Chiun fumed. Remo grinned.
"Stewardesses couldn't care less about me," Remo said happily.
"They are in good company. For how will you sire a proper heir to the house if women do not open their willing wombs to your pollen?"
"I'm saving my pollen for the right woman," Remo muttered.
An hour into the flight, the seat phone rang.
"It's not supposed to do that," a stewardess said, her shocked face jerking around.
Remo inserted his credit card into the slot and freed the phone from its receptacle in the seat-back before him.
"What's up, Smitty?"
"Remo, here is the latest. The Cayuga has been taken to the Canadian Coast Guard station at St. John's, Newfoundland. It will be your task to liberate the vessel and its crew."
"Gotcha," said Remo.
When he replaced the phone, the stewardesses were grouped around the seat, and Remo began experiencing an acute attack of deja vu.
"It's not supposed to do that," the first one reiterated.
"It just did," Remo contested.
"But they're not designed for incoming calls."
"Yeah. Only outgoing," another stewardess chimed in.
"There's a reasonable explanation for all this," said Remo.
They looked at him with expectancy on their lipglossed faces.
"Be happy to explain it over dinner after we land," said Remo.
Expressions ranging from disdain to disgust overtook the stewardesses' faces and, without answering, they broke in three directions, returning to their duties.
"Isn't this great?" said Remo.
"Not if one is forced to sit next to you, shark breath."
"At least we know one thing for sure."
"And what is that?"
"Scrod is cod."
"No, it is haddock."
"Cod. It rhymes with scrod. That's why it's called that."
"You were given inferior fish by mistake. I was given true scrod, which is a kind of haddock."
"Remind me to ask Smitty about scrod next time. He's a New Englander. He'll know."
AT THE AIRPORT in St. John's, Remo noticed that the customs officials were members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. They wore brown serge coats instead of the traditional red. Since he was waiting in line, Remo decided to pass the time by asking why.
"You have been watching too much television, Yank," the Mountie said stiffly.
"I hardly watch any," Remo protested.
"Our red uniform is ceremonial."
"I liked the red better," said Remo, trying to be friendly.
"The red is strictly ceremonial."
"I heard you the first time."
"Please spread the word among your fellow Yanks. We are tired of answering this particular question. Here is your passport."
"Thanks," said Remo. "And try Ex-Lax for your problem."
The Mountie shot Remo a withering look from under his big yellow Stetson hat, and together Remo and Chiun went off to rent a car.
The rental clerk was more polite-by about three degrees centigrade.
"You must return the vehicle to this office and to no other office. If you cannot return the vehicle to this office, your deposit is forfeit. And in addition you may incur criminal penalties."
"Hey, I'm only renting a car," Remo protested.
"I am familiar with American television. You people are childish, irresponsible and frighteningly violent."
"Where do I check my Uzi?" Remo asked conversationally.
The clerk blanched, and Remo said, "Only kidding."
"Violence is never funny," the clerk admonished.
"You haven't seen me inflict Whirling Disease on a mammal," Remo said.
The St. John's waterfront smelled of fish, age and boredom. Waterfront shacks were bright red mixed with dull gray. Fishermen puttered around their docked boats. Nets were slowly drying in the cold sunlight. And no one looked happy.
Remo pulled up beside a friendly-looking seaman and asked, "Where's the Coast Guard station?"
"Eh?"