"My gun," said Winston Smith in a strange voice.
"Your gun talks?" said Remo skeptically.
"It's configured to my voice," Winston blurted. "It only repeats what I say. How come it recognizes your voice pattern?"
"There is your proof, Remo," Chiun cried.
"Since when is a talking gun proof of paternity?"
"Why did you return in defiance of my express wishes, Winston?" asked Smith.
"To pay you back, you cold mother."
"How have I wronged you? I raised you, supported you, saw that you had opportunities in life."
"And you dumped me in military schools as soon as you could get rid of me," Winston Smith said hotly. "I thought you were my uncle. I thought you were proud of me. Now I come to find out I'm some kind of fucking guinea pig. My whole life is a lie."
"Join the club," said Remo. "You should see what he did to me."
"What?"
"I've been dead for twenty years."
Winston looked as blank as his camo face would allow.
Smith cleared his throat. "Winston, the circumstances that forced me to write you off have turned out to be temporary. I regret the cold tone of my letter, but it was in your best interests. You were a loose end that needed tying."
"Thanks a heap."
"The crisis has passed," Smith continued. "It is in my power to return you to your unit with minimum disciplinary repercussions."
"Who made you admiral of the fucking fleet?"
Smith winced. "More than that I cannot say."
"Thanks but no thanks. I'd rather bail."
"So bail," said Remo, opening the door for him. "No one's stopping you."
"What about this guy?"
Chiun withdrew his fingernails from Winston Smith's earlobe. Smith got up, recovering his pistol.
Remo looked Winston Smith in the eye for a long time. "No way he's related to me," he said flatly.
"That goes double for me," Winston said.
"I'm sorry that both of you have had to come to the truth so abruptly and without preparation," said Harold Smith. "But the facts remain. Remo, I am your father, and Winston, you are my grandson, Remo's son."
"Prove it," said Remo, folding his arms.
"Yeah," said Winston, copying Remo's posture. "Prove it."
Chiun grasped the puffs of hair over both ears in frustration. "They are both blind."
"We can begin where we left off before we were interrupted," said Smith. "I will call my wife at her sister's home."
Smith sat down and began dialing.
"This is Harold. How are you? Is my wife staying there? Thank you. Put her on."
Smith engaged the speakerphone function.
Mrs. Smith sounded shocked. "Harold! Where are you?"
"Folcroft. All is well again. The IRS have gone. It was a simple misunderstanding. We should be able to go home tomorrow, if not tonight."
"Harold, it was horrible. They threw me out into the street!"
"I know, dear. But it is over. Maude, I would like to go over our discussion of last night."
"Discussion?"
"Yes, you remember. You came to Folcroft last night."
"Harold, I was here all last night, frantic with worry. I tried calling the hospital, but no one would give me any satisfaction."
"Excuse me?" said Smith, gray eyes blinking rapidly.
"Harold, what are you talking about? Are you well?"
Flustered, Harold Smith said, "It is nothing. It must have been a dream. I will be home as soon as I can."
Smith abruptly hung up. "Er," he began, "it appears there has been a slight misunderstanding."
"Hah!" said Remo. "I knew it!"
"But Maude came to me last night," he said dully.
"Yeah," Remo said. "And we all saw pink bunny rabbits and purple pterodactyls. None of them were real, either."
Smith made long faces as he sat thinking.
"We did have a conversation about the search for your parentage within hearing of the Dutchman's room," Smith went on. "It is possible that he could have created the illusion of a visit from my wife, to sow confusion and dissension among us."
"Who's the Dutchman?" asked Winston Smith.