"What news have you for me?" Sun asked, draping his towel across the mysterious object at his feet.
"I, um, just talked to Bergdorf at Channel 8. The, uh, Sun Source infomercial has been distributed around the country as per your instructions."
Princippi was finding it difficult to speak. Sun's eyes held the same weird yellow glow they had taken on back at the Washington Guardian offices. It looked as if someone had screwed two yellow Christmas bulbs into his eye sockets.
"What of the switchboards? Do the people of this land seek out my oracular wisdom?" The yellow eyes flashed hypnotically.
"Switchboards?" Princippi gulped. "Um, yeah. Yeah, they're doing okay. I guess. You know, there are business people more suited to this. These psychic hotlines are a big deal. I'm sure you could lure someone away from Kim Smiley or the Amazing Mystico. Maybe even some of Dionne Warwick's old people might want to jump from that sunken ship."
"We have chosen you," Sun announced.
Man Hyung Sun had recently taken to speaking in the royal we. Michael Princippi was one of the few people who understood why.
"Okay, fine," Princippi said, forcing affability. "But could we maybe tone down my public participation a little? The press is having a field day with this. It's really going to put a hitch in my plans for the presidency."
"We have judged it should be so," Sun said, ending the argument. He pulled the towel off the hidden object on the floor, draping the rank fabric around his neck.
Princippi recognized the stone urn instantly. He hadn't seen it in almost a year. Chiseled Greek characters ran up the sides, worn with age. A thick yellow film rose from the heavy urn, inspired by the closeness of the humidifiers.
The former governor gulped nervously as he looked at the ancient piece of carved rock. Inside was a clumpy yellow crystalline substance. It sparkled in the wan room light. The color of the wet sand matched the fierce brightness in the cult leader's eyes.
"What of Boston?" Sun asked suddenly.
Princippi had to tear his eyes from the urn. "Huh?"
"Boston," Sun repeated. "Has the Sun Source program run there?"
"Uh, yeah," Princippi said, swallowing. His heart was pounding. "Just like you said. We bought more time there than anywhere else. A couple of stations are carrying it, morning and late night." Fear, coupled with the swirling sulfur smoke, was making him dizzy. He needed to go to the bathroom again. The ex-governor wished Sun would hurry up and cover the urn with his smelly towel.
"That is where we shall find them," Sun said in satisfaction. "And we shall finally have our revenge."
The smoke grew stronger. Squinting in displeasure, Princippi flapped one hand in front of his face as he covered his mouth and nose with the other. "Find who?" he asked.
But Sun did not answer. He had pulled the towel back over his head, draping the far end over the ancient urn. The cult leader breathed deeply at the sickly fumes.
Chapter 10
The cab from Boston's Logan International Airport dropped Remo and Chiun off on the sidewalk in front of their Quincy, Massachusetts, condominium.
They had taken the North Korean jet from Germany to England, switching to a commercial flight at London's Heathrow Airport. The private Korean jet flew east into the sunrise while Remo's 747 headed in the opposite direction across the Atlantic. They landed a little after 3:30 a.m.
It was the dead of night by the time they climbed the stairs to their home.
"You hungry?" Remo asked once they were inside.
"Rice," was all Chiun said in response. He left Remo to make their meal while he went off to the living room.
As Remo was rummaging through the kitchen cupboards in search of a pot, he heard the familiar blare of the TV coming from the other room. Fifteen minutes later, Remo set a bowl of steaming rice and a pair of chopsticks at the feet of the Master of Sinanju. He joined his teacher cross-legged on the floor before the big set.
"What are we watching?" Remo asked. Unlike Chiun, he used his fingers to eat his rice.
"Drivel," Chiun replied. He hauled a thick clump of rice to his papery lips.
"I guess TV hasn't changed much since we left," Remo observed.
On the television, a pudgy man who was-physical evidence to the contrary-trying to pass himself off as an exercise expert, screamed at an enthusiastic audience about something called the Butt Blaster. Said Butt Blaster was apparently the cureall to flabby derrieres around the nation. By investing only two minutes a day, the pudgy man promised that those who used his product would have bottoms as tight as a snare drum. He had models behind him to prove his case. They looked as if they exercised for breakfast, fasted for lunch and starved themselves while exercising for supper.
"How many of those things do you think broke during taping?" Remo asked, nodding to the strange exercise contraptions on the screen.
"How long is this program?" Chiun asked.
"Infomercials usually run half an hour," Remo said.
"One hundred and sixty-three," Chiun announced firmly. "See?" He aimed a long ivory fingernail at the action on the television. "The metal on that one gives even as the fat announcer blabbers on."
Remo instantly saw what he was pointing at. A stress fracture had appeared on one of the workout devices. Theirs were the only sets of eyes on the planet that would have seen the tiny crack. Long before it broke entirely, the scene changed. The actor sweating in the background of the shot suddenly had a brand-new Butt Blaster. It wasn't even the same color as the original.
"A great value at only $29.99!" screamed the raspy-voiced pitchman. "Plus $59.99 postage and handling," he said, suddenly speaking so low and quickly that the words were virtually indecipherable. His blond ponytail bobbed excitedly as he browbeat the studio and home audiences into purchasing his product.
"You want to know something, Chiun?" Remo said. "In spite of stuff like this, I'm glad we're home."
Remo meant it. They had spent a great deal of time traveling in the past few months. From Europe to South America to Asia and back to Europe. It had been a grueling, frenetic cycle. He wanted nothing more than to sit back and relax for a couple of weeks.
Chiun did not respond to Remo's comment. The half-hour-long exercise advertisement had come to an end. The Channel 8 Productions logo was followed by a burp of dead air before the too loud intro music of yet another infomercial began.
By this point, both their bowls were empty. Remo got to his feet, collecting their dirty dinner dishes. He was straightening up and turning to go when a familiar voice caught his attention.
"...what we can do," said the insipid voice on the TV.
"It would help if we could somehow know the future," came the reply.
"Keep dreaming," said the dull voice.
Bowls in hand, Remo turned back to the screen.
The face was as he remembered it. Dull, gray. Giant black bushy eyebrows, more appropriate to a Muppet than to a politician, hung over beady, porcine eyes.
Remo scrunched up his face. "Isn't that Mike Princippi?" he asked uncertainly.
"Hush," Chiun instructed.
"I've always had trouble with the future," the TV Mike Princippi was saying.
"Knowing the future would not only help in politics, but in all walks of life," his television companion opined.
"No way," Remo said, sinking back to the floor. A light had begun to dawn. "This can't be what I think it is."
"The future is hard to predict," Princippi said. He was obviously reading from cue cards. "If I knew how, I'd be President right now." Even though he laughed along with the other men on the set, his eyes were sick.
"Dammit, I was right!" Remo enthused. "It's a psychic-hotline infomercial. I'll be goddamned if Mike 'the Prince' Princippi isn't on TV hawking some crackpot fortune-teller's 900 number." He positively bubbled with excitement.