He slunk off, then promptly returned with a bill of lading. Chiun snatched it up, glanced at it, and blew out of the supermarket like an elemental wind, leaving Remo staring at the manager, and the downcast manager contemplating his own shoes.
Remo handed him the duck wrapper and said, "Nice chatting with you," before he left.
When Remo caught up with Chiun he asked, "Where are you going?"
"To the kingdom of the Chicken King."
"Yeah? Why?"
"To search for poisoned ducks, of course."
"Why on earth are we off to see the Chicken King over a duck?"
"That is not the proper question."
"Then what is?"
"The proper question is, 'Why is the Chicken King poisoning ducks?' "
"Could be worse," Remo suggested.
Chiun stopped and examined his student under the sickly yellow corona of the late afternoon sun.
"How?"
"They could be poisoning fish, too. Then we'd be eating rice and nothing but." Remo grinned disarmingly.
Chiun frowned. "Only a round-eyed white would entertain such a dastardly thought," he sniffed.
"Don't look at me. I didn't poison the freaking duck."
"That," said Chiun darkly, "remains to be seen.
"Oh," said Remo, who had thought he was off the hook, but now knew otherwise.
Chapter 5
"Fast, powerful, and extremely virulent," pronounced Dr. Saul Silverberg, leaning over the operating table. He was dressed in the starched white uniform of a surgeon. He had on white orthopedic running shoes with white rubber soles, thick white athletic socks, baggy white, pleated slacks, a stiff white cotton shirt, and the classic white lab coat.
Over his mouth and nose was a white mask, attached by a white band around his white ears. Even his hair was white. He was with the Department of Poultry and Avian Sciences, Human Nutrition Division, School of Environmental Medicine, Latvia Nuclei Research Laboratory, New York Medical Center, which made him the foremost expert in food-borne disease outbreaks in the world. He involved himself only in the most important cases, had a reputation to match, and didn't come cheap.
Only the best in the world was good enough for this patient.
"Forceps," he snapped to the short brunette nurse. She slapped it into his hand. He worked briskly, carefully. "Probe." She gave him that, too. "Light," he said. "I need more light here."
The nurse repositioned the intense penlight on the flexible metal stand closer to the patient's mouth. Silverberg peered inside.
The operating room shone with new beige tile and pink caulking. All the equipment was gleaming silver. It was all brand-new, perfectly maintained, and the best money could buy.
Silverberg looked up, his expression serious, and pinioned the patient's guardian with his milky gray eyes. "I'm . .. concerned," he said solemnly, choosing his words carefully. Then he began spitting out terse questions.
"Where did she last eat?"
"Out . . . outside," said the patient's guardian. "Were the foods prepared hours before serving?"
"Uh . . . yes."
"Was there adequate refrigeration?"
"Well, no, not really."
"Was the food reheated?"
"No."
"What were the symptoms?"
"What?"
"Nausea? Vomiting? Cramps? Diarrhea? Fever? Other?"
"Well, you saw her, doctor . . . ."
"Yes," said Silverberg grimly. "I see her." His inquisition resumed. "Did you check the utensils?"
"Yes."
"Water supply?"
"Yes."
"Sewage disposal facilities?"
"Yes."
"Garbage storage?"
"Yes."
"Vermin control?"
"Yes."
"Lighting? Ventilation?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" the guardian exclaimed. "We checked absolutely everywhere and everything. There just doesn't seem to be a reason for this terrible, terrible disease!"