"Smells like something died," Remo said, protecting his nostrils by switching to mouth respiration.
"Or a man's bowels have rebelled against his stomach."
"Yeah, now that you bring it up, that's exactly what it smells like. Pheew. "
"No doubt the ill one was a corn addict."
"Corn doesn't cause diarrhea," Remo said.
"Is it not said when the bowels fill with water the surest cure is rice?"
"Yeah..."
"And is not corn the opposite of rice?"
"That, I don't buy."
"It does not matter that you buy this or do not, only that it is true. Corn befouls the bowels, which in turn softens the stools. Avoid corn, Remo, if you wish to boast of substantial stools."
"I don't care two shits about my stools."
"You must be aware of these things if you are to achieve my sublime age."
"I can't really imagine myself getting to be one hundred years old."
"Nor can I, who am only eighty."
"Too late, Chiun. I know better. You were born sometime in the last century. You admitted it once."
"That does not mean I am the age you think I am."
Remo stepped over a fallen tree that was perforated by termite burrows. "It does unless you've pulled a Rip Van Winkle when no one was looking."
"Koreans do not reckon time as do Westerners."
"Whatever you say," said Remo. "Is this trunk filled with toothpicks by any chance?"
"No."
Farther along the terrible smell came again.
"I wonder if that's our man?"
"If it is, you may dispatch him," sniffed Chiun. "I do not care to soil my perfect nails with the task."
"Another reason to keep the nail clippers close by. Hey! What's this?"
Chiun froze in place. "What is what?" he hissed.
"That," said Remo, pointing.
Chiun's wide eyes tracked toward the base of a tree.
His parchment wrinkles tightened. "I see no foe."
"I didn't say anything about a foe. Isn't that a book?"
"Yes. So? Books are common."
"Not in the jungle," said Remo, laying down the lacquered trunk. "Hold on."
At the base of the tree, Remo examined the book carefully without getting too close. In Vietnam commonplace objects were often dropped along jungle paths by the Vietcong to lure unwary GIs into stepping on buried mines.
This particular book made Remo think of Vietnam. But his sharp eyes detected no trip wires or tell tale depression in the ground to suggest a buried antipersonnel mine.
It looked safe, so he knelt and picked up the book. A paperback, it came open in his hands as he regained his feet.
A slow look of surprise came over his face.
"Check it out," said Remo. "Who would read these in the jungle?"
"What is this?" said Chiun, drifting up.
Not taking his gaze from the title page, Remo lifted the book so the Master of Sinanju could examine the cover. It showed a grim-faced man wearing tigerstripe camouflage paint.
Eyes frowning, Chiun read the title aloud:
"Deadly Death?"
"Guess they ran out of good titles a couple hundred books back," said Remo.
"I do not understand your infatuation."
"This is an Extinguisher book. We used to read these by the ton back in Nam."
"You read this junk?"
"It wasn't junk! At least, it didn't read like junk back then. I don't know about now. This first paragraph is kinda dull."
Flipping back, Remo found the copyright page.
"It's a new one. Boy, I didn't think they still published these."
"It says it is number #214. Is that the number that are printed?"
"No, Little Father, that's the number of adventures in the series."