"When aren't we? Do you know that every time I've seen you in ten years, we've been in trouble? The sky is always falling. And this is the worst one of all, of course. The almighty dollar is in danger."
It was Smith's turn to shake his head. "Not the dollar," he said. "You."
"See," said Chiun to Remo. "It is not so important after all. It is just you."
That, however, Remo decided, made it very important. "What about me?" he said.
Smith handed forward a yellow slip of paper. "This came," he said.
Remo took the paper. Before reading what was on it, he handled the small sheet between his fingertips. It was exceptionally thin, thinner than onionskin, but stiff and strong, crisper than bond. He had never felt paper quite like it.
He looked down at it and read the printed note:
TO THOSE AMONG WHOM THERE MAY BE CONCERN:
Hello is all right. Please be advised that unless the head of one high probability Remo is delivered to me that a billion dollars in money will be disbursed and dispersed—it is interesting how two similar words have totally different meanings but in this case both are correctly used, a fact of which I am proud—on an American city without warning. This is a serious promise. I'd offer you a drink but it is impossible through the mail. With best wishes, I am, sincerely, Mr. Gordons.
The note appeared to be typewritten but instead of the right edges of all the lines being uneven, as they would have if they been typed normally, the right margin was straight as if the note had been set in type on a linotype machine. Remo turned the paper over and felt the raised dots where the typed periods had pressed through the paper.
"What do you think?" Smith asked.
"Pretty smooth typing job," Remo said. "The right margin is perfectly even. Look at this, Chiun. A perfectly even margin. But it was done by a typewriter. I never saw a typewriter that could justify lines like that."
"Remo, will you stop it?" said Smith heatedly. "We're not here to talk about Mr. Gordons's typing."
"You're jealous. I bet you can't type a margin like that, and Mr. Gordons can. Come to think of it, you should be able to, 'cause you're both the same. Robots."
Smith's eyes rose in surprise. "Robots?"
"Right. Robots. No flesh and blood. He's just farther advanced than you 'cause he can type good. All you can do is play with your computers. Where did you go wrong, Smitty?"
"Chiun," said Smith. "Is this correct? Is Mr. Gordons a robot?"
"Yes," said Chiun. "We knew it all the time."
"We knew it? How did we know it?" demanded Remo.
"I am corrected," said Chiun. "We didn't know it. I knew it."
"Tell him how," said Remo. "Tell him how you knew. Tell him how I found out for you."
"Remo confirmed, but I knew. When a man does not walk like a man or talk like a man or act like a man, it is time to think he is perhaps not a man."
Remo saw Smith looking at him for added explanation. He shrugged. "I don't know. Some diddle-daddle stuff with Dr. Vanessa Carlton. She makes computer things for rockets. Mr. Gordons was some kind of survival computer. When it heard her say that the lab was going to be shut down because of no more government money, it dolled itself up like a man and ran away. 'Cause that's all it knows how to do, survive. And then of course the stupid government changed its mind and renewed the money for the lab anyway."
"The government never did change its mind," Smith said. "It stopped funding Dr. Carlton two months ago."
"Oh, who cares?" Remo said. "Anyway, that robot's running around loose now wondering what it has to do to survive. It thinks it's got it tough; it should try being a housewife with these prices."
"Technically, I guess, he is an android," Smith said.
"No. He's a robot," said Remo.
"A robot is a recognizable machine. An android is humanoid, that is, a robot that looks and acts human."
"All right, have it your own way. An android. Does that solve your problem?"
"The problem is still you. No one except me of course knows exactly who you are and what you do. But some of the people at Treasury who have met you think we should give Mr. Gordons what he wants. That opinion might carry some weight with the President."
"Forsythe, right?" said Remo. Smith nodded.
Chiun played with the three-way switch on a lamp, changing it from dim to bright to brightest to off, dim to bright to brightest to off, rhythmically plunging the room into darkness.
"Suppose the President says do it?" asked Remo.
Smith shrugged. Chiun broke the small switch off the lamp.
"Where's my head supposed to be delivered?" Remo asked.
"It's supposed to be left in a litter basket at the Eastern Airlines desk at Dulles Airport, any night after 3 A.M. Gordons called Forsythe with the message. If you could only find the printing operation."
Chiun rose with the light switch in his hand. "Remo, let us leave Emperor Smith to his thoughts now." He put a hand on Remo's elbow and guided him from the room. "Do not talk anymore to him," Chiun warned. "He is crazy again."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chiun insisted that he must see Forsythe immediately. Remo said that he did not care if he never saw Forsythe again. Chiun said that this showed only that Remo was stupid and knew nothing about nothing, but what could one expect of a white who was just like all other whites, even to his pasty complexion and stupid big feet and hands and thick wrists and no brains.
"The inferior always act alike. They think it will give them strength. But many fools, even together, are still fools."
"Enough, already," said Remo. He would talk no more and he sulked when they got into the taxicab, vowing not to tell Chiun where Forsythe's office was.
Chiun told the cabdriver, "Take us to Mr. Forsythe's office."
"Wha?" said the driver.
"Mr. Forsythe's office. He is a very important man. You must know him." He leaned forward and whispered confidentially, "He is white like you."
"Buddy, I don't know no Forsythe."
"I will describe him for you. He is ugly and stupid. A typical specimen."
The driver looked to Remo for help. Remo said nothing. Chiun said, "What is the ugliest building in this ugly city?"
"That's easy. They got this building for the Treasury that looks like a tomb."
"Take us there," said Chiun, sitting back comfortably on the seat. To Remo he said, "Where else would Forsythe be?"