"Very well," said Harold W. Smith, trying to sound grateful, but instead coming across as constipated.
Chiun beamed. "A wonderful meal will be prepared in your honor."
"Better make that takeout," said Remo. "No stove. No food."
Chiun clapped delicate hands together, producing a report so sharp it should have shattered his fingerbones. "Remo! Quickly-purchase these things."
"I don't think we can get same-day delivery."
"Tell the merchants that these items are to make a sumptuous meal for Emperor Harold Smith, the secret ruler of this gracious land."
Smith looked horrorstruck. "Please do not say that, Remo!" he croaked.
"Don't sweat it, Smitty. Rubber walls don't appeal to me right now. Although they might suit me fine if Cheeta moves in."
"And a television device," Chiun added. "A large one, for within hours, beauteous Cheeta Ching will dispense wisdom and grace upon this generous land."
"Maybe this is a good time to clear the air," Remo suggested.
"You may clear the air after you have cooked Emperor Smith a feast suitable for his regal belly," Chiun countered.
"Cook! I'm the errand boy. Who says I gotta cook, too?"
"Your conscience."
"Huh?"
"Your conscience so says. Are you not listening to it, Remo?"
"No, I am not. I want to talk about Cheeta Ching, her biscuit in the oven, and our future."
"Remo is correct, Master Chiun," said Smith. "I know this is a delicate matter, but it would not be wise to invite Cheeta Ching to cohabitate with you."
Chiun blew out his cheeks at the rude American word. He held his tongue, however.
"I intend no such thing," he said stiffly.
"Good," said Smith.
"Great," said Remo.
"Cheeta the Graceful is a married woman. I will not cohabitate with her. That is her husband's happy duty."
"Great," said Remo.
"Wonderful," said Smith.
"She will only dwell here, she and her offspring."
"No," groaned Remo.
"Have you asked her?" asked Smith.
"Not as yet," Chiun admitted. "I am awaiting the proper time, which will be soon, for she waxes full in childbirth as a yellow moon of fecundity."
Smith cleared his throat. "There may be difficulties, Master Chiun."
"Such as . . ."
"Cheeta lives and works in New York City."
"So? She may live and work in this city of previous emperors."
Remo blinked. "This place?"
"Quincy was the birthplace of two early presidents," Smith said.
"Nice touch," Remo whispered to Smith. "I can see how you sold him on this rock pile."
"Thank you." To Chiun, Smith said, "Miss Ching is bound by contract to work out of New York City. I doubt that she will break that contract for the privilege of living here."
"That remains to be seen," Chiun sniffed.
"Er, of course."
"Cheeta will have no need of employment once her child comes. It would be unseemly."
Remo laughed. "You don't know Cheeta. The original 'I can have it all' superanchorwoman."
"Silence! Why are you not about your errands, slothful one? The day is growing short."
Remo got up. "I'll leave you two to work out Cheeta's maternity leave."
He went down the stairs with no more sound than a puff of air.
After Remo had departed, the Master of Sinanju leaned forward and confided in his emperor. "Do not fret, Oh wise Smith. Remo's dark mood will pass. It is always thus with the firstborn."
"Master Chiun?"
"They always fear being supplanted by the children who follow."
Smith swallowed. "But Remo does have a point."
"Yes, he does," Chiun admitted.
"I am glad you see it that way."
"Perhaps the next time he undergoes plastic surgery, this can be remedied."
Smith looked blank.
"I think he should have a proper Korean nose, like mine. Not one that is so large and ends in an unsightly point."
And the Master of Sinanju winked mischievously.
Chapter 7
Miraculously, they reached the railhead at M'nolo KiGor without any further incidents.
It had been another day's trek. They had run out of fresh jungle chocolate and were down to their last two baskets of toadstools.
This slowed them down because the Apatosaur every so often got tired of toadstool. They solved this by spacing them further apart. Hunger drove the beast onward.
Skip King had been in touch with the railhead by walkie-talkie and arrangements had been made.
"It's all set," he said as they watched Old Jack lumber toward the railroad tracks. "The train is waiting. All we have to do is get him onto the flatcar."
"And how do you propose to do that?" Nancy asked flintily.
"I was going to leave that up to you, since you're in charge now," King sneered.
It was a problem, Nancy realized. She huddled with Thorpe and the Bantus.
"Any suggestions?"
"Frankly, Dr. Derringer, I don't think there's any way it can be done. If we trank the big bugger, we're talking about ten tons of dead reptilian weight. And getting him to climb onto a flatcar on his own hook is out of the question."
Nancy chewed her lower lip and made thoughtful faces.
"There must be a way."
She looked over to Skip King, who was fanning his sharp face with his bush hat.
"Wait a minute," she murmured. "King set up this whole thing. Surely, he had some semiworkable plan in mind."
"I'll ask him."
Thorpe walked over and conferred with King. Nancy noticed the grin coming over King's lean face and knew what was coming next.
"King wants you to ask him."
"There's a price attached, I'm sure," Nancy said, striding over to him. "All right, King, I understand you have a plan."
King tried to keep the smugness out of his face and failed. "We have to do it my way. Under my command."
"Why?"
"So people won't say Skip King didn't pull his own weight."
"Let me guess. You're planning to have every moment recorded for posterity."
"I'm a big home movie fan."
Nancy sighed. "All right, King. It's your show. But it's your failure if you screw up."
"Skip King never screws up when he has his way."
"I hate myself for letting this happen," Nancy told Thorpe a moment later.
"Keep your pecker up, as we Brits say."
King called the Bantus together.
"I'm in charge again. Savvy?"
They stared at him.
"I want the trank rifles distributed and every man ready to bring Old Jack down when I give the signal. Any questions?"
No one spoke.
"Good. And let's get those T-shirts turned around, this is going to be recorded for posterity."
No one moved.
"Now!"
Reluctantly, the Bantus peeled off their sweaty, dirt-smeared T-shirts and put them on right side out. None of them talked among themselves, but every man seemed to have the same idea at the same time because they put them on with the Burger Triumph logos on their backs, leaving the fronts blank.
King glared at them. "I give up."
"Missy Nancy in charge again?" one asked.
"No!"
They stalked the Apatosaur, sowing toadstools in its path. Like some tireless beast of burden, it lumbered along. From time to time it took notice of them, but as long as there were morsels to be found along the path, the creature paid the tiny humans no heed.
When they were within a quarter mile of the railroad, King got the expedition organized.
"You, you, and you, keep Old Jack moving. And be ready to use your weapons when I say." He turned to Nancy and Thorpe. "The rest of you tag along. You're about to see genius at work."
The railhead was nothing more than a half rotted platform, a signal house and one rusty length of track. The old Marxist government of Gondwanaland had thought it could save money by building only one set of tracks. They hadn't thought to install a signal system and after six train wrecks in the first year, they spent the money they had saved-plus thirty percent more-installing a switching-and-signal system.