"It must be a perfect house," Chiun said. "To match you. Would a beauty wrap herself in rags?"
"All right. Enough," Remo said. "I've been graumed all day and now I've figured out what it is. I want to be like other people."
Chiun shook his head in sad bewilderment. "I have heard of the cat who would be king. But I never heard of a king who would be a cat. I have given you Sinanju, and now you want to be like other people? Like you were? Eating meat, sleeping the day away, groveling and miserable? This is what you want?"
"No, Chiun. I just want a house. Like yours in Sinanju," Remo lied, because he regarded Chiun's home in Sinanju as the ugliest thing ever built in the world.
"I understand," Chiun said. "It is good to have a beautiful house."
Remo nodded. He felt warmed and comforted by Chiun's understanding of his feelings.
"And someday we can invite Barbra Streisand to visit," Chiun said brightly.
"Right, right, right, right, right," said Remo in exasperation.
"Don't forget it," Chiun said. "Five rights do not allow a wrong. Heh, heh, heh."
The telephone rang an hour later, after Remo and Chiun had dined on rice and fish and Chiun had "done the dishes" by sailing the plates out the open window into the Boston night, where they produced seventeen unconfirmed U.F.O. sightings, and the formation of a new committee, the Boston League for Astronomical Truth whose first act was to print stationery so they could mail a fund-raising letter.
The caller was Smith.
"Hello, Doctor Smith," Remo said politely. "I'm so glad you called."
"Remo," Smith began, then checked himself. "Wait'a minute," he said. " 'Doctor Smith?' "
"That's right. The good, wise Doctor Smith," Remo said.
"Remo, what do you want?"
"No, sir, you first. After all, you called and you are my superior…"
"Everyone is," Chiun snickered.
"… you are my superior and I'd like to hear what's on your mind."
"Yes, well, remember I told you about the Mafia meeting in New York?"
"Of course, sir," Remo replied. He looked out at the sky and wondered why birds did not fly at night. Sure, they were busy going places in the daytime but didn't they ever have errands to run at night?
"Well, we've just learned that Arthur Grassione, the head Mafia hit man, and Salvatore Massello. the St. Louis head man, are on their way to Edgewood University outside St. Louis."
"Perhaps, sir." Remo said, "they've decided to mend their ways, to enroll as students, and live a new life." Remo counted seven sets of wing lights in the night-time sky. The sky was getting as crowded as the earth. Maybe birds only flew on off-hours.
"No, I don't think that's it," said Smith. "It cost us a man but we've learned they're on their wav to try to get some kind of new television invention. There's a professor there named William Wooley or Wooley Westhead or something like that."
Terrific, Remo thought. I want a house and Smith wants to talk about Wooley-headed college professors. He said, "I understand."
"Massello is a new kind of Mafia don," Smith said. "He's bright and subtle and chances are he's going to be the next national boss. Now if you can do something to stop him…"
"Certainly," Remo said. "Are you done, sir? Is that all?"
"Yes," Smith said warily.
"I want a frigging house," Remo yelled. "I'm tired of living in these frigging hotels. I want a house. If you don't give me a house, I'm quitting. Well?"
"If I give you a house will you promise always to be polite?" Smith asked.
"No."
"Will you promise to always carry out missions faithfully and without questioning my orders?"
"Of course not. Most of the time your orders are so stupid they're painful."
"If I give you a house, do you promise to take care of Massello and Grassione? And find out what they're after?"
"I might," Remo said.
"Do it first and then we'll talk about the house," Smith said.
"Will we talk about it yes or will we talk about it no?" Remo asked.
"We'll talk about it maybe," Smith said.
"Then maybe I'll take care of Grassello and Massione," Remo said.
"Massello and Grassione," Smith said. "Come on, Remo, this is important."
"So's my house," said Remo.
Chiun hissed, "Ask him to increase the tribute to my village." Remo waved him off.
"Smitty," he said. "We'll meet you in St. Louis and discuss this some more."
"I can't get away," Smith protested.
"You have to get away. This all won't wait. If you don't go to St. Louis," he said "don't look for us there."
Smith paused for a moment, to try to unravel the logic of that sentence, then surrendered to it. "I'll be there tomorrow," he said.
"Good," said Remo. "Bring enough money for a house."
He hung up and told Chiun, "We're going to St. Louis."
"Good," said Chiun. "Let us go now."
"Why the hurry?"
"Soon those four cowlike females will come to their senses and they will be back. What do I need with four servants?"
Remo nodded.
"When I have you," Chiun said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dr. Harold W. Smith woke up at 3:45 a.m. He let his wife sleep as he went into the kitchen and prepared one slice of whole wheat toast, light, without butter, one two-and-a-half-minute egg and a four-ounce glass filled with two ounces of lemon juice and two ounces of prune juice, his only concession to the possibility of originality in the kitchen.
He followed the breakfast with a glass of lukewarm water, then re-entered the bedroom where he picked up the two-suiter he had packed the night before, planted a kiss on the cheek of his still-sleeping wife, who tried to swat it away, and then drove to his office.
Something had been niggling at his mind since he had first gotten the name from an informant of Professor William Westhead Wooley of Edgewood University, and he planned to make one last check.
He was waved through the gate of Folcroft Sanitarium, which served as headquarters for CURE, the secret organization he had headed since its formation. When he parked his car in his private parking space in the otherwise empty lot, he took a notebook from his pocket and jotted down a reminder to do something about the front gate security which was becoming a little bit too lax, even for an institution masquerading as a sanitarium for the wealthy ill and an educational research center.
Alone in his office, Smith quickly composed a retrieval memo to be fed into CURE'S computers. He wanted anything on Wooley, Edgewood University, and television inventions.
The computer returned only a trade journal report that said "word has it that a major breakthrough in television technology has almost been perfected and an announcement is expected soon."
That was all.
Smith crumpled up the report and dropped it into the shredder basket next to his desk. He set a series of locks that would prevent anyone but himself from tapping into the CURE computer system for information, then turned out the lights, locked up behind him, and went back to his car.
He bought a New York Times at the airport and when he was safely on the T.C.A. 6 a.m. "early bird" to St. Louis, he started to read the paper, thoroughly, story by story.
And on page 32, he found a story that told him why two major Mafia figures were on their way to the Midwest to meet with an obscure college professor.
Already in St. Louis, Don Salvatore Massello was reading the same story which told how the television networks were sending representatives to Edgewood University where a conference had been called by Dr. William Westhead Wooley to announce "the greatest technological breakthrough in the history of television."
The conference was getting underway that night.
Don Salvatore swore softly under his breath. The story meant that he would have very little time to negotiate with Wooley before Grassione would have to be turned loose on the man. And if the television networks showed any interest in Wooley's invention, as they surely would, it would certainly drive Wooley's price up out of Don Salvatore's reach. And other people's involvement meant that the secret of Wooley's invention was just that much more vulnerable to public disclosure.