His secretary, Eileen Mikulka, a bosomy middle-aged woman wearing bifocals, had just dropped off the preliminary budget sheets for Folcroft's next quarter.
"That will be all, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said.
"Yes, Dr. Smith," Mrs. Mikulka said crisply. At the door, she turned to add, "Oh, I spoke with the electrical contractor this morning."
"Um-hum," Smith said absently, immersed in the budget forms.
"They'll be here tomorrow to look at the backup generator."
"Fine. Thank you."
"You're welcome, Dr. Smith," Mrs. Mikulka said, closing the door. She wondered if her employer had understood any of what she had said. That man could get so absorbed in his columns of figures. Well, she would remind him again tomorrow.
It was an ordinary day. Which in the life of Harold W. Smith meant an extraordinary day. His early-morning scan of incoming CURE-related data had revealed only updates of ongoing situations. No action was required on any of them. And so Dr. Harold W. Smith was spending his day actually working on Folcroft affairs-something he usually delegated to his secretary.
He did not expect the phone call from the President of the United States. And he did not expect this particular call.
Smith let the direct line to the White House ring several times before answering. He did not do this out of self-importance, but to emphasize the true nature of CURE's unwritten charter. The President who had originally set up CURE had been aware of the possibility of abuse of the enormous power of the organization. Not by Smith-who was considered too patriotic and, more important, too unimaginative to implement a power grab-but by a future President. Thus, Dr. Harold W. Smith was entirely autonomous. The President could not order CURE into action. He was limited to three options: imparting information on developing situations; suggesting specific missions; and-and here, the check-and-balance system reversed itself-he could order CURE to disband.
Dr. Harold W. Smith picked up the telephone on the fifth ring, assuming the President was calling to invoke one of the first two options.
"Yes, Mr. President," Smith said coolly. He never let himself become friendly with any of the Presidents under which he served. He refused to vote for the same reason.
"I'm sorry to have to do this, Dr. Smith," said the familiar garrulous tones, now strangely subdued.
"Mr. President?"
"I hereby direct you to disband your organization. Effective immediately."
"Mr. President," said Smith, betraying surprise in spite of himself, "I know America is edging closer to no longer needing this organization, but don't you think this is precipitous?"
"I have no choice."
"Sir?"
"We've been compromised. The Soviets know all about us."
"I can assure you there's been no leak from this end," Smith said stiffly. It was typical of him that he thought first of his reputation, and not of the more personal consequences of the presidential order.
"I know. I have just met with the Soviet General Secretary. The bastard handed me a videotape of your people. They spilled their guts to the camera."
"Remo and Chiun? They're in Sinanju."
"According to what the transcript of the tapes says-and I don't dare verify it for obvious reasons-Remo has gone over to the other side."
"To the Russians? I can't believe that."
"No, not to the Russians. He's defected to North Korea. He's agreed to work for his teacher's village. It's on the damned tape."
"I see," said Smith. But he didn't see. Remo was an American. Had Chiun drummed Sinanju into him until he was no longer himself?
"The Soviets want them both. That's their price for silence."
"We can't give them Remo and Chiun."
"We can't not. As dangerous as those two are in the wrong hands, we can't admit that our system of government doesn't work. That's why your organization was started, isn't it?" The President's tone softened. "You did your job admirably, Smith, and I'm sorry. But we're going to cut our losses on this one."
"Remo would never agree to work with the Soviets. He's a patriot. That's one of the reasons he was selected for this."
"That's the Russian's problem. They want to negotiate with Chiun themselves. They want Remo dead. They want CURE disbanded."
"There's a problem with that," said Smith.
"There better not be," said the President hotly. "I'm giving you a direct order."
"The Master of Sinanju is in ill health. That's why he's gone back to Sinanju. Remo thinks he might be dying."
"Then the joke is on the Soviets. We may come out even on this one in the end."
"Some of us, Mr. President," Smith said.
"Uh, yes. Sorry, Smith. I didn't create this situation."
"I will leave for Sinanju immediately to terminate our contract with Sinanju."
"I'll inform the Soviets that they can go into Sinanju at sunset tomorrow. The rest will be up to them."
"Good-bye, Mr. President."
"Good-bye, Smith. I'm sorry it had to end in my administration. Your country may never know your name, but I will remember your service as long as I live."
"Thank you, Mr. President," said Dr. Harold W. Smith, and hung up the direct line to the White House for the final time. He upended the phone and, with, a dime, unscrewed a plate to reveal a tiny switch. He pressed it. Instantly the phone went dead. There was no longer a line to Washington, nor any trace that one had ever existed. Just a telephone with no dial and melted circuitry.
Smith took a special briefcase from a locked cabinet and went into the outer office.
"I'm leaving early, Mrs. Mikulka," he said.
"Yes, Dr. Smith. Have a good day."
Smith hesitated.
"Dr. Smith?"
Smith cleared his throat. "Please file those budget reports I left on my desk," he said hastily. And then he ducked out the door. He was never any good at good-byes.
Smith drove to his house, his briefcase open on the seat beside him. It contained a mini-computer, telephone hookup, and modem, which linked with the Folcroft computer net. Smith issued the orders that would set in motion the complicated relay of transportation necessary to get him to Sinanju. He wondered what it would be like. He had heard so many stories.