"Like move on to a house?" Remo pressed. "Because I told you before I'm not moving to Maine."
Chiun continued to fuss with his packing. "Why should I care where you are not moving?"
"Because you were hepped about moving to Maine a little while back. Just so you know, I'm not going. You move there, you're moving alone."
"A stronger argument for my moving there could not be made," the Master of Sinanju said aridly.
A fresh cloud of worry settled on Remo's face. "Wait, you're not going back to Sinanju?" he asked.
Chiun gave an exasperated sigh. "You may wish to speed me on my life's last journey, but it is not yet time for me to retire to the village of my ancestors." He saw the look of puzzlement on his pupil's face. "If you must know, I have received some wonderful news. It is a happy, happy day."
So far, aside from the early-morning singing, the Master of Sinanju had been doing a good job keeping his joy in check. But he could no longer contain himself. He began to hum happily as he folded a purple day kimono.
"Wasn't it just a crummy, crummy day?" Remo asked.
"That was yesterday and that was thanks to you. This is today and my new joy is thanks to my wondrous benefactor. Or are you deaf in addition to being a basher of the aged? Did you not hear the telephone ring during the night?"
Remo had heard. The phone had rung in the old Korean's bedroom a little before midnight.
For years Chiun had kept a special 800 number at his home back in Korea. The calls used to be transferred to his and Remo's house in Massachusetts, but now were routed to Folcroft. No matter where it was located, the phone rarely rang. Until recently. The normally silent telephone had become more active in recent weeks. With the way Chiun had been whispering in a dozen different foreign languages, Remo assumed it all had something to do with those cockamamie letters his teacher had been mailing out. He figured last night was part of the same mysterious mess.
Remo hadn't listened in on the call. It wouldn't have done any good if he'd tried. The Master of Sinanju had pressed his ear to the phone and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece in such a way to shield both his and the caller's voices. All Remo could tell from the next room was that the old man was whispering excitedly.
"Your benefactor?" Remo asked. "Was that Smitty who called? Don't tell me something else went wrong."
Chiun stopped humming. The smile scampered from his wrinkled face, replaced by a puckery scowl. "Not that gray-faced madman," he said unhappily. "The call was from my new employer."
Remo's voice went very, very flat. "What new employer?"
Chiun's tone and face grew sly. He looked like the Korean cat who had eaten the canary. When the old man's papery lips parted to speak, Remo suddenly threw up a hand to stop him.
"Hold it," he said. "Wait a second, don't tell me." He sat on the edge of the couch, feet planted firmly on the floor. He braced his hands on his knees. "Okay, I'm ready."
Chiun tipped his head thoughtfully. "Perhaps I shouldn't tell you. You are a notorious blabbermouth."
"Who the hell am I gonna tell?"
"Your beloved Smith, for one."
"We're under contract to him first," Remo cautioned.
Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed. "Promise not to tell or I will not share my wonderful news with you."
"Sorry, Chiun. Best I can do is a guarded maybe. Now what's going on?"
The threat of Smith finding out was overruled by the old Korean's need to share his good news. "That call, though rudely timed, was from a ruler known far and wide," he confided. "It was a call from none other than the great and powerful Sea-O himself." And the smile of joy stretched wide once more across his leathery face.
Remo blinked. "What the hell's a Sea-O?"
"He is a mighty ruler whose province is the air itself. So powerful is he that his empire knows no bounds. It stretches from ocean to ocean and nation to nation. His invisible rays rule the very heavens themselves."
Remo's eyes were flat. "We're going to work for Ming the Merciless?" he asked blandly.
"You are not going anywhere. I, however, am going to work for the great Sea-O Robbie MacGulry."
It took a moment for the name to register. When it did, Remo's face grew puzzled. "The guy who runs Vox?"
"The proper form of address is Sea-O," Chiun replied. "It is a title bestowed on he who rules the kingdom of Vox. I am not sure exactly where his land is. It could be like Moo or Atlantis, an ancient place unknown to the modern age. I will have to check the oldest of the Sinanju scrolls."
"Don't check any old maps," Remo advised. "Vox is a TV network. You know, heavy on T n I ped his head, considering. "Actually that pretty much describes everything on TV nowadays. But Vox was first to jiggle across the finish line. Anyway, just follow the dial to the car crashes and alien autopsies and you'll find it."
Chiun frowned. "Are you certain of this?" he asked.
"As sure as a faked moon landing or a masked magician wrecking all the good tricks. How'd you get tangled up with a guy like MacGulry?"
"Serendipity put us together," Chiun said. "I merely called this number."
Fishing in his robes the old man produced a small white business card. Remo recognized the card. "That's Cindee Maloo's," Remo said.
"She is the one who answered. She advised me to wait, and that one more powerful than she would call back."
Remo frowned as he thought of the Winner producer. It was her tape from which the BCN higherups had somehow pulled an image of Remo for subliminal broadcast. She doubtless didn't even know it, but that didn't make him any less annoyed.
"That doesn't make sense," Remo said. "Cindee Maloo works for 'Winner.' That's on BCN, not Vox. Why would she hook you up with MacGulry, the head of a rival network?"
Chiun waved a bony hand. "Trivialities," he dismissed. "All that matters is that I told the Sea-O that I was a writer, and he recognized my genius."
"Oh, no, we're not going back to the writing again," Remo said. "Chiun, you haven't had luck with that. Your soap-opera proposal and assassination magazine went nowhere. And that movie you wrote went direct to video."
"I told him all that," Chiun said. "He was particularly troubled by that last insult. Sea-O MacGulry thinks my film could be turned into a great television program."
A knot of worry gripped Remo's belly. "Holy flipping crap," he said evenly. "Chiun, you can't do that."
The old Korean's voice grew cold. "Name the man who could stop me."
"How about Smith?" Remo insisted. "Chiun, you can't get mixed up with Vox TV. You have to tell Smith this."
"I will do no such thing. The Emperor is troubled enough by the sickness of the mind that has befallen his young prince. It would not be fair for me to flaunt my joyful news in his face at so troubling a time."
"You're all heart," Remo said aridly. "If you won't tell him, then I've got to."
Chiun stiffened. "Magpie," he accused. "I knew you would tell." He waved a hand. "Do what you must. Neither you nor Smith will ruin this for me. I have waited too long to allow opportunity to slip between my fingers."
In a twirl of kimono hems he returned to his trunks. Remo took a long moment to consider. He finally let out a weary sigh. "Smith wants us out of his hair today," he said. "Since we have to be gone anyway, I'll go with you."
The Master of Sinanju had found his old writing implements in the bottom of one of his trunks. He didn't even turn as he lifted out ink bottles and parchments.
"You are not invited," he sniffed.
"Chiun, MacGulry's got some kind of angle. If he's hooked in with Cindee Maloo somehow, they might be cooking up some new reality show for Vox, 'When Old People Attack.'"
"What is wrong with that? Old people are people, too."
"What's wrong is that no matter what kind of show they're planning on, they have no idea who they're signing up or what'll happen to them when they stab you in the back-which, being TV people, they will. I'm going with you."