"Give me one good reason why I should," Remo demanded.
"I will tell you on the way."
"No, I think I deserve a straight answer right now." Remo folded his arms. "And if I don't get one, I'm not going to quack, bark, grunt, or whinny. Never mind moo."
Chiun stopped his packing. He straightened up from laying a traveling kimono in a bright red lacquer trunk with brass handles. His clear hazel eyes narrowed craftily.
"Because," the Master of Sinanju said carefully, "the women go bare-breasted."
Remo blinked as the significance of the Master of Sinanju's words sank in. He did not understand this moo business. He did not understand how it connected with this sudden urge to pack. Breasts, he understood. When Harold Smith had first subjectgd him to a battery of psychological tests before turning him over to Chiun, Remo had passed most of the tests handily. Except one. The Rorschach test. Smith laid down one inkblot and Remo looked at it briefly and pronounced it a pair of female breasts. That was the answer he gave for nine out of nine inkblots. Sometimes he saw only one breast. Once he saw three. When the worried look on Smith's parsimonious face made Remo fear he was about to be dumped into the grave bearing his name but which actually contained a nameless derelict, Remo announced that the tenth and final inkblot was an accurate depiction of the Indian subcontinent-even though it looked like the most colossal set of boobs he had ever seen.
Remo shook his head suddenly and straightened out of his leaning slouch against the doorjamb.
"Well, don't just stand there," he said. "Keep packing. I'll call a cab."
Chapter 4
The doctor at New York Hospital wanted to say that Horton Droney III would not, could not, under any imaginable circumstances, see visitors.
Instead, a blood-curdling scream erupted in the room. It wasn't coming from the tiny Oriental gentleman in the colorful native costume. His companion, the one with the deadest eyes Dr. Alan Dooley had seen since medical school, stood tight-lipped. He was not the author of the blood-curdling scream either.
It might have been Nurse Bottomsly. Her mouth was open. But her throat wasn't pulsating the way people do when they scream. She looked more shocked than horrified. And she was looking directly at him.
It was then that Dr. Dooley noticed that it was he himself who had authored the mysterious scream. Imagine that. He was screaming and he hadn't even noticed. Before his fear-frozen brain synapses could begin the process of wondering why he was screaming, the answer shot up his arm, spread to the other arm, down both legs, up his screaming skull, and, most painfully, to his testicles.
He fell on the floor and clutched himself. He screamed louder. He coughed through the scream and the resulting sound was quite disgusting. As he curled up on the floor like a maggot that has been doused with lighter fluid and set afire, he noticed that his right arm hadn't joined his left in the necessary action of clutching himself at the point of maximum pain. It was hung up on something.
With tearing eyes, Dr. Dooley looked up. His wrist was pinched between the thumb and forefinger of the little Asian gentleman. The man's face was a thundercloud of wrath.
"I will ask again," the Asian said evenly. "Direct us to the room of Horton the Turd."
"Do us both a favor," the white man interposed casually. "He's in a rush and I'm in a hurry. Don't piss either of us off."
The thought, clear as a surgical needle going through Dr. Dooley's brain, penetrated with amazing clarity. If the Asian was inflicting this much agony before he was pissed, how much pain would he inflict when he crossed that terrible threshold?
Dr. Dooley decided not to find out. Better to risk a malpractice suit from the patient. Besides, he was not Horton Droney's personal physician. He was just the doctor on duty when the television host was rushed into the Emergency Room. Suddenly Dr. Dooley felt absolutely no obligation to his patient.
"Room thirty-seven," he groaned. His hand suddenly fell to the floor, landing beside his nose, as flaccid and lifeless as a dead tarantula.
"Thank you," a voice told him as he picked his hand off the floor. It was as if it was separate from his body. He couldn't even feel the arm that still linked it to his shoulder. "Don't just stand there, nurse. Get a doctor!"
"Which ... which one?"
"A good one, dammit."
"I hope he's conscious," Remo told Chiun as they approached the hospital room. "At the studio, they said he was stuck pretty deep."
"If he is not conscious, I will awaken him," Chiun promised.
"And if he's dead?"
"Then we will search out the poor unfortunate girl without his aid."
"I wouldn't call her unfortunate. She handled herself pretty well, especially in front of that bully."
"She was terrified. And that lummox refused to listen to her."
"What could he do? She didn't speak English."
"Yes, all the good languages are forgotten."
"Don't tell me, Chiun. You understood her gibberish?"
"I will not."
"Good."
"But I did."
"Sure," Remo said as he looked around.
The Master of Sinanju paused before the door marked thirty-seven and pushed it open. Remo followed him in. It was a private room. Horton Droney III lay on an immaculate bed. Intravenous tubes led from his arm. A blood bag hung over his head. His eyes were half-closed dreamily.
"Excuse me," said the attending nurse, rising from a chair.
"You are excused," snapped Chiun.
"But-
"He said you've been excused," Remo said gently, leading the nurse out the door. When she protested, he added, "Here, take my wallet as security. It contains my life savings and my ID. If we do anything bad, you'll know who to report to the police."
Then he closed the door after her. He held the doorknob in place while she vainly tried to turn it from the other side. Her poundings woke Horton Droney III.
"Who are you jerks?" he roared when he saw Chiun.
"I am Chiun and I would keep a civil tongue in my mouth."
"Hey, I don't take crap from Japanese. I haven't forgotten Pearl Harbor. So get lost, you Toyota-loving riceball."
"Now you did it," Remo said.
"Remo," Chiun said evenly, "would you excuse us?"
"Little Father, why don't you let me handle this?" Remo began, still holding the doorknob against the nurse's frantic struggling.
"Did he call you a Japanese?" Chiun demanded.