratiating. "But do you think you could see your way clear to sending your people along to kinda chaperone Squirrelly?"
Harold Smith stared into space a moment. His lemony expression did not change a particle.
Remo turned and made throat-cutting gestures and shook his head violently. Smith ignored him. He and he alone had sole authority to accept or decline Presidential tasks.
"No, Mr. President, I do not see this as within the CURE mandate."
"I'm sorry you feel that way," the President said in a disconsolate tone.
"I do not feel that way. That is simply the way it is. Conditions in Tibet, regrettable as they are, have no bearing on US. security. But if Miss Chicane goes to Tibet, a rift could develop between the US. and China. I can only advise you against allowing her to go. The rest I leave to your judgment."
"If it were up to me-"
"It is up to you. You are the President of the United States."
"You don't know my wife, the copresident."
"Mr. President," Smith said sternly, "the American people did not elect a copresident. There is no such constitutional office. There is only a president and a vice-president. Your wife is your wife, not an elected official."
"I share my every decision with her. She's my rock. There are no secrets from her."
Smith went instantly white. His voice cracked on his next word. "Mr. President, you did not tell her about the organization?"
"I take that back. I held that one back. Just in case of a divorce."
"I hesitate to mention this," said Smith, "but last month the red telephone rang, and when I answered, a suspicious woman's voice demanded to know who I was"
The President let out a weary sigh. "Yeah, she told me. I'm sorry, Smith. I really am. She was thinking of redecorating the Lincoln bedroom and found the red phone stashed in the night table. Naturally she picked it up, and-"
"What did you tell her?"
"I fibbed. I told her it was the hot line to Canada or something."
"I trust she believed you."
"Well, not exactly," the President admitted in a sheepish tone. "I think she thinks it's some kind of secret line to an old girlfriend."
"Do not disabuse her of that notion," said Smith.
"Are you crazy?"
"Mr. President, it is better for you to have a public divorce than to have the existence of CURE come out on your watch. You could be impeached for allowing CURE to continue."
"Don't think the notion doesn't haunt me."
"Good day, Mr. President. If you have other matters directly pertaining to national security, do not hesitate to bring them to my attention."