"I've always wanted to do that," he said, giving his desktop Don Imus souvenir bobble-head a hard tap.
Harold Smith cleared his throat unhappily. "Mr. President, that was in questionable taste."
"You kidding? You should hear how that bag of wind bashes my wife and daughter. I have half a mind to go on his fool program and give him a piece of my mind."
From the desktop radio the booming voice of Thrush Limburger continued. "Our next caller comes from right here in the District of Columbia. Caller, what do you think?"
"I think the medical-industrial complex is out to get the President," a soft voice said.
"The what?"
"The medical-industrial complex."
"I've heard of the military-industrial complex, but not the medical-industrial complex. You don't mean military-industrial, do you?"
"I mean the big hospitals, the insurance companies and fat-cat pharmaceutical industries. They are all different sides of the same coin called the establishment. And they will do anything to stop universal health care from coming into law."
"The establishment!" Thrush exploded. "Well-haw-I-thought people stopped talking about the establishment back around the time Saigon fell. What proof do you have of this rather fanciful theory, my fine antediluvian friend?"
"I don't have the proof. But the Secret Service does. Once the facts of their investigation come out, all America will know the truth behind the terrible events in Boston."
Thrush Limburger made a scoffing noise.
"I have a question for you, Thrush," the caller said.
"And what is that?"
"If you could be any kind of animal in the world, what kind would you be?"
"I'd have to think about that, caller."
"Would you be an elephant?"
"Well, I don't know about that, but I will venture to suggest the pachyderm is a much-maligned creature. Often called fat, much like-ahem-myself, when in fact it is a reasonably agile and dare I say svelte creature."
"An excellent choice, Thrush," said the soft-voiced caller, abruptly hanging up.
The President snapped off the radio. "Did you hear that?"
"Yes," said Smith and Chiun.
"That caller said the medical-industrial complex is after me. How would he know that unless he had inside information?"
"I do not know, Mr. President. But it is not impossible for a crank caller to touch upon the truth unwittingly."
"Do you think the medical-industrial complex is after me?"
"There is no such thing."
"Ever see those anti-health-care TV ads?"
Chiun spoke up. "That man was no crank," he said.
"What do you mean, Master Chiun?" asked Smith.
"Because he asked Thrush Limburger a certain question. "
"What question is that?"
"He asked what kind of animal Thrush would like to be."
"Probably a loud one," laughed the President. But no one else joined him.
A knock came at the door, and Remo's voice called through the panel, "The First Lady is here. Do I let her in or not?"
"Of course you let me in, damn it," the shrill voice of the First Lady said.
"Let her in," said the President in a weary voice.
"Mr. President-" Smith started to say. Then the door opened and the First Lady entered, her hands clutching loops and coils of black electrical cord dotted with red Christmas-tree lights.
"I have a problem with these decorations," she began.
Then she saw the President and the Master of Sinanju on the blue rug and Harold W. Smith trying to look inconspicuous.
"That's the Cure Smith, isn't it?" she asked the President.
"Yes."
"Will someone tell me what Cure is?"
There was an awkward silence lasting some forty seconds. The President threw Harold Smith a look that said, "It's in your court."
"It is an acronym," Smith said, knotting his tie uncomfortably.
"For what?"
"Committee on Urban Refugee Empowerment," Smith said hastily.
"I want to be on it!" the First Lady said quickly.
"I'll arrange it," the President said quickly. "Now, what's your problem?"
"I'm getting ready for the Christmas-tree lighting ceremony tonight-"
"Tonight!"