"That is an excellent idea," he said absently.
"What is?"
"Teaching pigs to whistle. It is a brilliant stroke."
"Not that I ever noticed. And I'm from Tennessee."
"While I am away," said the Master of Sinanju, coming to his feet like pale incense wafting ceilingward, "it will be your assigned task to teach the pigs to whistle."
"What pigs?"
"The Pigs of Peace, of course."
"You ain't by chance got yourself confused with the dogs of war, now have you?"
"Certainly not. And if you can command Wild Weasels and other such beasts, why not Peace Pigs?"
Although Praetor Hornworks did not exactly follow the old Korean's logic, neither could he defeat it.
And so he asked, "Any particular tune, sir?"
"You may select one of your own choosing," Chiun said dismissively. "I will agree to delegate that task to you, since the liberation of Kuran is not dependent upon the song the pigs whistle, only that they whistle."
"I've always been partial to 'Bridge over the River Kwai,' myself."
"Acceptable. Now please summon the decurion."
"You're leaving?"
"Soon. But I wish him to try on this garment. It is a test."
"It's sure something," said Hornworks, reaching for the phone.
The decurion struggled into the garment under the doubtful eye of Praetor Hornworks and the critical gaze of the Master of Sinanju.
When it was on, he asked, his voice muffled, "How do I look?"
"Ridiculous," said Hornworks in an unenthusiastic voice.
"Perfect," said the Master of Sinanju, beaming at his handiwork.
Hornworks put his hands on his hips and bellowed, "He looks like he's going to a durn pajama party with those pink flaps hanging down. And that circle is restricting his air flow. He needs more than two holes to breathe through."
The Master of Sinanju walked around the decurion several times in silent contemplation.
"It is missing something," he mused.
"What?" asked Hornworks acidly. "A propeller beanie?"
The Master of Sinanju went to a desk drawer and removed a pipe cleaner, which he twisted into a corkscrew shape. Returning to the decurion, he affixed it to the pink seat of the suit.
"Now you done it," Hornworks complained. "You just punctured that man's protection. The suit's integrity is shot now."
"This is how you shall outfit your legions for the taking of the enemy limes."
Praetor Hornworks wrinkled his sweat-smeared brow. "Limes?" He searched his memory. "Oh, yeah, the frontline troops. My Latin is still rusty. We gonna laugh the enemy into submission, are we?"
"You are obviously an unimaginative lout. Summon the sheik and his son."
"Sure. Just let me put on my own gas mask. That dang Ay-rab has taken to bathing in Aqua Velva lately."
A moment later, Sheik Fareem and Prince Imperator Bazzaz started through the doorway.
On the threshold they came to a dead stop, their gaze drawn automatically to the ludicrous pink figure of the decurion. Their sloe orbs flew wide.
"Allah!" the sheik cried, clutching his brown-and-red robes.
"Blasphemy!" echoed Bazzaz. "Khazir!"
Faces filled with fright, they backed away. The door slammed. Their frantic feet could be heard receding the full length of the corridor.
The Master of Sinanju turned to Praetor Hornworks, asking, "Do you understand now?"
Praetor Hornworks' chin did not quite touch the rug, but it hung slacker than a discarded marionette's jaw. With equal woodenness he pivoted toward the startled decurion.
"Son, think you can whistle the 'Bridge over the River Kwai'? Let's hear a few bars for your kindly praetor."
An hour later, the Master of Sinanju strode toward a waiting Apache helicopter gunship.
"There's your Apache," Praetor Hornworks informed him.
"He looks like a Nubian," Chiun said, noting that the pilot was black.
"The LME's are all aboard. The pilot has orders to stick with you until the job's done and get you back in one piece."
"We will return separately. For I will continue on to Abominadad alone."
The Apache's rotors began whining in a gathering circle. Sand kicked up.
"What's up there?" Hornworks wanted to know.
"The man you wish me to decapitate."
"How you gonna do that without calling in the B-52's?"
"By calling another number entirely," said the Master of Sinanju, stepping into the rising rotor wash as if into a desert sandstorm. "Which I have done."