"No," groaned Remo.
"Have you asked her?" asked Smith.
"Not as yet," Chiun admitted. "I am awaiting the proper time, which will be soon, for she waxes full in childbirth as a yellow moon of fecundity."
Smith cleared his throat. "There may be difficulties, Master Chiun."
"Such as . . ."
"Cheeta lives and works in New York City."
"So? She may live and work in this city of previous emperors."
Remo blinked. "This place?"
"Quincy was the birthplace of two early presidents," Smith said.
"Nice touch," Remo whispered to Smith. "I can see how you sold him on this rock pile."
"Thank you." To Chiun, Smith said, "Miss Ching is bound by contract to work out of New York City. I doubt that she will break that contract for the privilege of living here."
"That remains to be seen," Chiun sniffed.
"Er, of course."
"Cheeta will have no need of employment once her child comes. It would be unseemly."
Remo laughed. "You don't know Cheeta. The original 'I can have it all' superanchorwoman."
"Silence! Why are you not about your errands, slothful one? The day is growing short."
Remo got up. "I'll leave you two to work out Cheeta's maternity leave."
He went down the stairs with no more sound than a puff of air.
After Remo had departed, the Master of Sinanju leaned forward and confided in his emperor. "Do not fret, Oh wise Smith. Remo's dark mood will pass. It is always thus with the firstborn."
"Master Chiun?"
"They always fear being supplanted by the children who follow."
Smith swallowed. "But Remo does have a point."
"Yes, he does," Chiun admitted.
"I am glad you see it that way."
"Perhaps the next time he undergoes plastic surgery, this can be remedied."
Smith looked blank.
"I think he should have a proper Korean nose, like mine. Not one that is so large and ends in an unsightly point."
And the Master of Sinanju winked mischievously.
Chapter 7
Miraculously, they reached the railhead at M'nolo KiGor without any further incidents.
It had been another day's trek. They had run out of fresh jungle chocolate and were down to their last two baskets of toadstools.
This slowed them down because the Apatosaur every so often got tired of toadstool. They solved this by spacing them further apart. Hunger drove the beast onward.
Skip King had been in touch with the railhead by walkie-talkie and arrangements had been made.
"It's all set," he said as they watched Old Jack lumber toward the railroad tracks. "The train is waiting. All we have to do is get him onto the flatcar."
"And how do you propose to do that?" Nancy asked flintily.
"I was going to leave that up to you, since you're in charge now," King sneered.
It was a problem, Nancy realized. She huddled with Thorpe and the Bantus.
"Any suggestions?"
"Frankly, Dr. Derringer, I don't think there's any way it can be done. If we trank the big bugger, we're talking about ten tons of dead reptilian weight. And getting him to climb onto a flatcar on his own hook is out of the question."
Nancy chewed her lower lip and made thoughtful faces.
"There must be a way."
She looked over to Skip King, who was fanning his sharp face with his bush hat.
"Wait a minute," she murmured. "King set up this whole thing. Surely, he had some semiworkable plan in mind."
"I'll ask him."
Thorpe walked over and conferred with King. Nancy noticed the grin coming over King's lean face and knew what was coming next.
"King wants you to ask him."
"There's a price attached, I'm sure," Nancy said, striding over to him. "All right, King, I understand you have a plan."
King tried to keep the smugness out of his face and failed. "We have to do it my way. Under my command."
"Why?"