Guiding Smith by the elbow, Chiun escorted him to the door.
"I have been watching these baseball games with Remo. It is always the same. Boston beats Detroit and then Detroit savagely attacks Chicago. This is exactly the kind of intercity warfare that brought down the Greek Empire. Let me suggest that Remo and I pay secret visits to the rulers of these recalcitrant city-states. We will force them to mend their ways. Perhaps in this way the union may endure another two hundred brief years and the President will be so grateful that he will offer to raise your salary, and you in turn might see fit to increase the tribute paid to my house." Chiun paused to stroke his facial hair thought-
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fully. He measured Smith's aghast expression out of the corner of his eye and went on.
"Of course, it is only a suggestion," he said dismissively. "But I know you will see the wisdom of not allowing America to tear itself apart in such an unseemly and public fashion."
Smith nodded mutely. Just two more steps ... he thought numbly. It was like walking the last mile.
"You perhaps do not realize that this baseball warfare has spread beyond your shores," Chiun went on. "The Japanese have fallen into settling their differences in this manner as well. It is a plague. But if we work together on this, we will both profit."
Remo's uncontrollable laughter followed them out into the backyard.
Epilogue
Crackle.
". . . So, Cinzia. Wanna whoosh tonight?"
"I don't crackle know. Will you respect me in the morning?"
"I don't respect you now." Crackle. Tomorrow can only be an improvement." Whoosh.
"Oh, you! You always make me laugh." Whoosh. "Sure. Dinner first?"
"How about Legal sput Seafoods? Haven't eaten there in a crackle."
"Help!"
"Hey, do you hear that?"
"What?"
"Something on the line."
"This is a crackle staticky pop line."
"No. It wasn't static. It was a strange voice. Like 'whoosh.' "
"Say again? I didn't catch that last part."
"I said, it's like we're on a party line."
"Maybe your phone's being tapped."
"No. Shhh. Listen."
"Help, help! I am trapped in telephone line. Someone help me."
"Hear it now?"
"Yeah. Funny accent pop crackle don't you think? Sounds Russian."
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"Hey, maybe it's the KGB."
"Why would they tap my line?"
"It's probably crackle a crossed wire."
"Help me. Help me. Help me."
"He sounds real unhappy."
"Get real, Cinz. It's only someone playing with their sput."
"I don't know. That's real panic in his voice."
"Oh, come on. 'Help me, I'm trapped in telephone line'? Reminds whoosh of that stupid fortune you got when I took you to the Cathay Pacific last crackle. You know, the one that said, 'Help, I'm being held prisoner in a fortune pop cookie factory.' "
"You're right. What could I be thinking of?"
"So . . . pick you up, say, sevenish?"
"Hmmm. Better make it eight. I'm going to run out and buy a new phone. This one's been acting sput a lot. As you can hear."
"Yeah. Things sure haven't been crackle since Ma Bell broke up."
Whoosh. "Tell me about it. Ciao."
The tunnel walls zoomed by. They seemed to go on forever. And all Rair Brashnikov could imagine was that this time he truly was dead. This time the dark tunnel was not a fiberoptic cable. And soon he would see the silvery light that would bring him peace.
But as he rushed along endlessly, Brashnikov felt only a wild, numbing panic. If this were truly the path to heaven, why were all the voices American?