And the conspiratorial tone the NASA administrator employed was by far the most frightening thing Dr. Pete Graham had witnessed in the past four days.
Chapter 8
When Remo kicked open the door to the Folcroft quarters he shared with the Master of Sinanju, he was balancing a stack of newspapers and magazines on his bare forearms.
Chiun didn't look his way. The old Korean sat on a simple reed mat before the television. Luckily for Remo, the set was off. The old Korean had recently developed an interest in Spanish sitcoms and soap operas. Remo suspected he was only watching the Spanish channel to be a pest.
"I'm back," Remo announced, booting the door shut with his heel.
The Master of Sinanju remained silent.
Remo wasn't surprised. The old man had barely said five words to him since their talk six days ago. This was a different sort of silence. Usually, Chiun made a point of letting Remo know that he wasn't talking to him. He'd prattle on for days about why he was giving his pupil the silent treatment. But this time the wizened Asian seemed more thoughtful than upset.
As he crossed the common room, Remo shook his head.
"If this is some new trick to get me to apologize for not doing anything wrong, it's worked," Remo said. "I'm sorry. There, I said it. Happy?"
In profile the Master of Sinanju's wrinkled face remained unchanged. "I am always happy," he replied.
"If by happy you mean crotchety," Remo said. "But if you mean the happy kind of happy where you're actually happy, no, you're not." Stopping in the small kitchen, he dumped his newspapers onto the table.
"Yes, I am happy," Chiun said. His closed eyes were meditative. "In spite of your continued rudeness. Which, I fear after all these years, is congenital and can never be changed. And the world does not revolve around you, Remo Williams. I am not upset with you, if that is what your great white ego has told you to think."
Remo felt a spark of hope. "You ticked at How-" This got a reaction. Chiun opened his delicate eyes, tipping his birdlike head quizzically.
"Why ever would I be upset with the Prince Regent?"
"Didn't really think you were," Remo sighed, disappointed. "But hope springs eternal."
He fished in the kitchen drawer, pulling out a pair of scissors he'd filched from a Folcroft nurses' station. Pulling out a clear plastic box filled with multicolored thumbtacks, he knelt at the low table. Picking up the topmost paper on the pile, he began scanning over articles.
"If you must know, I am thinking," Chiun volunteered after a long moment during which the only sound in the room was the rattle of newspaper.
"Mm-hmm," Remo said without looking up. "Can't you think a little louder? A week's worth of the silent treatment's starting to get on my nerves."
"If I have to think of you, then what is the point of thinking at all?" Chiun replied.
"Touche," Remo said absently.
He found what he was looking for on page 8. He bit down on the tip of his tongue as he busied himself with the scissors. Once he'd finished clipping out the article, he searched through the rest of the paper. Finding nothing of interest, he tossed it aside, taking up the next one from the pile.
It was a ritual he had been engaging in for the past week. Chiun hadn't asked what his pupil was up to. He figured he'd find out soon enough. As a general rule Remo was incapable of having a thought for very long without eventually blabbing it to the world. This time, however, he had remained closemouthed.
From his sitting position on the floor, the Master of Sinanju craned his scrawny neck to see what could possibly make his pupil so self-absorbed. After all, he hadn't even asked Chiun why he had been silent this past week. Of course, Chiun wouldn't have told him, but a polite pupil would at least ask before being rebuked for his nosiness.
Remo was still cutting stories from newspapers. When he saw the glint of evil glee in the younger man's eyes, the Master of Sinanju's own eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.
"What are you doing?" Chiun asked, his voice flat to mask his curiosity.
Remo looked up from the latest paper, a mischievous gleam in his dark eyes. "Just having a little fun," he replied. With a final snip the latest newspaper clipping fluttered to the tabletop. Remo dumped the rest of the paper onto the discard pile.
"Emperor Smith and Prince Mark were not pleased the last time you had fun," the Master of Sinanju pointed out.
"With any luck I can keep that streak going," Remo said. He picked up the New York Post.
Above the banner headline on the front page, a thick insert bar read Experts Call Spider Sighters "Buggy"! Smaller type beside the garish come-on read "Full story plus you Sound-Off, page 3."
Distracted by the headline, Remo skipped to page 3. He found a rough sketch of a large spider. For scale, the artist had added a four-door sedan next to the spider. Both car and arachnid were the same size. A dark notch formed between Remo's eyes.
The entire page was devoted to a story out of Florida. People were claiming that a giant spider was running around robbing liquor stores and supermarkets in the Sunshine State.
A government entomologist insisted that a "super spider" couldn't possibly exist. He was given an inch of column space. The bulk of the page was devoted to what readers thought of the scientist's claims. Most seemed to agree the spider was real and was the mutated result of the pesticides used by the government when spraying for West Nile Virus the past three years. Although they didn't entirely rule out outer space, the CIA or the Walt Disney Corporation.
"When did Americans become so moronic?" Remo said as he scanned the man-on-the-street interviews.
"July 2, 1776," the Master of Sinanju chimed in from across the room. His papery lids were closed once more. "The day a group of rabble-rousers elected to betray their king and cease being moronic Englanders."
"That was rhetorical," Remo said dryly. "And I thought it was July 4."
"I rest your case," Chiun replied smoothly. Frowning, Remo returned to his paper.
He turned the page from the spider story. The article he was after was on the next page. Careful to follow the lines, he snipped out the story, putting it with the other clippings.
It took him nearly forty-five minutes to go through all the papers and magazines. When he finished, he took the thick stack of clippings he'd saved and disappeared inside his room, rattling his box of thumbtacks. When he reappeared ten minutes later, he was humming happily to himself.
As he walked past the phone, it rang. Remo scooped it up, winging the nearly empty box of tacks across the room. Without a single rattle it landed in the still open drawer.
"Assassins to the stars. For the right price, the celebrity's ice."
"Remo, please come to my office," Harold Smith's lemony voice announced.
"Don't you wanna ask about this week's specials?" Remo said. "With every hit we'll throw in the TV anchormen or aging brat packer of your choice."
"My office," Smith repeated before severing the connection.
His cheerful mood evaporating, Remo hung up the phone. "I've gotta go see Smith," he announced glumly.
Across the room the Master of Sinanju was already rising to his feet. His golden kimono flowered like an opening parachute before settling around his bony ankles.
"I will accompany you," he pronounced.
"He didn't ask for you."
"He did not have to," Chiun replied. "My place is at my Emperor's side." He swept over to the door. "And this has nothing to do with the fact that Howard's been sitting in on these meetings lately?" Remo ventured.
As he drew open the door, the old man turned, an innocent eyebrow arched onto his parchment forehead. "Did he mention that the Regent would be in attendance? In that case the last one to Smith's office is a Japanese."