"I have come to release you from this unhappy state. But only if you promise to me that you will refrain from causing harm to yourself. Blink your kingly eyes twice if you agree to this, and you will be set free."
Smith blinked his eyes twice.
And a fingernail whose touch was as light as a moth's feelers grazed his forehead.
Smith felt life return to his limbs. He sat up. Immediately he felt the heavy load in the seat of his pants.
"I must change clothes," he said weakly.
"There is no time. For the taxidermists of terror have given the order to break the chains of certain evil ones who are held in your thrall."
Smith had to think about that a moment before it made sense. "Beasley?"
Chiun nodded grimly. "And the terrible Dutchman, as well."
"Summon Dr. Gerling. I will countermand the order."
Chiun bowed once. "It will be done as you say." And he flashed from the room like a fluttering black-and-orange comet.
Smith pulled himself out of the bed and stumbled toward the bathroom. He had not been so embarrassed since that time in the third grade when he stubbornly refused to ask to go to the bathroom in the middle of an important English test and had soiled his pants where he sat.
He hoped there were enough towels to clean himself with. If not, he would take this up with the supply staff, whichever of them remained.
DR. ALDACE GERLING hesitated before the steel door in the psychiatric wing of Folcroft Sanitarium.
He had his instructions, but he also had his duty to his patients.
To release the man calling himself Uncle Sam Beasley would be a grave injustice to the poor fellow. His delusions made him unfit for society. Utterly unfit. Moreover, the man was a menace to those around him with his threats of violence and retribution.
God alone knew what he would do if he ever got to California and the Beasley Corporation. He had vowed to lynch virtually every employee of the vast corporation, from the CEO to the lowly greeters in their Monongahela Mouse and Dingbat Duck costumes.
Still, the IRS had decreed this. And the IRS had seized Folcroft.
So Dr. Gerling undid the steel latch bar and inserted the brass key into the lock, giving it a hard twist. The lock squealed and grated.
"It is time," said Dr. Gerling, entering the room that was kept at a sultry 92 degrees because the pirate demanded it.
The man who thought he was Uncle Sam Beasley was as usual seated at his writing desk working on his art.
Beasley didn't bother looking up. "Time for what, you quack?"
"It is time to go."
"Go. Go where?"
"To go from this place. You are being released."
"My time is up?"
"The way I see it, your luck has run out."
Uncle Sam Beasley stood up and adjusted the pirate ruffles around his throat with his good left hand. He clumped toward the door on his artificial leg.
"It's about damn time you morons woke up to reality. Where's my hand?"
"You mean your hook?"
"No, my mechanical hand. I was brought here wearing a mechanical hand. Where is it?"
"I know only of a hook."
"They switched my hand for that idiot hook. Who wears a hook these days?"
"Someone who dresses as Blackbeard the pirate?" Dr. Gerling said.
"Don't be funny. Now, are you going to get my hand, or do I have to go get it myself?"
"I am afraid you are to be released in your present state. Do you have any relatives I should call?"
"If I had any relatives worth a damn, do you think they'd let me rot in this hellhole? Now, point me to my hand! "
"I will escort you to the front door, where a taxi will be waiting for you. In the meantime, you must wait here."
"Like hell," said Uncle Sam Beasley, taking Dr. Aldace Gerling by his plump throat and squeezing.
Dr. Gerling fought back as fiercely as a man of such soft muscles and extra poundage was able, which was to say not very hard at all. His round face turned red, then scarlet, and just as the purple was coming to the fore, his fat-fingered hands stopped slapping the ruffles at Uncle Sam Beasley's wattled throat and he slid to the floor.
Uncle Sam Beasley broke Dr. Gerling's glasses on his face with the heel of his solid silver foot as he stepped out into the corridor and freedom.
As he clumped down the corridor in search of his missing hand, he paused to open doors with a brass key he picked up off the linoleum beside Dr. Gerling's twitching body.
"Come out, come out, whatever you lunatics are," he sang as he flung open doors at random on either side of the corridor.
When he came to the door marked Purcell, the occupant of the room only turned his neon blue eyes in his direction and stared at him blankly and made no move to leave.
"Idiot," growled Uncle Sam, going on to the next door.
REMO WILLIAMS had no sooner slipped out the side door of Folcroft's basement when the noisy roar of approaching speedboats came from the direction of Long Island Sound. He ducked around a corner and saw them tearing toward the rickety dock, throwing up dirty waves of foam.
Even from this distance his sharp eyes could make out the white stencil letters DEA on their black battle suits.
"Dammit," Remo said. "Don't I get a break once today?"
Fading back to the freight door, Remo hesitated. No time to move the gold now. And the minute Chiun got wind of this, he was sure to fly into a killing rage. In fact, he was probably halfway there by now.
Remo knew he'd have to head the Master of Sinanju off before Chiun started taking down DEA agents left and right. But if he abandoned the gold, the DEA would pounce on it.