"Yes, send him in," said Smith quickly, adjusting his hunter green Dartmouth tie.
"Remo, what brings you here?" asked Smith after Remo had closed the door after him.
"Just thought I'd drop by," Remo said in a subdued voice.
"You do not just drop by. Is something wrong?"
Remo dropped onto the long couch by the door and crossed his legs. He looked everywhere except directly at his employer.
"Nah. I was just in the neighborhood."
"Remo, you are never just in the neighborhood. What is wrong?"
"Nothing," said Remo, absently rotating his thick wrists. Smith recognized the habit as something Remo fell into when restless or agitated.
"Have it your way," Smith said dismissively. "But I am very busy."
Remo came out of his seat and wandered over to the terminal.
"Anything up?" he asked.
"No."
Remo's face fell. "Too bad. I wouldn't mind an assignment right about now. You know, just for something to do."
"I would think that you would enjoy some time off after your last assignment."
"The HELP scare? It wasn't so bad." Remo was looking out the window now. Seen in profile, his face was troubled.
Smith took off his glasses and began cleaning them with a cloth. "According to Master Chiun, you came close to death at the hands of that Sri Lankan woman assassin. Have there been any aftereffects of that poison?"
"No. I feel great. I shrugged that stuff off like a twenty-four hour flu."
"People do not shrug off lethal toxins," Smith pointed out.
"I do."
Smith cleared his throat and said, "Er, Master Chiun said you had one of those . . . episodes again."
Remo whirled. "He told you about it?"
"Yes. He has told me about most of them."
Remo frowned. His mouth compressed, and he seemed to be looking inward.
"Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Remo?" asked Smith in a voice he tried to keep calm.
Remo shrugged. "What's to tell? I don't remember them."
"Any of them?"
"I remember some of it, yeah. I remember the voice."
"You heard the voice?"
"Sometimes I hear it in my head. Sometimes it comes out of me."
"Is that why you've come here?"
"Smitty, you know the crap Chiun believes in. The legends of Shiva?"
"Chiun has explained it to me."
"It's just superstition, isn't it?"
Smith hesitated. He had seen Remo when one of those spells had overtaken him. The Remo he knew had talents that outclassed the greatest athletes and martial artists ever known. The Remo who had spoken in another voice was utterly alien to anything human and displayed attributes far beyond the amplified skills that could be explained by Sinanju training.
"Define superstition," said Smith.
Remo turned away from the window. "Oh, come off it, Smith. You can't tell me you buy any of it."
"I buy nothing," returned Smith in a crisp voice. "But since my first encounter with the Master of Sinanju, my natural skepticism has taken successive pummelings. I prefer not to dwell on things I cannot adequately explain."
"I'm not talking Sinanju. I'm talking-" Remo waved his arms "-that Squirrelly Chicane bull!'
Smith leaned back in his chair. "I do not believe in reincarnation, if that is what you are driving at."
Remo suddenly returned to the desk, set his hands on the desktop and leaned close to Smith's thin face.
"Smitty, this place is full of specialists. Ever hear of a condition that could explain this voice I hear?"
Smith considered. "Yes, there is a condition known as Psychogenic Fugue State. Its chief symptom is a complete personality displacement in which the subject's personality is sublimated for that of another's. In profound cases the subject talks and acts in a manner distinctly different from his usual self. I have sometimes wondered if it applied to your case."
"Case? I don't have a case!"
"You are hearing voices. You admit this."
"I'm making the voice. Or my throat is."
"Would you like to see a psychiatrist, Remo?"
"Yes. No!"
"Well, which is it?"
"I'd like for all this metaphysical junk to just fly away. But I'll settle for somebody explaining it for me."