"How about that roach? It's almost used-up anyway."
Silence followed her echoes.
"I'll settle for one of those hallucinogenic toads that you have to lick," Squirrelly said hopefully.
When the last echoes died away, so did all hope. Squirrelly sat herself down on the pile of sand that was her bed, moaning, "I can't believe this. I came all this way and I'm reduced to begging for a lick of a toad."
Clapping hands to her saffron shag, she added, "Won't this headache ever go away!"
"Embrace the pain," Lobsang Drom droned. "Transcend the pain."
"You try transcending this pounder!"
"Her Holiness must set an example for the other prisoners," Lobsang reminded her. "By suffering, you work to relieve the sorrows of the world."
"My Bunji butt! I want out of this hellhole. The storyline is dead in the water. I can see the audience going out for popcorn right now. And not coming back. The critics will murder me."
"The Bunji Lama is above all earthly criticism," Lobsang intoned.
"Tell that to Siskel and Ebert! I can just hear the fat one now. 'Squirrelly Chicane should have stuck with the kind of films her audience is used to seeing her in. Blah blah blahs Like he knows his buns from a bagel!"
Suddenly the lock began to rasp and grate.
"Who's there?" Squirrelly hissed. "Am I being let out?"
"It is I, O Bunji," said a squeaky voice.
"I who?"
"The Master of Sinanju has come to liberate you," the squeaky voice said.
Squirrelly lifted up on her supple toes and tried to look out the tiny cell-door window. She saw nothing but dank corridor.
"I don't see anyone," she complained.
"Who are you talking to, Bunji?" asked Kula worriedly.
"It's that little guy. Sinatra."
"The Master of Sinanju has come to liberate us!" Kula exclaimed.
The key in the lock continued to grate.
"Forget it," Squirrelly said. "It took two of them to lock it, and they left the key in because it'll probably take six of them to unlock it."
The lock squealed with a metallic complaint.
And to Squirrelly Chicane's utter astonishment, the cell door creaked open.
Standing there was the wispy Korean. He wore black. The top of his formerly bald head was black, as well.
"Did you grow hair?" Squirrelly asked.
"It is a disguise," said Chiun dismissively. "Come. We must free the others."
The keys had not been left in the other locks. Chiun knew that the sound of the stubborn locks might have carried. Delay could be dangerous. First he went to Kula's door and examined the hinge pins. They were as thick as rifle barrels. Strong. But also large. Sometimes a large obstacle was more easily defeated.
Kneeling, he struck the lower pins with the edge of his hand. A short, sharp blow. The hinges came apart like a log split by an ax. The top pin surrendered in like fashion.
Impatient, Kula pushed the door outward and set it aside.
The other door hinges were no less resistant to the skills of the Master of Sinanju.
After Lobsang Drom had emerged, Squirrelly Chicane threw her maroon lama's cap into the air.
"This is great! This is great. This is the reel I've been waiting for!" Squirrelly bent and kissed Chiun on the top of his head, saying, "I wish you were tall, dark and handsome, but hey, by the time they cast the part, maybe you will be."
"What is this woman railing about?" the Master of Sinanju asked Kula. The big Mongol shrugged, a resigned who-can-fathom-the-mind-of-a-white-lama shrug.
Squirrelly noticed a strange taste on her lips. She wiped them, and there was a smear of black on her saffron sleeve. "What is this stuff?"
Chiun ignored her. "There is no time to dawdle. We must get past the Chinese guards"
"Just get me to a telephone. I'll have the Marines here in no time."
THERE was only one telephone in all of Drapchi Prison. It was a desk model in the office of Colonel Fang Lin of the ministry of state security, in charge of Drapchi Prison.
Right now he was using it to talk to Beijing.
He was having a hard time getting through to Beijing. More specifically, getting through to the minister of state security. It had been on the minister's orders that he had thrown the internationally recognized Squirrelly Chicane into a cell and denied her any contact with America. Now he wanted further instructions.
If only the minister of state security would take his call.
He had been trying all night. He had left messages. None had been returned. Colonel Fang was beginning to get the message: Squirrelly Chicane was a tiger he would have to ride without further instruction. His original orders were simple. Imprison the would-be Bunji Lama until further notice. No food. No water. No contact with the outside world.
The orders were fixed. He could not deviate from them without bringing great reprimands down on his own head.
No food, no water, no contact. In time, if those orders were not countermanded, Squirrelly Chicane would perish of starvation. Blame would be attached to Colonel Fang for not exercising initiative and common sense and preserving her life.
As Colonel Fang hung up the still-ringing telephone receiver, he shook a slim cigarette out of his last box of Pandas. The supply plane was late again. No doubt there would be no contact with Beijing until the Bunji Lama had expired.
As he smoked, Colonel Fang tried to fathom the Byzantine reasons for the security minister not returning his messages. He could only guess at them, but he had been with the PLA for twenty years. He understood how things worked, even if the why was often elusive.
The security minister had received his orders from the premier of China himself. They were stark orders. The security minister had related them to Colonel Fang, and then possibly went on an unexpected vacation. Or arranged for trouble with his office telephone. Phone outages were common in Beijing.
The Bunji Lama would die in Drapchi Prison, and Colonel Fang would receive the blame because if she did not die in Drapchi Prison, the premier would blame the minister of state security, who would in turn blame Colonel Fang for not carrying out his orders to the letter.