"We're under contract to him first," Remo cautioned.
Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed. "Promise not to tell or I will not share my wonderful news with you."
"Sorry, Chiun. Best I can do is a guarded maybe. Now what's going on?"
The threat of Smith finding out was overruled by the old Korean's need to share his good news. "That call, though rudely timed, was from a ruler known far and wide," he confided. "It was a call from none other than the great and powerful Sea-O himself." And the smile of joy stretched wide once more across his leathery face.
Remo blinked. "What the hell's a Sea-O?"
"He is a mighty ruler whose province is the air itself. So powerful is he that his empire knows no bounds. It stretches from ocean to ocean and nation to nation. His invisible rays rule the very heavens themselves."
Remo's eyes were flat. "We're going to work for Ming the Merciless?" he asked blandly.
"You are not going anywhere. I, however, am going to work for the great Sea-O Robbie MacGulry."
It took a moment for the name to register. When it did, Remo's face grew puzzled. "The guy who runs Vox?"
"The proper form of address is Sea-O," Chiun replied. "It is a title bestowed on he who rules the kingdom of Vox. I am not sure exactly where his land is. It could be like Moo or Atlantis, an ancient place unknown to the modern age. I will have to check the oldest of the Sinanju scrolls."
"Don't check any old maps," Remo advised. "Vox is a TV network. You know, heavy on T n I ped his head, considering. "Actually that pretty much describes everything on TV nowadays. But Vox was first to jiggle across the finish line. Anyway, just follow the dial to the car crashes and alien autopsies and you'll find it."
Chiun frowned. "Are you certain of this?" he asked.
"As sure as a faked moon landing or a masked magician wrecking all the good tricks. How'd you get tangled up with a guy like MacGulry?"
"Serendipity put us together," Chiun said. "I merely called this number."
Fishing in his robes the old man produced a small white business card. Remo recognized the card. "That's Cindee Maloo's," Remo said.
"She is the one who answered. She advised me to wait, and that one more powerful than she would call back."
Remo frowned as he thought of the Winner producer. It was her tape from which the BCN higherups had somehow pulled an image of Remo for subliminal broadcast. She doubtless didn't even know it, but that didn't make him any less annoyed.
"That doesn't make sense," Remo said. "Cindee Maloo works for 'Winner.' That's on BCN, not Vox. Why would she hook you up with MacGulry, the head of a rival network?"
Chiun waved a bony hand. "Trivialities," he dismissed. "All that matters is that I told the Sea-O that I was a writer, and he recognized my genius."
"Oh, no, we're not going back to the writing again," Remo said. "Chiun, you haven't had luck with that. Your soap-opera proposal and assassination magazine went nowhere. And that movie you wrote went direct to video."
"I told him all that," Chiun said. "He was particularly troubled by that last insult. Sea-O MacGulry thinks my film could be turned into a great television program."
A knot of worry gripped Remo's belly. "Holy flipping crap," he said evenly. "Chiun, you can't do that."
The old Korean's voice grew cold. "Name the man who could stop me."
"How about Smith?" Remo insisted. "Chiun, you can't get mixed up with Vox TV. You have to tell Smith this."
"I will do no such thing. The Emperor is troubled enough by the sickness of the mind that has befallen his young prince. It would not be fair for me to flaunt my joyful news in his face at so troubling a time."
"You're all heart," Remo said aridly. "If you won't tell him, then I've got to."
Chiun stiffened. "Magpie," he accused. "I knew you would tell." He waved a hand. "Do what you must. Neither you nor Smith will ruin this for me. I have waited too long to allow opportunity to slip between my fingers."
In a twirl of kimono hems he returned to his trunks. Remo took a long moment to consider. He finally let out a weary sigh. "Smith wants us out of his hair today," he said. "Since we have to be gone anyway, I'll go with you."
The Master of Sinanju had found his old writing implements in the bottom of one of his trunks. He didn't even turn as he lifted out ink bottles and parchments.
"You are not invited," he sniffed.
"Chiun, MacGulry's got some kind of angle. If he's hooked in with Cindee Maloo somehow, they might be cooking up some new reality show for Vox, 'When Old People Attack.'"
"What is wrong with that? Old people are people, too."
"What's wrong is that no matter what kind of show they're planning on, they have no idea who they're signing up or what'll happen to them when they stab you in the back-which, being TV people, they will. I'm going with you."
Chiun's face darkened. "Do as you wish," he hissed, waving an angry hand. "But keep your big mouth shut."
"Don't I always?" Remo said innocently.
"Keep your big mouth shut," the old man repeated.
Chapter 16
Publishing had been in Robbie MacGulry's bank account long before it was in his blood.
As a child his family had owned that most rare of animals, a modestly successful newspaper. The money was good for the MacGulry family of Wagga Wagga, New South Wales. There was enough to send young Robbie off to school in England. At Cambridge in the 1950s Robbie got his first taste of the world outside his small corner of Oz.
He was thrilled with the idea of travel. His life was bigger than Australia. Far bigger than what he now knew was a run-down little newspaper with a rickety old printing press. When he returned home from school, he told his father that the family business was simply not in his blood.
"Get a transfusion," ol' man MacGulry had snapped.
"You don't understand. I want to be happy."
"The news business'll make you happy," father MacGulry had growled angrily.
"You're not happy," Robbie had said. "Your hands are always stained with ink, you yell at me and mother all the time and your ulcers are killing you."
"Share my misery, Robbie."
"I can't, Father. I have my principles."
"You can have them poor then, because if you walk out on the family business I'm cutting you outta the will."
Robbie's handsome face grew dark. "You're a bastard, Father," he said.
"I'm a newspaperman, Robbie," his father had explained. "It's what we are. And, God willing, it's what you'll be one day, too."