They fended them off with quick blows, bringing their heels down on the dying things as soon as they hit the floor.
That seemed to be the end of the spiders.
"Remo, do not stand there. Dispatch that evil creature!"
"Hey, I don't snuff old ladies."
"I will not lower myself to kill an old woman."
"Well, I took care of Nalini."
"And you may take care of this one too," said Chiun.
"No way, Chiun. I'm not Dr. Doom."
Remo blinked. The Master of Sinanju looked up into his pupil's face.
"Maybe we'd better call Smith on this one," Remo muttered, keeping his distance from the agitated woman bouncing helplessly in her chair.
When Remo finished explaining himself, Harold Smith said, "Yes, I know."
"What do you mean, you know?" Remo said hotly.
"I deduced the truth-too late to communicate it to you. But it appears that you have neutralized the situation."
"Except for this old dingbat. I won't do her and neither will Chiun. Sorry."
"Have you secured the house?" Smith asked after a moment.
"There's a guard around somewhere, but that's all."
"Lock him up somewhere and keep Thrush Limburger out of sight," said Smith.
"And?"
"Wait."
"For who?"
Dr. Mordaunt Gregorian answered his beeper at a payphone outside San Francisco. Listening as his secretary informed him of the urgent need for his services in Massachusetts, his cracked dry lips quirked into a thin smile.
"Tell them I am on my way," he said, and drove his hearse to the airport. There was no business in California for him anyway.
He arrived at the walled compound as dawn was breaking. The electric gates opened automatically and he drove up the driveway past a guard in a box who seemed to be asleep, an empty liquor bottle in one hand.
The door opened before he could touch the pushbell.
"What kept you?" a man's voice said impatiently.
"Why is it so dark in here?" Dr. Gregorian wondered, looking around. There was a tall man standing in the gloomy vestibule. His face was indistinct. It was very dirty, as if smeared with coal dust.
"Power outage. It's straight ahead. Past the two doors. Here's a pillow."
"Pillow?"
"She specifically asked to be suffocated with her favorite pillow."
"But I have brought my medicide machine. Most people prefer to be eased across the River Styx chemically, I have found."
"Not this time. If you can't grant a dying woman's final wish, we'll get someone who can."
"That would be illegal. I offer physician-assisted suicide, not murder."
"I guess I had you wrong," the man said with a hint of flat amusement in his voice.
"I could do both, I suppose . . . ."
"Now you're talking."
"I will need to be alone with her," Dr. Gregorian said. "There must be no witnesses."
"Be gentle with her. She's as old as the hills."
"This should have been done long ago, you know. To allow a person to reach this state of debilitation, it's just criminal."
"Couldn't agree with you more," said the faceless man.
Dr. Gregorian stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
Thirty minutes later, he emerged, flushed of face, his eyes feverishly bright, his medicide machine tucked under one skinny arm.
"How'd it go?" asked the male voice.
"She struggled more than I expected."
"You look kinda funny. Hope you didn't catch anything."
"No, no," Dr. Gregorian said absently. "I always use a condom."
"What?"
"I mean, I always take precautions against infection."
"You dried-up old ghoul! No wonder you snuff only women!"
"You misunderstood me, I assure you." Dr. Gregorian suddenly passed a hand over his face. "I don't feel very well."