Smith waved a hand in dismissal.
"No," Chiun protested. "I insist upon paying for them. I think a man should pay for what he gets. I should pay for these chestnuts. I would expect that if I were working for someone, he would pay me what I was worth. How much were they? I insist, Emperor."
"All right," Smith said. "A dollar."
"Remo," said Chiun. "Give the Emperor a dollar."
When Remo's hand did not move instantly for his pocket, Chiun said again, more loudly: "Remo. A dollar for Emperor Smith."
Remo reluctantly fished a roll of bills from his pocket and flicked through it, riffling the corners of the bills as if they were a deck of playing cards.
"Nothing smaller than a five, Smitty. You got change?"
Smith reached for the five. "No," he said. "I'll owe you four."
Remo put the bills back in his pocket. "Never mind," he said. "I'll owe you one."
"I will make sure he pays it," Chiun said. "Because I believe a man should always pay for what he gets. This is the way the House of Sinanju has always behaved." The chestnuts were gone now and Chiun pushed aside the empty bag as if it contained something distasteful.
Smith looked at Chiun, a hard look, and then said blandly: "Ruby Gonzalez is in charge of all salary negotiations from now on."
Chiun's face turned sour.
"Who?"
"Ruby Gonzalez," Smith said.
"This is cruel and unkind," Chiun said. "There is no talking to that woman."
Remo laughed. To watch Ruby, the beautiful street-smart black woman who was now Smith's assistant, engaged in contract negotiations with Chiun would be an event you could sell tickets for.
"Where isRuby?" Remo asked.
"On vacation," Smith said.
"I figured that," Remo said.
"Why?"
"Because for the past week it's been nothing but work, work, work. Ruby's a pain in the butt and her voice sounds like glass breaking but she has the good sense to space out jobs for me," Remo said. "You just keep piling them on one after the other."
"I will have to speak to Ruby about that," Smith said drily. He fished in his leather briefcase, once tan but turned brown through decades of exposure to wind, rain and sun, and brought out a TV tape cassette.
"Could I have the television player, please?" he asked.
"Chiun, do we still have the tape player?" Remo asked. At one time, they would have travelled nowhere without it because it was the only way Chiun could manage to keep up with what was happening every day on every soap opera. But then the television soaps became "realistic," which Chiun equated with dirty, and he stopped watching them.
Chiun pointed to one of the fourteen lacquered steamer trunks that lined the walls of the hotel room and contained his "few personal possessions."
"It is in there," he said. "I never throw away anything the Emperor has paid for. I will get it."
He rose like a cloud drifting into the air, opened the top of the trunk and bent down into it. His tiny body seemed almost to vanish into the trunk, like a child bent over a tub, bobbing for Halloween apples.
He finally came out with the TV machine, lifting the heavy instrument with no more effort than if it had been a one-page letter from home.
It nearly dropped from Smith's hands as Chiun gave it to him. Smith lugged it over to the television set, efficiently hooked it into the back of the set, and then inserted the cassette into the top.
"Good," said Chiun. "A show. I have not seen a good show in much time."
The TV tape began rolling and the picture came on the screen.
It was a picture of Wesley Pruiss in a hospital bed, his face wan and drawn, crisp white sheets pulled up to his neck.
"Good," Chiun said. "A doctor show. Doctor shows are best."
"This is Wesley Pruiss," Smith said.
"Who's he?" asked Remo.
"The publisher of Gross."
"Serves him right," Remo said.
Theodosia was on screen now. She wore a white linen pants suit. It was tailored tightly to her body, but the basic business cut of the suit surrendered to the cut of her own full, voluptuous body.
"Too fat," Chiun said. "The women are always too fat on these shows."
Theodosia spoke.
"It was only through good fortune that this cowardly attack did not kill Wesley. To make sure that no such attack will ever again have any chance of success, I plan to spend every penny, if necessary, of Wesley's fortune to hire the best bodyguards in the world to protect him."
An off-camera voice drawled: "Why?"
Theodosia wheeled. Her eyes glared at the off-camera voice.
"I'll tell you why," she said. "Because I love him. Because he is going to make his mark in this world. Because what he's doing out here may be the most important thing done in this country since Kitty Hawk. That's why. That's why I'm going to make sure he lives. Does that answer your question?"
The camera slid back and showed Theodosia standing in front of a big building that looked like a pre-Civil War mansion, talking to a cluster of reporters.
"And that's the way it is here in Furlong County," an announcer's voice said. Then the tape ended and the screen went dark.
"So what?" Remo said.
"That's all there is?" Chiun asked. "A fat man in bed and a fat woman complaining about everything? What kind of story is that?"
"That was on tonight's news," Smith told Remo.
"I don't watch the news," Chiun said.
"Again, so what?" Remo asked.
"I want you to get the job as his bodyguard," Smith said.
"What the hell for?"
"Because when Pruiss moved out to that county in Indiana, he said he was going to make the entire county an experimental showcase for solar energy. He has to be kept alive to make sure that project goes ahead."
"Let the government do it," Remo said. "Why him?"
"Because you know as well as I do that the government can't do it," Smith said. "They'll take ten years passing legislation, ten years writing regulations, ten years bringing polluters to court, and at the end of it, we still won't have a solar energy program and we'll be burning blubber in lamps to try to keep warm."
Remo thought about that for a moment, then nodded.
Chiun said, "Blubber has a funny smell."
"Who tried to kill him?" Remo asked Smith.
"We don't know," Smith said. "Somebody with a knife. God knows he's got enough enemies. But we don't want him killed. Keeping him alive is your job."
Chiun waited until the door was closed behind Smith and said, "That was a stupid show."
"It wasn't a show, Chiun. It's our next job: Keeping Wesley Pruiss alive."
"Who is this Wesley Pruiss?"
"He publishes magazines," Remo said.
"Good."
"Why good?" Remo asked.
"Because now maybe my novels and stories will get published and I can finally overcome this anti-Korean prejudice against great art."
"Your novels and stories won't get published until you write them," Remo said.
"You are not going to discourage me," Chiun said. "All I have to do is put them down on paper. They are all up here." He tapped a forefinger to his temple. "Every beautiful word, every exquisite scene, every brilliant insight. All up here. All I have to do is put them onto paper and that is the easiest part. What is the name of this magazine?"
"Gross," Remo said.
"Yes," Chiun said. "What is the name of this magazine?"
"Its name is Gross," Remo said.
"Hmmmm," said Chiun. "I didn't know you had a magazine named after you."
The Reverend Higbe Muckley could not read or write, but since that had never been a barrier to getting on network television, he had manipulated television very well to become a millionaire several times over. He had always been able to count very well.
The Reverend Mr. Muckley had hit upon the simple trick of selling memberships in his Divine Right church; five dollars to be a deacon, ten dollars to be a minister, fifteen dollars for an auxiliary bishop, one hundred dollars for a full bishopric, along with a life-long free subscription to Muckley's magazine, Divine Right, an almost incomprehensible word-by-word transcription of Muckley's confused ramblings, printed six times a year, more or less, depending on how long it took the copies of the last issue to vanish. Any full-fledged official in the Divine Right church was entitled to men-of-the-cloth discounts in most stores and businesses, and buying a new car at 650 dollars less than the normal going price more than justified the one-time donation to Muckley's church.