Chiun sighed anew. His hazel eyes glanced at the goggle-eyed lenses of the gas mask and its round snout.
"Have you many of these?" he asked the dull decurion.
"Every soldier in the theater has been issued one, sir."
"And these smelly plastic garments?"
"Standard issue."
"These brown spots-can they be removed?"
"I doubt it, sir. They are desert camouflage. We can get you a woodland version if you'd prefer, but I recommend desert coloration if you're going to go poking around in the sand."
"Only a white could fail to spy a man walking through the desert dressed for rolling in the dungheaps," Chiun sniffed.
"Whatever you say, sir."
"Can these be painted?" Chiun asked at last.
"We could try."
Chiun indicated the gas mask with a clear fingernail. "And these mask contrivances?"
"Possibly."
"Have them painted at once," Chiun ordered. "And tell my worthy Apache guide to wait. He may sharpen his tomahawk if time hangs heavy on his hands."
The decurion gathered up the uniform, asking, "What color would you prefer, sir?"
"Pink."
"Pink?"
"You do have pink paint?" Chiun inquired.
"We may have to special-order," the decurion admitted.
"Then do this. I would also like several sheets of pink paper and a pair of shears."
"Do you want the shears to be pink too?" asked the puzzled decurion.
"Of course not!" snapped the Master of Sinanju indignantly. "One cannot prosecute a war with pink shears. Now, be gone."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
The decurion left the room wearing an expression of doubt and confusion. He took comfort in the fact that he was no longer a mere orderly, but a decurion. He didn't know what it meant, but it sounded great to the folks at home.
It took less than an hour, but the gasproof suit was returned to the Master of Sinanju, gleaming a fresh pink color.
Praetor Winfield Scott Hornworks personally laid these items at his feet. He placed the shears and pink construction paper atop the pink pile. The colors matched to within a shade.
"I heard you decided against going," Hornworks said. "Smart move. A man's gotta know his limitations, especially one your age."
"I have not," returned Chiun, picking up the shears. He began cutting the top sheet into a long pink triangle.
"How long you gonna wait, then? We got a lot of Scuds to kill, and of Maddas ain't exactly gonna wait for the Mahdi to return before he makes his move."
The Master of Sinanju cut a second sheet into an identical pink triangle.
"I have thought long on the way to defeat the foe we face," he said slowly.
"You ask me, this is a simple matter. Just go in and defang him."
Chiun frowned in concentration. "Maddas Hinsein has the sun in Taurus. If you cut off his hand, he will tell himself that he still possesses his remaining hand."
"So? We chop his legs out from under him."
"Then he will tell himself that as long as he has his brain, he is not defeated. Thus, you must lop off his head-which is what you should have done in the first place." Chiun cut a circle in the third sheet, and holding it up to Praetor Hornworks' uncertain gaze, punctured it with a pair of upraised fingers. Two identical ragged holes were created.
"That's what I been trying to get you to do all along," Hornworks said, throwing up his hands. "We gotta go after his command and control structure. Decapitate him from his army. It's a dang autocracy up there. Without Maddas, they'll fall apart."
Chiun studied his handiwork briefly and looked up. "You think we should cut off his head?"
"Not literally," Hornworks admitted. "It's not the American way to go after heads of state, personal-like."
"Then you do not know how to wage these kinds of wars," Chiun snapped.
The Master of Sinanju picked up the gas mask and the cut pieces of paper.
"If I command it," he said slowly, "could all these garments be made into this color?"
"Sure. But why would we want to? I'm anticipating a desert campaign, not a ladies' social."
"Because these garments are essential to the liberation of Kuran."
"They are?"
"According to my plan, no shots need be fired, no blood spilled."
"I like your thinking, even if I can't hardly follow it. But taking Kuran without firing a blamed shot-it would be easier to teach a pig to whistle 'Dixie.' And you know what they say about that."
Arching one faint eyebrow, the Master of Sinanju looked up as he affixed the pink triangles to the temples of the mask so they hung point-down.
"No? What do they say?"
"It won't work and you'll annoy the pig." Praetor Hornworks cracked a lopsided grin that was not returned.