"As long as there are women willing to bear little Horton Droneys, I guess."
"Shhhh," Chiun said suddenly. "He speaks."
"Shouts," Remo corrected. Chiun's hand shot up.
"Now I know you're going to give these New Age hucksters exactly the welcome they so richly deserve," Horton Droney III proclaimed. A blood howl rose from the audience. "Here they come, Shane Billiken and-get this-Princess Sinanchu."
"Hey, did you catch that name? It sounded almost like-"
Remo's words were literally pinched off by Chiun's fingers. He tried removing Chiun's fingers from his lips. They were locked like pliers. Remo decided to sit quietly. Chiun would not let go until he was ready.
A square-faced man in black leather clothes and wraparound sunglasses stepped out. He led a small golden-skinned woman by the hand. She wore a short white costume and seemed frightened by the roar of the audience. Even after they were seated, the man, whom an on-screen tag identified as "Shane Billiken, New Age Guru," continued holding the girl's hand, as if afraid she would bolt at any second.
"This, I take it, is Princess Sinanchu?" Horton Droney III sneered.
"That's right," said Shane Billiken. "And you can scoff all you want. But this woman is what I call a perpetual channeler. Unlike other channelers, she does not need to go into a trance in order to access her spirit guide. She is permanently locked into the consciousness of Princess Sinanchu, a warrior queen from prehistoric times, when technology was more advanced than ours."
Horton Droney III gave the studio audience, and the camera, an arched eyebrow look. The audience howled with laughter. A tomato splashed at the feet of Princess Sinanchu, who recoiled.
"No, not yet," Horton Droney told his audience reprovingly. "I'll tell you when to start throwing things."
"I can prove my claim," Shane Billiken insisted.
"I know, I know," Horton Droney said. "You've had language experts from all over the world listen to her, and they all agree that she's speaking in an unknown tongue."
"Exactly right."
"And we all know how infallible those ivory-tower geniuses are. I mean, if I wanted to run a scam like this, all I'd have to do is say, 'Yabbba-dabbo doo' a few times and I'd have them scratching their pointy little heads too."
"Why don't we let the audience judge for themselves?"
"Shoot."
Shane Billiken turned to the woman he called Princess Sinanchu and squeezed her hand hard. She began speaking in rapid bursts.
"Mola re Sinanchu. A gosa du Sinanchu. Ponver dreu du Sinanchu."
"She says that she is Princess Sinanchu," Shane Billiken said carefully, "and she wants to warn us that we're letting our technology destroy us. We should eat more organic foods like cheese, clean up our water and our air, or the calamity that befell her civilization will fall upon ours."
"She said all that, eh?"
"That's correct."
"Then how come she said her name three times and you repeated it only once?" Horton Droney said savagely.
"I gave you the loose translation."
"And if this language is unknown to modern world, how come you speak it? Huh? Answer me that."
"Because in a previous life I was her husband."
"Oh, this is such crap." Horton Droney turned to the audience. "I say it's crap. What do you say?"
"It's crap!" yelled the studio audience. Security guards moved in when some in the front row started to rush the stage.
"They say it's crap," accused Horton Droney, turning to Princess Sinanchu. "And I'm going to prove it." He was shouting now, shouting abuse and invective in the frightened face of Princess Sinanchu.
"Come on, admit it. You're a fraud. This is an act. Who are you really? Some cheap stripper he picked up in a saloon? I'll bet right now there's someone in our television audience looking at you and saying, 'I know her. I went to high school with the little trollop.' Come on, 'fess up, before someone else blows the whistle."
"Dakka, qi Drue Sinanchu," said Princess Sinanchu.
"We know your freaking stage name, you smarmy fake. What we want is the truth. Who are you? How much is he paying you to work this little scam? Huh? Come on, admit it."
Horton Droney was spitting words in her face with relentless violence. His face was turning red. The studio audience was a mob.
"Shake it out of her, Hort," they yelled. "Make the bitch talk."
Horton Droney grabbed Princess Sinanchu by the hair and yanked her out of her seat.
"I know how to prove she's a fraud," he shouted, wrestling her to the front of the stage. "An old-fashioned spanking!"
Princess Sinanchu made a sound like a spitting cat and reached under her skirt. Her hand flashed up and Horton Droney suddenly backed away from her. He twisted on his feet until his knees started buckling. His mouth opened in a grimace. An ornate bone handle jutted from his chest.
He gripped it in both hands, and then, his face darkening even as his grimace widened, he fell on his face.
A "Technical Difficulties" sign was beamed into millions of homes across the nation.
"Enough," Chiun said abruptly, releasing Remo's numb lips. He arose and shut off the TV. "We are going to Moo."
"I realize television may have sunk to new depths here, Little Father," Remo protested. "But I think we can find some better way to entertain ourselves than by resorting to animal impressions."
"There is no time to explain," Chiun said, flouncing from the room like a fussy hen. "Pack."
"Pack? Why?"
"Because we are going to Moo."
Remo, seeing from the Master of Sinanju's body language that he meant business, shrugged and said, "I'd better inform Smith, then." He picked up the telephone and dialed the nonemergency number that connected him with CURE, the supersecret government organization for which he worked. A recorded message told him he had reached the Miami Beach Betterment League and that, at the sound of the beep, the caller had exactly thirty seconds to leave a message.
Remo waited for the beep and then, letting out his breath, let out with it a rapid-fire stream of words. "Smitty. Remo. Chiun and I are going to moo. I don't know what exactly that means, but it involves travel, and from Chiun's look, it's serious. I'd explain, but I don't know any more than that, and besides, I have a hunch the explanation would take longer than thirty seconds. Next time spring for a longer tape. 'Bye."
Remo hung up with three seconds to spare and called into the other room:
"Srnitty's taken care of."
"Good," called Chiun. "Are you packed?"