"Sure, why not?" said Remo.
"And you, sir," she asked Chiun, leaning over so Remo could fully inhale her perfume. Remo held his breath. Perfumes, even the subtle ones, tended to enter his sensitive nostrils like a fragrant Roto-Rooter reamer.
The Master of Sinanju said, "If you are going to expose your udders, madam, expose them to one who is not repelled by their grossness."
The stewardess straightened like a bent bamboo pole springing back.
"I beg your pardon," she said in a chilly tone.
Remo said, "Don't mind him. He gets crochety on long flights." But he was relieved when the stewardess went off in search of another aisle to fumigate. She had been nice to look at, but stewardesses, more so than other women, seemed to respond to Remo's Sinanju-enhanced pheromones. Usually they tried to sit in his lap. Often, they lost it completely and were reduced to tears by the simple and predictable event of Remo getting off at his assigned destination.
Remo plugged the stethoscopelike plastic plug of his earphone set into the seat jack and inserted the earpieces into his ears. He hit the On switch and began moving the numbered dial back and forth.
He got rap, rock, opera, bluegrass, country, heavy metal, acid rock, and gardening hints. The last channel bellowed out in the unctious but exuberant voice of Thrush Limburger.
"My friends," he was saying, "you are being yanked!"
Remo unplugged both ends of the earphones and handed them to the Master of Sinanju, saying, "It's for you."
Chiun's wizened features grew curious, and while he was putting the earpieces in, Remo plugged in the other end.
Surprise, joy, and interest overspread his features and the Master of Sinanju settled down to listen. From time to time, he cackled with undisguised pleasure.
Remo could live with the cackling. It beat Chiun carping about the fragile state of the aircraft wing, which he invariably pronounced at the point of falling off whenever they flew.
At San Francisco International Airport, Remo rented a car and they drove north on Highway 101 past parched orchards and vineyards and into a hilly area dominated by evergreens and towering redwood trees.
"Thrush Limburger have anything good to say?" asked Remo, who really didn't care, but thought Chiun deserved a little conversation after a relatively peaceful flight.
"You are being yanked," said Chiun, who wore a simple but garish vermilion kimono.
"I think I caught that much. About what?"
"About everything. Especially, you are being yanked about this HELP."
"There, I agree with the guy."
"Thrush the Vocal is a brilliant man."
"Says who?"
"No less an authority than Thrush Limburger himself."
"Because . . . ," Remo prompted.
"Because he says so in a loud voice and accepts telephone calls from common Americans who do nothing but agree with him. They are apparently a new emerging sect, called Rogers."
"Rogers?"
"When the great-voiced one pronounces a thing to be true, immediately, Americans in vast numbers call in and say 'Roger, Thrush.' It is apparently a secret code they have so that they recognize one another even over the telephone," Chiun added.
Remo rolled his dark eyes. "Yeah, it's pretty secret all right. Only you, me, and thirty million other radio listeners are in on it."
"He is also coming to this place."
"Oh, great," groaned Remo.
They had left the city behind and the landscape had turned piney and cool. Remo followed the signs to the town of Ukiah, where Nirvana West was located.
"This place is supposed to be only one step above a commune, so we may have a problem finding it," Remo said.
"Just listen for the whacking," said Chiun unconcernedly.
"Whacking?"
"It is their job, according to Thrush. Whacking. They are whackjobs."
"Little Father, a whackjob is a-"
Chiun's hazel eyes, younger by decades than the surrounding face, looked to Remo curiously. He stroked a tendril of beard that clung to his tiny chin.
Traffic started to get heavy.
"Never mind," said Remo. "You keep your ears peeled and I'll keep my eyes on the road."
"No whacking will escape my notice," Chiun promised.
Further along, the traffic thickened and slowed. Before they had traveled another mile, they were bumper-to-bumper with a line of cars wending their way through the parched hills.
"Damn," Remo said.
"Let us walk," said Chiun.
"Do you have any idea how far it is to Nirvana West?" said Remo.
"No," replied the Master of Sinanju, stepping from the car. "And neither do you. So we will walk because we cannot sit here and inhale the stink of others' vehicles until our lungs and brains die."
Remo pulled over, got out, and followed. He saw that the traffic jam of vehicles was far worse than he thought. He stopped and knocked on a car window. It rolled down. A woman with thin blond hair and translucent teeth poked her head out.
"Any idea how far Nirvana West is from here?" Remo asked.
"At the end of this jam," said the woman.
"What is this?"
"This is the media traffic jam."