"Shhh!" hissed Smith, his pinched face paling even more. "Not so loud. And what are you two doing together? "
"Singing your praises," said Chiun.
"Having a family argument," said Remo.
"You're not supposed to be seen together while you are residing here at Folcroft Sanitarium. I deliberately gave you separate quarters for that reason. Master of Sinanju, I will have to ask you to return to your room. It is critical that the Folcroft personnel continue to believe you to be a patient here."
"It will be done," said Chiun, bowing. But he did not move from his place in the middle of the room.
Smith turned to Remo Williams.
"Remo, we have a problem. A grave problem," he blurted.
"Don't talk to me. Talk to him," protested Remo, pointing to the Master of Sinanju. "He works for you. I don't."
"This has nothing to do with CURE operations," said Smith, wiping his shiny upper lip with a gray handkerchief. "The grass needs cutting and the hedges are extremely ragged."
"Why talk to me? You have a gardening staff."
"Our agreement was that I provide this room for your use and you would be on the Folcroft employee records as the head gardener. Surely you remember."
"Oh, right. It's just that this is the first time you've asked me to do anything."
"You will have to forgive my son," said Chiun gravely. "He is frightened by work. Just before you entered, he turned down an excellent job opportunity involving fame, travel, and a modest salary. "
"Modest, huh?" Remo shot back.
"I pay according to worth. In your case, I was willing to pay more because we may be distantly related, but you have turned me down, so it is of no use to discuss it further. But Emperor Smith has always been generous to you. Perhaps you should listen to his fine offer."
"This is an emergency, Remo."
"Oh? Has the crabgrass gotten into the computers again?"
"I've just received notice that the Vice-President is coming here tomorrow. Somehow, Folcroft has been selected as a stop in his campaign for the presidency. He's slated to make an important speech at nine a.m. All the networks will be here."
"Can't you wave him off?" asked Remo. "Call the President?"
"I tried. The President thinks that if he pulls any strings, it will just draw attention to Folcroft. I have to agree with him. If we just batten down the hatches and ride out the storm, we should be all right. The Vice-President has no inkling that Folcroft Sanitarium is the cover for CURE."
"So what's the problem?"
"I told you. The grass and the shrubbery. They're a mess. The regular gardening crew has gone home for the day and there won't be enough time for them to spruce up the grounds. They want them fixed up."
"I was never good with gardening tools," Remo said. "I have a brown thumb or something."
"Never mind the tools. After dark, when the advance men are gone and we're on skeleton staff, can't you do something, um ... special?"
Remo looked at his fingernails. They were clipped short, but through years of diet and special exercises they had hardened until they were as sharp as the finest surgical scalpels.
"Oh, I suppose," Remo said airily. "For a price."
"What?" Smith asked cautiously.
"When Chiun's year is up, I get to accompany him on the submarine ride back to Sinanju. "
"Consider it a wedding present," said Smith, who had planned all along to make sure that Remo returned to North Korea with the Master of Sinanju. Twenty years of his life spent dealing with the two of them was more than his share.
"You were right, Little Father," Remo said, grinning at Chiun. "Smith is a generous guy."
"Too generous," said Chiun, turning to leave.
"Just a minute, please, Master of Sinanju," Smith called.
"Yes?"
"I'm afraid I will have to ask you to surrender your American Express Gold Card."
The Master of Sinanju's aged hand flashed to a pocket of his suit. "My wonder card? The one you gave me when I reentered your service? The card which I show to merchants whenever I purchase their wares, which so impresses them that they do not ask me for payment?"
"It's not my doing," said Smith. "The company is recalling it. As cosignatory, they've asked me to make good on all unpaid bills and tender the card to them."
"Bills?"
"Yes, the payment requests they send each month. Didn't you receive them?"
"Since I returned to your shores, I have been plagued by much junk mail," admitted Chiun. "Offers of inferior cards which are not gold, and useless magazine subscriptions. I throw them all out, of course. Isn't that what Americans routinely do with junk mail?"
"Junk mail, yes. Bills, no. You are expected to pay for all credit-card purchases."
"No one told me this," Chiun said firmly.
"I thought you understood. I told you when I got you the card that you were responsible for it. It was not part of our contract, but a way of advancing you spending money until you got settled here. I'm sorry if you misunderstood." Smith held out his hand. "Now, the card, please."
Slowly, almost tearfully, the Master of Sinanju plucked the gold-colored plastic card from his person and surrendered it.
Smith broke the card in half.
"Aiiie!" wailed the Master of Sinanju. "You desecrated it. It was one of a kind."
"Nonsense," said Smith flatly. "Most Americans have them. "
"Then I want one too. Another card."
"You'll have to take that up with American Express. But I think you'll have a problem. Your credit history is a disaster."
"I tried to explain it to him," Remo told Smith. "But he wouldn't listen to me."