"Who-" Remo asked Chiun.
"This is Cheeta Ching's husband," a grumpy voice demanded. "Who am I speaking with, please?"
"FCC," said Remo.
"Put my wife on."
"She's not here."
"Well, where is she? She didn't come home last night. Is she on assignment?"
"Search me," said Remo, abruptly hanging up.
"Remo! Remo, did you hear?"
"I could hardly help it," Remo said dryly. "You stuck me with your dirty laundry again. That was Cheeta's better half."
"I know who it was!" Chiun snapped. "It is what he said that is important. Cheeta is missing!"
"Don't jump to a rash conclusion, Little Father," Remo said hastily. "It might not be like that at all."
"We must find her!"
"How?"
The Master of Sinanju froze. His shoulders slumped and his lifted hands came down. "We must search for clues. Hurry, Remo, help me search."
Reluctantly, Remo started checking around the office.
On the carpet by the door, he found an amber vial of pills, sealed with a white child-proof cap.
"Check this out," he told Chiun.
The Master of Sinanju was suddenly at Remo's side.
"What is it?" he squeaked excitedly. "What have you found?"
"Prescription pills. Made out to Cheeta."
"What do they say?"
" 'Take every four to six hours.' "
Chiun's pale eyebrows knit together. "Why would Cheeta eat mere pills? She is a Korean. Koreans do not need medicines. We eat rice three times a day."
"I don't know," Remo said, "but Smith might. Let's check it with him."
Chapter 18
Harold Smith was fielding phone calls when the cable installation serviceman showed up at his Folcroft office.
"The man from the cable company is here, Dr. Smith," his secretary announced through the intercom.
"Excuse me, Mr. President," said Harold Smith, hanging up the red receiver and sweeping the phone into the open drawer of his desk. He closed the drawer, locking it.
Into the intercom, he said, "Send him in."
The man wore a blue repairman's uniform and asked, "Where is it?"
"Right here," said Smith, indicating the portable black-and-white TV set on the desk.
The installer stared at the set with disbelieving eyes.
"You want me to hook you up to that?"
"Yes. And please start immediately, I am quite busy."
"But it's black and white. Who springs for cable and watches it on a dinky little set like that?"
"If you do not mind, I have much to do," said Smith in a irritable voice.
"You're the boss," the installer said good-naturedly.
Smith stood up. "I will be having lunch. If any of the desk phones ring, just let them ring. Under no circumstances answer them."
"Natch."
Smith left the man stringing wire off a steel spool and informed his secretary that he was eating lunch out this afternoon.
Smith went down to the commissary and purchased a cup of prune-whip yogurt. He paid for his lunch in exact change from a red plastic change holder, took a white plastic spoon, and went outside to his station wagon.
Driving past the gates, Smith took the single approach road and pulled into a secluded spot overlooking Long Island Sound. Opening his suitcase, he extracted the receiver and reconnected with the White House.
"I am sorry, Mr. President. The cable installer arrived early. I could not speak. Please continue."
"The Federal Communications Commission tells me they couldn't trace the audio signal," the President said, "and until it comes back, they're helpless. This is real frustrating, Smith. I have a flock of SAC bombers jammed with tracking equipment and they might as well be paper kites. Any help on your end?"
"I share your frustration, Mr. President, but until Audion puts out a traceable audio there is nothing that can be done on this end."
"I was afraid you were going to say that."
Harold Smith hung up the phone and opened his cup of yogurt. He had just pushed the white plastic spoon into the cold purplish gray mass when the computer phone rang again. This time, it buzzed. That meant Remo and not the White House calling back. "Yes, Remo?"
"Smitty, I'm in a pay phone. Chiun can't hear me."
"What is the situation?"