"Thank you," said Chiun, who joined Remo, saying, "We are in the wrong place."
"I think that woman misunderstood you," Remo started to say.
"She understood me perfectly. I asked for the emperor, and she has directed me to another building, also called Smithsonian."
Remo bit his tongue and followed the Master of Sinanju out of the building. Time enough to straighten this out once Chiun found out the truth for himself.
They went to a modern white building that resembled a Kleenex box across the mall. The sign on the front read National Museum of American History. A pylon out front explained that it was part of the Smithsonian family of museums.
They entered and at once were confronted by a two-story pendulum methodically knocking over a series of red pegs that were arrayed in a wide circle at the outer edges of the pendulum's scope of movement. Most of the pegs were down.
Remo joined the crowd at the glass barrier, followed by Chiun, and read a sign that called it the Foucault pendulum.
"Says here the pendulum's changing swing proves the earth rotates," Remo explained.
"It proves that the white mind is obsessed with toys, having been poisoned by pagan feasts," sniffed Chiun. Turning to a guard standing nearby, he said, "We seek the emperor. Direct us, guardian of the castle of Smith."
The guard had only to think a moment. "West wing near the escalator," he said, pointing down a corridor.
Puzzled, Remo followed Chiun down the corridor.
They came to a huge marble statue of a seated man wearing a toga that had fallen to his waist. He carried one hand high, and a sheathed sword was clasped in the other.
"What emperor is this, Remo?" asked Chiun.
Remo looked up at the statue's face. He wore his hair long and curled, and not shorn short, as would a Greek or Roman ruler of old, which he otherwise greatly resembled.
"Search me. Ancient history isn't my strong suit."
"This is no emperor of old," spat Chiun. "Obviously it is one of the very early rulers of this land."
"We have only Presidents here," Remo said distantly, searching the passing faces for Smith's lemony visage.
"Did not a British king rule this land at one time?"
"I guess so," said Remo vaguely. "I only care about Presidents. Sometimes not even them."
"I have always suspected that other emperors lurked in the shadows of this nation's halls," said Chiun. "Now I am sure of it."
"Not a chance."
Chiun stepped back, the better to search the statue's cold stone face with his birdlike eyes. It was strong, with a heavy nose and high forehead. Chiun canted his head this way and that. Then his eyes fell to the broad base of the throne on which the statue sat.
"Hah! Look, Remo, here is proof of what I have been saying for years."
Remo turned and saw the pointing finger of Chiun. He tracked it with his eyes.
There at the base of the statue was a single name: Washington.
"It is now clear to me," cried Chiun. "The Emperor Washington founded this land."
"He was President."
"Another sham concocted to deceive a gullible populace."
"Who would go to all the trouble of carving a twenty-ton statue of George Washington and dress him like Caligula sitting in a steam bath?" Remo wondered aloud.
A lemony voice behind them said, "His name was Horatio Greenough, and this statue is a famous white elephant that was ejected from the Capitol Building in 1908."
They turned to see Harold Smith standing there in his familiar gray suit that he wore like a personal uniform.
"Pretend to be admiring the statue," Smith undertoned.
"I'm not that good an actor," muttered Remo.
Chiun bowed low. "Hail Smith, blood descendant of Washington the First."
Smith paled and said nothing. He carried a well-worn leather briefcase. "I saw you exit the Smithsonian castle as my cab pulled up. Why did you come here?"
Remo pointed to the statue of Washington. "Chiun got his emperors mixed up."
"Were you followed?" asked Smith.
"Yes," said Chiun. "Remo followed me."
"I meant by strangers."
"No one could follow me."
"No," agreed Remo. "Chiun just told Pepsie Dobbins all about the organization."
Smith's eyes grew large behind his rimless glasses. He wavered on his feet.
"I merely enlightened an ignorant woman," said Chiun.
"Don't sweat it, Smitty. Word is she was canned for reporting the President's death prematurely."
Smith smoothed his hunter green Dartmouth tie, and the action seemed to stabilize his wobbly sense of balance.
"I must speak with the President directly," he said, eyeing the thinning evening crowd so intently that they automatically stared back.
"We can get you into the White House, if that's what you want," said Remo.
"Yes," said Chiun. "No palace guard is equal to our stealth and cunning. If you wish to enter quietly, Remo and I will arrange it. If it is your preference that we storm the White Palace, this too is doable."
Remo looked at Chiun. "Doable?"