The computer screen began scrolling names. SMITH, HAROLD A. SMITH, HAROLD G. SMITH, HAROLD T.
Swiftly Smith scanned the reports. A Harold A. Smith, used-car salesman, had reported a car stolen from his lot. Smith keyed to the next file. A Harold T. Smith was murdered in Kentucky three weeks ago.
Smith input commands to select only death reports. There were thirteen of them. Thirteen Harold Smiths had died in the last seven weeks.
"Not unusual. There are a lot of Smiths," Harold W. Smith muttered, thinking of his relatives.
And to prove his own point, Smith saved the data as a separate file and requested reports of the deaths of all Harold Joneses in the same time period. Jones was as common a name as Smith.
There were two.
Smith asked for Harold Brown.
The computer informed him that three Harold Browns had died since November.
Puzzled, Smith returned to the Harold Smith file. The newspaper clippings had given the ages of the deceased Harold Smiths. All four victims were in their sixties. Smith requested age readouts from the file.
The first number was sixty-nine and it made Smith's heart leap in fear. But the next digit was only thirteen, and he relaxed.
But the rest of the numbers caused a fine sheen of perspiration to break out on his ordinarily dry forehead. Every Harold Smith on the list but one had been over sixty. The oldest was seventy-two. The one exception-the thirteen-year-old-had died of leukemia, and Smith dismissed it from the file as a coincidental anomaly. All of the others were in Smith's own age group. All of them had Smith's name. All had been murdered.
Smith reached for his intercom, and in his agitation, forgot it was already on. He turned it off and spoke into the mike. "Mrs. Mikulka. Mrs. Mikulka." He was shouting it the third time when Mrs. Mikulka burst into the room.
"Dr. Smith! What is it? What's wrong?"
"This intercom. It doesn't work!"
Mrs. Mikulka examined it critically.
"It's off."
"Oh. Never mind. Call my wife. Tell her I'm too busy to see her today. And forget lunch. Have the cafeteria send up a cheese sandwich with no mayonnaise or salad dressing and a tall glass of prune juice. I don't wish to be disturbed for the rest of the day."
Smith returned to his computer. his gray eyes fevered. Someone was killing Harold Smiths. Even if it was a random thing, it deserved investigation. If it wasn't, it could have serious implications for CURE. Either way, Harold W. Smith knew one thing was certain.
He might be the next victim.
Chapter 4
When Chiun did not emerge from his house to join in the big communal dinner in the village square, Remo decided to pretend not to notice.
Chiun was probably still angry with him, and pouting among his treasures was the surest tactic to get Remo to come to him, begging forgiveness. It wasn't going to work this time. Rem told himself. Let Chiun pout. Let him pout all night. Remo went on eating.
No one else seemed to notice that Chiun wasn't there. Or if they did. they didn't remark on it.
The villagers sat in the smoothed dirt of the square all around Remo and Mah-Li. Closest to them squatted old Pullyang, the village caretaker. During the period of Chiun's work-his exile, he had bitterly called it-in America- Pullvang ran the village. He was Chiun's closest adviser. But even he didn't seem concerned about Chiun's absence.
Pullyang leaned over to Remo, a little cackle dribbling off his lips. Remo knew that cackle meant a joke was coming. Pullyang loved to tell jokes. Pullyang's jokes would shame a preschooler.
"Why did the pig cross the road?" Pullyang whispered, giggling.
Remo, not thinking, asked, "Why?"
"To get to the other side," Pullyang howled, He repeated the joke to the crowd. The crowd howled. Even Mah-Li giggled.
Remo smiled weakly. Humor was not a Korean national trait. He would have to get used to it.
Remo decided that it might be better to introduce a more sophisticated brand of humor to the good people of Sinanju. He searched his mind for an appropriate joke. He remembered one Chiun had told him.
"How many Pyongyangers does it take to change a light bulb?" Remo knew Sinanjuers considered the people of the North Korean capital particularly backward.
"What is a light bulb?" asked Pullyang, deadpan. Remo, taken aback, tried to explain.
"It is a glass bulb. You screw it into the ceiling of your house."
"Won't the roof leak?" asked Pullyang.
"No. The light bulb fills the hole."
"Why make the light bulb hole then?"
"The hole doesn't matter," Remo said. "The light bulb is used to make light. When you have light bulbs in your house, it is like having a little sun at your command."
"Wouldn't it be easier to open a window?"
"You don't use light bulbs in the daytime," Remo said patiently. "But at night. Imagine having light all night long."
The crowd all wore puzzled faces. This was strange to them. Ever since Remo had agreed to live in Sinanju, he had promised them improvements. He had told them the treasures of Sinaniu had gathered dust for centuries and were going to waste. Remo promised to use some of the gold to improve the village. Remo had been saying that for weeks, but so far nothing had changed. Some wisely suspected that old Chiun was holding up these improvements.
"Light all night long?" repeated Pullyang.
"That's right," said Remo, grinning.
But no one grinned back. Instead there was a long uncomfortable silence.
At length Mah-Li whispered in Remo's ear. "But how will we sleep at night?"
"You can shut the light bulbs off anytime you want."
"Then why would we need them?"
Remo thought hard. Why were these people so dense? Here he was doing his best to bring them civilization and a higher standard of living, and they made him sound so stupid.
"Suppose you had to relieve yourself in the middle of the night," Remo suggested.
The crowd shrugged in unison. "You do it," a little boy said.