"They only appear to be steam. For those are the very tentacles of Ru-Taki-Nuhu itself, holding up the sky."
"Bull," said Remo. But he stared into the swirling steam uncertainly. Did he see suckers?
Chapter 39
It was four days later. The mouth-watering smell of hot egg-lemon soup woke Remo Williams. He jumped out of his bunk and made his way to the junk's galley, where he found the Master of Sinanju hovering over the galley stove.
"Do I smell my favorite soup?" he asked brightly.
"You do," replied Chiun in a happy voice. He turned, a steaming wooden bowl in his hands.
At the sight of Remo's face, Chiun let out a screech. "Aiiee!" he cried.
"Yeah, I know," Remo said, holding up his hands. His nails were long and curved. "Aren't they gross?"'
"Your nails are perfect. It is your hair. And beard."
"Huh?"
"They are a sickly yellow." Chiun looked into the bowl. His eyes narrowed. His lips thinned. "Lemon yellow." He marched to an open porthole and emptied the bowl's contents overboard.
"My breakfast!" Remo cried.
"No more egg-lemon soup for you," Chiun muttered angrily as he dumped the remaining potful after the bowl. "It has had an unforeseen effect upon your ridiculous white consitution."
"Unforeseen?" Remo folded his arms. He tapped a foot impatiently. "Chiun, I think you have some explaining to do." He was looking at his fingernails.
Chapter 40
Dr. Harold W. Smith noticed the shiny blue Buick in the next-door driveway when he pulled into his own. His lips thinned. They were home, his mysterious neighbors. That changed everything.
As he put his house key in the front door, the portable phone in his briefcase buzzed. Perhaps it was Remo calling, Smith thought, his heart racing. He fumbled the door open.
Smith plunged into his living room. Mrs. Smith was sitting in an overstuffed chair, facing an identical highbacked chair.
"Oh, Harold, I'm so glad you're home," Mrs. Smith gushed excitedly. "I'd like you to meet-"
"One moment, please," Smith said curtly. "I have some phone calls to make." And he hurried into the den, leaving his wife to mutter apologies to her guest.
"He's not like that, really. It's just that he's been so overworked."
"I recognized him as a man of responsibility," the other voice said gravely. "And have I told you that you brew excellent tea?"
Smith opened the briefcase at his desk. He lifted the receiver.
"Yes?" he said crisply.
"Smitty? Remo here."
"Remo!" Smith bit out. "Where have you been? Never mind. That's not important now. We have a crisis."
"I'll be right over."
"No, I'm not at Folcroft. I'm home."
"I know. I saw you drive up."
"You did? You're in the neighborhood? Wonderful. Listen carefully: unknown agents have bought the house next door to mine. There's something very wrong there. I don't have time to explain the details, but I want you to look into this. Find out who they are and what they're up to. I believe that at the very least, they're storing munitions over there. The apparent leader is a man who calls himself James Churchward."
"I'm already on top of it, Smitty."
Smith gulped. He was so relieved that his normally ashen face flushed with perspiration. "You are?"
"Look out your window," Remo suggested.
Smith hesitated. Carrying the briefcase awkwardly, he moved over to the window. It faced the house next door. Smith peered through the chintz curtains.
Framed in the opposite window, Smith saw a blond man with a full golden beard. He was holding a telephone receiver to his face. His lips moved. The words they mouthed were reproduced in Smith's unbelieving ear.
"Hi, neighbor," Remo's voice chirped. "Come on over."
"Stay right there," Smith hissed. He slipped out the back door and crept to the rear of the other house. He knocked gingerly. The door opened.
"Don't mind the place," Remo said casually. "Chiun and I are still working on it."
Smith walked in on leaden feet. His face drained of color. Remo led him to the living room, which was bare except for a projection TV and two reed sitting mats. In the middle of the room stood a huge cardboard container.
"Grab a piece of floor, Smitty. I'll be just a minute. This arrived today. It was the first thing I bought after I closed on the house. I never thought I'd have an urgent use for it." Smith's eyes focused slowly.
"Your hair," he croaked. "That beard."
Remo touched his blond head. "One of Chiun's little schemes gone wrong," he said as he attacked the cardboard box with curved talonlike fingers.
"Your nails."
"Exhibit B," Remo said. The box lay in strips, exposing a tractor lawn mower. Remo pushed it over on its side, revealing sharp rotary steel blades. He began filing his nails on the sharpest blade. It sounded like two steel files rasping one another. Remo talked as he worked.
"I have to admit Chiun fooled me this time. I thought the soup was a special treat. You know, a celebration because we'd finally bought a house."
"This is your house," Smith said hoarsely.
"Yup. We answered an ad. Hey, imagine our surprise when we found out it was next door to yours." A fingernail dropped to the floor. Remo started to work on the next one.
"Imagine . . ." Smith's eyes were sick. He looked away, and through an open door he saw stacks of brass-bound lacquered boxes in the next room. They were festooned with old-fashioned padlocks. Chiun's steamer trunks. They fit Brunt's description perfectly. Smith didn't know whether to laugh or cry. So he swallowed uncomfortably.
"Naturally," Remo was saying, "I objected at first. But Chiun convinced me. He said the emperor's assassin should dwell no more than twenty cubits from his emperor. I didn't measure, but I guess we've got twenty cubits between us. Besides, we'd been living at Folcroft for over a year now, so I figured security wouldn't suffer."