"Impossible!" squeaked Chiun.
"There is no system I cannot enter once I bypass the security firewalls."
Regarding the bright plastic case, Chiun said, "If touched by fire, that box would melt quickly."
"That's not the kind of firewall he's talking about," offered Remo, taking a seat on the green vinyl divan across the room. "He means the system is password protected."
"Ah. Now I understand. You seek the password?"
"Yes," said Smith, squinting at his desktop monitor, which was displaying a changing sequence of gibberish. "I believe it is asking me for the password. But I cannot tell."
"Allow me to gaze into this oracle's innermost recesses," said Chiun, bending to peer into Smith's desktop. "Yes. It is asking for the secret word."
"It says 'Secret word'?"
"Yes," said Chiun, laying his jade nail protector against the black tinted glass. "You see this script? It says, 'Secret word.'"
"I don't see a colon."
"Arabs retain their colons within their bodies unless put to the sword. But it is asking that you inscribe the secret word in that space."
"Damnation," said Smith. And Chiun shrank from the soft vehemence of the unexpected word from his emperor's lips.
"What is wrong?" he asked.
"My password-attack program takes hours to run. Sometimes days, with a particularly obscure password. The additional step of converting its data base of likely passwords into acceptable Arabic would take weeks-perhaps months with the transliteration problem."
"Then why not simply guess the secret word?" Smith shook his gray head savagely.
"That could take years. Only a sophisticated computer system has the brainpower to enter a protected system without knowing the password in question."
"Why do you not seize the owner of this device and wrest the secret word from him?"
"We have yet to trace him. And I have the system, not the owner here. And I am determined to crack it."
"You say the owner of the box is an Arab?"
"Yes."
"A cattle or city Arab?"
"I have no idea. His name is Al Ladeen."
"Ah, a cattle Arab. Bedouin are very colorful in their language."
"There is no telling what password he employed. It could be a name from the Koran or The Arabian Nights or anywhere at all."
"Could the secret word be more than one word?"
"Yes, it could."
"Inscribe 'Iftah ya simsim,'" said Chiun, slowly stroking his wispy beard.
"What?"
"'Iftah ya simsim.' Cattle Arabs have employed it for centuries in their secret intrigues."
"Hah," said Remo. "Fat chance this is going to work."
"Hush. You know nothing of these matters, counter of ribs."
"I am willing to try anything," said Smith. "Please spell the phrase, Master Chiun."
Chiun did. Smith input the English approximation, activated the conversion program and in a moment the Arabic script equivalent to the words Iftah ya simsim appeared in the wake of the blinking amber cursor, which moved right to left, the direction Arabic script was read.
The screen winked out. Instantly music emanated from the system.
"What is this?" asked Chiun.
"It's a song," said Remo. "Sounds like harem music."
"It is of no importance," said Chiun. "For we have succeeded in our task."
Remo shot out of his seat. "What? This I gotta see!"
"Hold," said Chiun. "Emperor Smith has not given you leave to join us behind his royal table."
"Remo may join us," said Smith.
"If you deem it fitting," said Chiun in a thin voice. He eyed Remo unhappily.
Remo stared into the desk. "Don't you get neck strain from looking into this thing all day?" he asked Smith.
Smith didn't reply. He was eyeing the black screen expectantly as the hauntingly familiar music tinkled. Abruptly a new screen appeared. It showed Arabic script for several seconds, then changed.
"What did it say?" Smith asked Chiun.
"It said, 'Here dwell the secrets of Al Ladeen. Infidels and idolators turn back before it is too late for you.'"
"That name sounds familiar," Remo said.
"Yes, it does," Smith agreed.
"I have heard Western tongues mangle the worthy name 'Al Ladeen' into the corrupted 'Aladdin,'" Chiun offered.
"Al Ladeen-Aladdin?" Smith blurted.