"You are wasting energy pacing the floor. You should exercise if you desire to work off stress."
"I'm not stressed. I'm impatient. I'm going to call Smitty again," Remo said suddenly, reaching for the phone.
He dialed the correct code on the first try, not even noticing that historical first. He slammed down the phone when he got a recorded message informing him that the number was not in service.
"Damn. He's not even in the office. I got what passes for his frigging busy signal."
Chiun, noticing where the sun sat in the sky, frowned. "Odd," he said. "The emperor always holds forth at Fortress Folcroft until much later than this. Perhaps he has succumbed to some minor malady."
"Not Smith. He's so bloodless, bacteria die in his mouth. "
"Hark!" said Chiun, cocking his head to the door.
"What?" Remo asked peevishly.
"If you would focus on your breathing and not on your strange concerns, you would recognize Emperor Smith's footsteps approaching our door."
"What?" Remo flew to the door. He threw it open. The shocked, lemony face of Dr. Harold W. Smith stared back at him. Smith wore a white coverall with the name "Fred" stitched into a red oval over his breast pocket. In his right hand he carried a small pressurized tank and nozzle device. His left clutched a shabby leather briefcase.
Smith's high forehead puckered under his thinning white hair. Though the door was open, he knocked loudly.
"What's this?" Remo wanted to know.
"Hotel exterminator," Smith said in a loud and obvious voice. "Open up, please."
"It is open," Remo told him.
"Shhh," Smith said. He rattled the doorknob, then said noisily, "Ah, sorry to disturb you, sir. May I come in? This will only take a moment."
Remo rolled his eyes and said, also in a too-loud voice, "Yeah, okay, Mr. Hotel Exterminator. You can come in." But he slammed the door after Smith so hard that Smith dropped his pressurized tank with a muffled thunk.
Smith stripped off the coverall to reveal a three-piece gray suit and mumbled, "Security," as he carried his briefcase over to a round table. He pulled the shades.
"Is this really necessary?" Remo demanded.
"Of course it is, Remo," Chiun inserted, rising in place. "Greetings, Emperor Smith. Your presence here fills us with joy."
"Some of us more than others," Remo said. "I've been losing weight waiting for your return call."
"I've been talking with the President," Smith explained. "Could you please hit the lights?"
Remo switched on the overhead lights. "I prefer sunshine," he added sourly.
"What we're about to discuss is highly classified and must not go beyond this room," Smith said. He retrieved the pressurized tank from the floor, turned a gasket, and toted it to the telephone.
"Oh, come off it," Remo shouted. "You're not actually going to spray for roaches too?"
"This is a debugging unit. It will ensure that our conversation is not eavesdropped upon."
"Fine," Remo said, sinking into the sofa and kicking off his Italian loafers. "While you're at it, sweep my shoes too. The clerk who sold them to me looked shifty."
Smith ignored the remark and finished his circuit of the room. He set down his equipment and joined Remo on the sofa, carefully hitching up his pant legs so the knees wouldn't bag.
"Look at these, Remo," Smith said, pulling a sheaf of glossy photographs from his briefcase. "You too, Master of Sinanju."
Remo looked at the top photo. It showed a misty pattern of green.
"What does that look like to you?" Smith asked.
"An electron-microscope slide of romaine lettuce," Remo said dismissively.
"Yes," Chiun said firmly, "Remo is exactly correct. This is romaine lettuce. I can see the leaf pattern clearly. "
"No, these are reconnaissance satellite photos."
"Of romaine lettuce," Chiun added hopefully. Smith shook his head no.
"No! Remo," Chiun scolded, "you are wrong. And your wrongness influenced my judgment. You will have to forgive him, Emperor, he has been agitated all day. I do not know what the problem is."
"You both know what the problem is," Remo snapped, jumping to his feet. "I told you the problem. I left a friend back in Vietnam. I thought he was dead. Now I know he's still there."
"Only this morning, you were firm in your belief that none of your Army friends remained in Vietnam," reminded Chiun.
"That was before I saw Dick Youngblood's name written on that Vietnamese guy's back. Youngblood was the friend I left behind."
"I have Youngblood's file right here, Remo. Please tell me your story again."
Remo slapped the photograph onto the table.
"Dick Youngblood served with me in I Corps. He and I rotated in together. We served our whole tour together. I guess you could say he was the only true friend I had in those days. We were scheduled to return to the world the same week. I was choppered to a rear area first. I hung around waiting for him to catch up. We were planning to take the same C-130 transport back. Then the VC infiltrated our base camp and we had to dig in. An NVA battalion moved in and started hitting us with rockets. We had to evacuate. I was one of the last ones out. I never saw Dick again. Later they told me that his helicopter was shot down and he was presumed dead. I believed them, so I came home. End of freaking story."
"Did you understand a word he said?" Chiun asked Smith.
"Yes. "
"Then could you please translate? I do not understand all the VC's and NVA's and other alphabet nonsense. "
"Later," Smith said.
Chiun's mouth puckered. He watched Remo with concern.
"You left the Republic of Vietnam on April 28, 1968," Smith said, glancing at the file. "Is that correct?"
"Sounds right."
"I have the file of a Sergeant Richard Youngblood, reported as missing in action on the twenty-sixth of that month in the province of la Drang. A marine. A black. This is his service photo."