The tiny figure suddenly arose. It turned. The lavender, scarlet, and gold silks of its kimono rustled and settled as the frail-looking figure of Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju, padded on black sandals over to the telephone set on the only article of furniture in the great bare room, a low taboret.
He was a tiny wisp of a man. His round head sat on a thin wattled neck like an orange on a pole. The face might have been molded of papyrus and kneaded around matched agate eyes.
The Master of Sinanju floated to the taboret and lifted the receiver with a hand whose skin was shiny with age. He did not bring the instrument to either delicate ear, but instead held it at arm's length, as if it were a distasteful thing. With the other, he stabbed the one button and then the 800 area code.
Remo started to say, "The rest of it is-"
"I know the rest," snapped Chiun.
And as Remo watched, the Master of Sinanju began tapping out the correct exchange.
"How do you know the number?" Remo asked.
"I am not deaf. I have been listening to the annoying chirps all morning."
Remo looked startled, "You can tell the number by the chirps?"
"As can any child," sniffed Chiun, tapping the first three numbers of the last group of digits. He paused, his long-nailed fingers hovering over the keypad.
"Ah-hah," said Remo. "Stuck on the last number."
"I am not!"
"Then what are you waiting for?"
"The proper moment."
Remo watched. The Master of Sinanju stood frozen, the receiver in one hand, the other like an eagle's claw prepared to pounce on the tiny square eggs of the keypad.
Remo folded his lean arms. Chiun was up to something. He wasn't sure what.
"You're going to lose the call," Remo warned.
Then the finger descended. The long colorless nail touched the five key and Remo's face quirked up. Five was the correct digit. Chiun had not been stuck after all.
Then, with a disdainful toss, the Master of Sinanju put the receiver in Remo's hand and padded back to his floor mat and his meditation.
Remo brought the receiver to his ear. The phone was ringing.
"How did you do that?" he called over to Chiun, who had returned to his mat.
"It is the correct method."
"For what?"
"For calling radio talk programs."
"You been doing that?"
"Thrush Limburger is very entertaining for a fat white with a loud voice."
"When did you start listening to him?"
"Since he speaks the truth about this lunatic land I serve."
Then the ringing stopped and a crisp nursey-sounding voice was speaking.
"This is the office of Dr. Mordaunt Gregorian," the nursey voice was saying. "If you are calling from a touch-tone phone, please press the correct option. If you are not calling from a touch-tone phone, please stay on the line and if possible someone will assist you. But do not count on it. We have many patients to process."
"Wonderful," Remo growled. "I got his answering machine."
"If you are a reporter calling to interview Dr. Gregorian, press one."
Remo gave the one key a miss.
"If you are a lawyer calling to sue Dr. Gregorian, press two."
"I'll bet that's a busy line," Remo muttered.
"If you are calling because you wish to die, press three."
Remo pressed three.
There was a long pause, then some musical chirping that made Remo think of tin crows, and a crusty male voice said sharply, "This is Dr. Gregorian. State your business."
"I want to die," Remo said.
There was a hesitation on the line. Then, "State your disease."
"Leprosy. "
Another hesitation. "State your prognosis."
"I'm falling apart."
The line hummed. Remo figured the man was writing everything down. At least he had gotten through to him.
Then, "State your preferred manner of crossing the River Styx. Barbituate pill. Lethal injection. Or suffocation."
"I'll take the pill. Where do I show up?"
The line hummed. Then, "State your sex."
"Male. What do I sound like-Madonna?"
The crusty voice didn't answer. There was a pause and Remo heard a relay click. Then, once more sharp, the voice said, "Your application has been rejected. Do not call again. Have a nice day."