"Then can he behead them?"
"No. He is just the President."
"Then these judges who make the laws are accountable to no one."
"Some of them," said Smith.
"I see," Chiun had said, but later Smith had found out from Remo that Chiun had suggested both Remo and Chiun go work for the judges because they were the true emperors of the country. Remo had told him the judges were not the emperors. Chiun had asked then who did run the country, and Remo explained he wasn't sure if anyone really did.
Remo had relayed this as sort of a joke, laughing. "It's not funny," Smith had told Remo. "I think Chiun should learn who he is working for and why."
"I've told him, Smitty, but he just won't accept it. He can't believe it isn't better to hang someone's head on a wall as an example than to go sneaking around trying not to let anyone know you exist. And sometimes, I think he's right."
"Well, I hope that your training hasn't changed you that much."
That was what Smith had told Remo. But sometimes, secretly, late at night when he, too, despaired of the country, even Harold W. Smith wondered whether Chiun was not right. He looked at his watch.
The phone rang on the second. It was Chiun. How Chiun could tell time so exactly without a watch was another mystery to Harold W. Smith.
"Oh great emperor," began Chiun, and Smith waited for the litany of praises to flow forth. Chiun would never begin a conversation without the traditional praises, which posed a problem to Smith. The director had been forced to explain to Chiun that the special scrambler lines should not be used for any great length of time. As the usage increased, so did the possibility that unscrupulous enemies could unscramble the communication. Chiun reluctantly agreed to use the short form of greetings. He could now deliver his praises in seven minutes flat.
Smith thanked him for the call and asked to speak to Remo. Chiun was never as good at relaying what was going on because no matter what was happening, according to Chiun it was happening to increase the glory of Smith.
"Remo has gone his own way. We can only feel sorry for him."
"Is he all right?"
"No."
"What's wrong?"
"He has refused to honor the memories of the Masters."
"Oh, I thought it was something serious," said Smith, relieved.
"It is a most serious matter."
"Of course. How is everything else working out?"
"There is nothing else, I must sadly say, with deep regrets."
"Yes, but how is the project?"
"Doomed," said Chiun.
"Please put Remo on."
"He is not here. I am not with him. I will not go near him."
"Yes, well, is he going to check in?"
"Who knows what disrespect he is capable of, o gracious one."
"Where can I make contact with him?"
"I can provide you with the telephone number. As you know, I am familiar now with your telephones and their mysteries. "
"Good, what is the number?"
"The area code which describes the area but not the specific location of the phone begins with the illustrious number two. Then it is followed by that loveliest of numbers and the most mysterious, a zero. But lo, look again-here comes that number two again and that is the code of the area."
"So you are in Washington, D.C.," said Smith.
"Your cunning knows no bounds, gracious one," said Chiun. And he continued number by number until Smith not only had the telephone number of the motel Remo was now in but the room number as well.
He thanked Chiun and dialed. He did not like phones on switchboards but the scrambler could eliminate switchboard access to the line once he was connected to Remo. If that didn't work, Remo could always phone back.
Smith dialed, got the motel, and got the room. A woman answered.
"Is Remo there?" asked Smith.
"Who is this?"
"I'm a friend. Put him on, please."
"What's your name?"
"My name is Smith. Put him on."
"He can't come to the phone now."
"I know him personally. He can."
"No way, Mr. Smith. He's flat on his back."
"What?"
"He's flat on his back and can hardly move."
"Impossible."
"I'll bring the phone over to him. But don't talk long," said the woman.
Smith waited. He could not believe what he heard. "Yeah," came the voice. It was Remo. But he sounded like he was suffering an incredible head cold. Remo didn't get colds. The man didn't even get tired.
"What's wrong?" asked Smith. Only his strict New England upbringing of strong reserve kept him on the operational side of panic. The phone felt moist in his hands.