He plugged this in. Nothing happened.
Then he discovered that there was an On switch. He turned the fax phone on and a green power light went on. Unfortunately, so did a red paper light. He wondered what that meant.
He started to hunt up the instruction book, then realized it would probably be easier to ask Harold Smith, who after all had sent the thing to him in the first place.
He picked up the handset and prepared to dial. Instead, he got a loud conversation.
"What is this-a party line fax?"
He listened a moment and on came, of all things, a commercial.
"I think this overfed phone is picking up the TV signal," Remo muttered.
"What good is picking up a TV voice when there is no picture?" Chiun wondered. "You must have gotten a defective pox."
Receiver in hand, Remo grabbed the remote and ran up and down the channels of the nearest TV. None of the voices matched.
"Maybe it's a radio station," he muttered. "You by chance order a radio?"
Chiun was slicing open another box and excavating a Veg-O-Matic. "Yes," he said absently, "I ordered one of everything."
"It looks it."
"I deserve it."
"Tell it to Smith," said Remo.
"You are just jealous because all you have is a pox," said Chiun. "A defective pox at that."
Remo hung up and went looking for a radio. Fortunately most of the boxes were marked. He carried the box, still sealed, back upstairs because he knew that Chiun would insist on opening it himself.
The Master of Sinanju accomplished this with a swift slicing motion of one elongated fingernail.
Remo went to plug in the radio, but all the outlets were full.
"You order an extension cord?" he asked Chiun.
"I do not know what an extension cord is," Chiun replied.
"If I find one, can I use it?"
"What makes you think I ordered one?"
Remo looked around and made a wry mouth. "Mathematical odds are heavily in my favor."
"You may do what you wish," said Chiun, removing from a box a complete set of Ginzu knives.
Remo found, not an extension cord, but a surge protector. It looked like it would do the job, and it did. Remo turned on the radio and roved the dial.
The station was a religious talk station. The broadcast signal was coming through the telephone with greater clarity than the radio.
"You got a cheap radio," Remo grunted.
"It was free."
"Tell that to the American taxpayer," Remo retorted.
Just then the fax phone rang.
"That must be Smitty calling to check the fax," said Remo, picking up the receiver. It beeped in his ear, then tweedled loudly.
"Hello? Hello?" he said.
"Incoming fax," a voice said. Remo didn't recognize the voice, but it was hard to hear over the radio voices assaulting his ear.
"The paper light is on," Remo said.
"Well, put in the paper and I'll call right back."
Remo hung up and searched out a roll of paper. It was surprisingly simple to insert. He felt proud of himself when he got it in place. The phone rang again and the beeping and tweedling started anew.
The paper began spitting out. And spitting out. It was a long continuous sheet and Remo realized it was going to make a mess if he didn't get hold of it.
He picked up the loose end and started reading.
"This looks like the financial report of some big company," he muttered.
He read some more.
"This is the financial report of International Data Corporation," Remo said in a puzzled voice. "Why would Smith send this to us?"
"No doubt Emperor Smith has his reasons," said the Master of Sinanju, whose Sinanju ancestors had worked for the great emperors of history and assumed that Harold Smith, whose title was director, must be some modern word for emperor.
"I guess so," said Remo. He kept rolling up the greasy fax paper as fast as it was spit out. The paper exhausted itself before the report ended. When it was over, the paper light came back on, along with one saying "Error."
"Error? I didn't do anything wrong."
"You do nothing right," said Chiun thinly.
He grabbed up the receiver and hit the 1 button-the simplified code that enabled him to dial directly his superior without having to remember complicated codes like ten-digit telephone numbers.
"Smitty?" said Remo. "What's with this fax?"
Through the background voices, the lemon-bitter voice of Harold W. Smith was saying, "Fax? I did not send you a fax."
"Well, I just got a fax as long as Roseanne's enemies list."