"This for a Chiun?"
The man looked at his clip. "The invoice says M.O.S. Chiun."
"I'll take it."
"If you sign for it, it's yours. My responsibility stops at the front steps."
Remo signed "Remo Freud" and took the box. He had to put it down in order to climb the steps. The steps were piled with boxes of all types. He was clearing a path as the other drivers came out of their trucks, their arms laden with boxes of all shapes.
"What is all this stuff?" Remo demanded after he had finished signing for six more packages.
No one knew. Or cared. So Remo reluctantly accepted the boxes and added them to the pile.
He carried what he could inside and set them down at the mailbox buzzers. In the days when Remo was a Newark cop and he had to get into an apartment building, he had used a little trick. Press all the buzzers at once. Usually, somebody would ring him in.
In this case, there were only two inhabitants distributed among the sixteen units that made up the church-turned-condo-himself and Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju, the ancient house of assassins which had operated at the edges of history for thousands of years, and to which Remo now belonged.
A squeaky voice called down from above, "Remo, is that you?"
"No," Remo called up, "it's me and the entire Sears gift department."
"My packages have come?"
"They're piled to the freaking ceiling."
The Master of Sinanju floated down the steps. He was a frail wisp of a little Korean with a face that was like a wrinkled-up papyrus mask. The top of his head shone under the lights, bald but for the patches over his ears, where cloudy white tufts of hair clung stubbornly. He wore a chrysanthemum pink kimono bordered in white silk that made him look like a thousand-year-old Easter egg.
His wizened face puckered up in pleasure, bringing a twinkle to his clear hazel eyes.
He fell upon the box with long fingernails that were like X-acto knives. They sliced plastic packing tape cleanly and flaps popped upward like ugly cardboard-colored flowers.
"Where did you get this stuff?" Remo asked, curious.
"From the television."
"Say again."
"It is a new custom. One watches television and one merely calls certain individuals and reads to them certain useless pieces of information and in return they send interesting presents."
"What useless pieces of information?"
"Oh, mere numbers."
"Charge card numbers!"
Chiun made a small mouth. "Possibly."
"Little Father," Remo said patiently, "you know Smith's been on our case about spending. The new President's been after Smith to cut his budget and help reduce the deficit and-" Remo stopped. The Master of Sinanju was holding up a silver utensil like a spatula.
"What's that?" Remo demanded.
"It is a cheese fletcher."
"Cheese! We don't eat cheese. We can't eat cheese."
"We might one day have company who does and they will be insulted if we do not fletch their cheese properly. "
Chiun continued picking over his booty. One box he regarded disdainfully and passed to Remo saying, "This is for you."
"It is?" said Remo, his face momentarily softening. "You bought me a present?"
"No. It is from Smith."
"Why would Smith send me a present?"
Chiun shrugged. "He said something about it the other day. I believe it is a pox."
Remo's face went blank. "Pox? Isn't that a disease?"
"I do not know, for I do not get diseases."
Remo knelt down and ripped open the box. Inside a roll of bubblewrap was the largest, ugliest telephone Remo had ever seen.
"This is a fax machine!" Remo blurted. "Why would Smith send us a fax machine?"
"Possibly because he could not obtain a proper pox."
Remo carried the fax upstairs to the main room of the building, a huge four-windowed crenellated turret that corresponded to the steeple of the former house of worship. It was crammed to the high rafters with all manner of knickknacks and electronic equipment, ranging from microwave ovens to blenders.
In one corner was a stack of televisions. All were turned to the Home Shopping Network. The sound was off.
"When did you get started on this kick?" Remo asked when Chiun came in, bearing boxes balanced in both uplifted hands and atop his shiny amber skull. The combined weight should have slammed him to the pine floor, but Chiun bore them as if the boxes were filled with daydreams.
"I must have some solace in my bitterness and deprivation," Chiun said. "Now that all the light has departed my life and it is barren of love and hope."
"Oh," said Remo. And suddenly he remembered. For years, the Master of Sinanju had been infatuated with Cheeta Ching, the Korean network anchorwoman who had just had a baby. She was no longer on the air. Normally, that would have been enough to plunge Chiun into a killing rage, dismembering network presidents until the flat face of Cheeta Ching was restored to the TV screen.
But after nearly a decade of distant infatuation, the Master of Sinanju had finally gotten to meet the object of his affection, had in fact rescued her from kidnappers, with the end result that he had been horrified by the real Cheeta Ching, an ambitious unfeminine harridan with eyes only for Remo. Chiun's crush had been crushed.
It had been a relief to Remo, who had suffered through Chiun's earlier infatuation with Barbra Streisand. He had been wondering who was next. And now this. Maybe, he thought, looking around at the piles of unboxed electronic equipment and appliances, this was preferable to Chiun falling in love with Dame Edna Everage.
Remo decided not to press his luck. He hoped the subject of Cheeta Ching was closed forever.
"Need any help with that stuff?" Remo asked.
"I am the Master of Sinanju, sun source of the martial arts."
"That's what it says on your credit card-M.O.S. Chiun-but maybe I can take a few of those for you."
Chiun abruptly dipped and stepped back. The three vertical stacks of boxes, like silverware on a tablecloth that had been whisked away by a parlor magician, suddenly stood on the floor, perfectly balanced. It had seemed like magic. It was not. It was Sinanju-the complete control of mind and body and physical surroundings that had inspired the original karate fighters, Ninja warriors, and Zen masters to their achievements-impressive only to those who had never experienced the real thing.
Remo set the fax machine on a taboret and dug out the instruction book.
Chiun was slicing open boxes. "You have not told me how your meeting with the famous Bardy Hicker went," he said.
"It's Hardy Bricker-or at least it was."
Chiun looked up from examining a juice machine. "He refused your entreaties to make a film of my glorious life?"
"Chiun, I told you when I went out the door that making a movie of your life was the furthest thing from Hardy Bricker's agenda," Remo said wearily.
"And so you dispatched him for his gross insensitivity. Good."
"No, I did not dispatch him. I got him a new career."
"He no longer makes movies?"
"You got it."
"Then who will commit my glorious tale to the silvery screen?"
"Nobody," said Remo. "It's not filmable."
"If they waste millions of dollars telling about some scarlet woman in the south whose plantation burns down and other unimportant matters," Chiun retorted bitterly, "why will they not make a film about the most kind, gentle, and gracious assassin who ever lived?"
Remo shrugged. " 'Bricker Balks at Boffo Biopic Bucks.' "
Chiun narrowed his hazel eyes. "What language is this you speak?"
"Variety talk."
"You are just jealous. You do not wish me to become famous."
"You got that right."
"You admit it?"
"Look, we're supposed to be a secret operation. If the whole story's playing in every movie house from here to Guam, everyone will know."
"Everyone
now knows who murdered your most famous politician, thanks to Bardy Hicker," Chiun retorted.
"Bricker was full of manure. He wasted one hundred-eighty minutes of perfectly good film accomplishing what most people do every day sitting on the john in twenty."
Chiun sighed. "It is probably just as well."
"Good. I'm glad you agree."
"They probably would not have cast me in the role," Chiun said resignedly.
"Count on that."
"Or gotten Robin Williams to play me," Chiun added.
Remo raised an eyebrow.
"They probably would have gotten someone terrible," Chiun added.
Remo blinked. "Who did you have in mind to play me?"
The Master of Sinanju shrugged unconcernedly. "I do not concern myself with the casting of bit parts."
"Come on, you obviously had this all figured out."
"Perhaps Andy Devine."
"Andy Devine!"
"Or possibly Sydney Greenstreet."
"Sydney-!"
"All those fat white people look alike anyway," Chiun said dismissively. And Remo thought he detected a rare twinkle in the Master of Sinanju's eyes.
Frowning, Remo turned his attention back to the instruction manual. It was eighty pages long and divided into chapters. He read along, one hand resting on the wall, and after twenty minutes the only thing he understood was the part that said, "When the phone rings, lift the handset to answer call."
Remo threw away the book, saying, "What the hell. It's a telephone. How hard can it be to install?"
He pulled out the modular plug of his old phone.
"So far, so good," he said happily, inserting the modular plug of the new phone. There was another plug, like that on the TV. This, he reasoned, obviously went into a wall outlet.
He plugged this in. Nothing happened.
Then he discovered that there was an On switch. He turned the fax phone on and a green power light went on. Unfortunately, so did a red paper light. He wondered what that meant.
He started to hunt up the instruction book, then realized it would probably be easier to ask Harold Smith, who after all had sent the thing to him in the first place.
He picked up the handset and prepared to dial. Instead, he got a loud conversation.
"What is this-a party line fax?"
He listened a moment and on came, of all things, a commercial.
"I think this overfed phone is picking up the TV signal," Remo muttered.
"What good is picking up a TV voice when there is no picture?" Chiun wondered. "You must have gotten a defective pox."
Receiver in hand, Remo grabbed the remote and ran up and down the channels of the nearest TV. None of the voices matched.
"Maybe it's a radio station," he muttered. "You by chance order a radio?"
Chiun was slicing open another box and excavating a Veg-O-Matic. "Yes," he said absently, "I ordered one of everything."
"It looks it."
"I deserve it."
"Tell it to Smith," said Remo.
"You are just jealous because all you have is a pox," said Chiun. "A defective pox at that."
Remo hung up and went looking for a radio. Fortunately most of the boxes were marked. He carried the box, still sealed, back upstairs because he knew that Chiun would insist on opening it himself.
The Master of Sinanju accomplished this with a swift slicing motion of one elongated fingernail.
Remo went to plug in the radio, but all the outlets were full.
"You order an extension cord?" he asked Chiun.
"I do not know what an extension cord is," Chiun replied.
"If I find one, can I use it?"
"What makes you think I ordered one?"
Remo looked around and made a wry mouth. "Mathematical odds are heavily in my favor."
"You may do what you wish," said Chiun, removing from a box a complete set of Ginzu knives.
Remo found, not an extension cord, but a surge protector. It looked like it would do the job, and it did. Remo turned on the radio and roved the dial.
The station was a religious talk station. The broadcast signal was coming through the telephone with greater clarity than the radio.
"You got a cheap radio," Remo grunted.
"It was free."
"Tell that to the American taxpayer," Remo retorted.
Just then the fax phone rang.
"That must be Smitty calling to check the fax," said Remo, picking up the receiver. It beeped in his ear, then tweedled loudly.
"Hello? Hello?" he said.
"Incoming fax," a voice said. Remo didn't recognize the voice, but it was hard to hear over the radio voices assaulting his ear.
"The paper light is on," Remo said.
"Well, put in the paper and I'll call right back."
Remo hung up and searched out a roll of paper. It was surprisingly simple to insert. He felt proud of himself when he got it in place. The phone rang again and the beeping and tweedling started anew.
The paper began spitting out. And spitting out. It was a long continuous sheet and Remo realized it was going to make a mess if he didn't get hold of it.
He picked up the loose end and started reading.
"This looks like the financial report of some big company," he muttered.
He read some more.
"This is the financial report of International Data Corporation," Remo said in a puzzled voice. "Why would Smith send this to us?"
"No doubt Emperor Smith has his reasons," said the Master of Sinanju, whose Sinanju ancestors had worked for the great emperors of history and assumed that Harold Smith, whose title was director, must be some modern word for emperor.
"I guess so," said Remo. He kept rolling up the greasy fax paper as fast as it was spit out. The paper exhausted itself before the report ended. When it was over, the paper light came back on, along with one saying "Error."
"Error? I didn't do anything wrong."
"You do nothing right," said Chiun thinly.
He grabbed up the receiver and hit the 1 button-the simplified code that enabled him to dial directly his superior without having to remember complicated codes like ten-digit telephone numbers.
"Smitty?" said Remo. "What's with this fax?"
Through the background voices, the lemon-bitter voice of Harold W. Smith was saying, "Fax? I did not send you a fax."
"Well, I just got a fax as long as Roseanne's enemies list."
"You must have gotten a wrong fax."
"You can get those?"
"Remo, I can barely hear you. Who is that speaking in the background?"
"I think it's the Jehovah's Witnesses."
"What?"
"It's a long story. Why did you send me a fax?"
"I just told you I did not," Smith said testily.
"I mean a fax machine, not a fax fax."
"Oh, yes." Smith cleared his voice. "Security reasons. It is best if we communicate by fax from now on. This way I can transmit data with greater efficiency."
"If this is efficient," Remo said sourly, "I say we tie a string to two tin soup cans and try that."
Smith's tone sharpened. "Remo, you are breaking up."
"No," said Remo. "I am hanging up." And he did. Remo dug up the endless fax and located a phone number at the top of the roll. He called it, got a switchboard girl, and said, "I just got your fax."
"Whom shall I inform?"
"The idiot who dialed my number by accident and used up all my freaking paper," Remo told her.
"Sir, the International Data Corporation does not misdial. All our phone calls are made via computer and verified by the central processor."
"Well, your central processor just stroked out. What I want to know is who is going to reimburse me for a new roll of fax paper?"
The switchboard girl's voice became chilly. "Sir, I assure you if you received an IDC fax, it was intended for you."
"Like hell it was."
The switchboard girl's voice cooled dra
matically. "Then I must conclude that you are not authorized to use the fax you are using."
"I'm calling from my own freaking castle!" Remo shouted.
"Here, here," said Chiun, opening a plastic egg and sniffing at its inexplicably flesh-colored contents.
"Now you are becoming abusive and I am allowed to hang up without prejudice," the girl retorted.
"Listen, kid," Remo said quickly. "I just read this thing through. It's a financial report. According to this, your bottom line is a circle."
"Circle?"
"Yeah. Circle. Zero. Goose egg. You know what that means?"
The girl's voice trembled. "Bankruptcy?"
" 'Fraid so."
"Um-how bad is it?"
"I'd update your resume before the rush starts," Remo said in his best sincere voice.
"Is it okay if I tell some of the others?"
"Fine with me," Remo said cheerfully. "Good luck job hunting." And Remo hung up. "She fell for it. I'll bet IDC stock drops five points before that little rumor is squelched."
"I see you are enjoying your pox," commented Chiun, donning a pair of headphones that made him look like a superannuated test pilot.
"I am not enjoying my fax. I want to break it into a million pieces."
Chiun's eyebrows quirked upward. "Would it not be better to unplug it?"
Remo did. He plugged his old phone back in and stabbed the 1 button. He got Harold W. Smith again. This time without the Greek Chorus of Jehovah's Witnesses.
"Smitty?"
"Remo, are you ready to receive?" Smith asked.
"Not since my first Communion."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Forget it. And forget the dippy fax. It's in a million pieces. "
"But I was about to fax you your next assignment."
"What's wrong with what we're doing now?" Remo wanted to know. "Just talking?"
"There have been some recent technological breakthroughs in telephone eavesdropping," Smith said in a suddenly soft voice, "specifically by the National Security Agency. They now have the capability to overhear anything we say."
"Smitty, there are probably fifty million telephones in this country and if the National Security Agency has even fifty clerks whose only job it is to listen in to private telephone conversations, I'll eat any fax you care to send me. If you can get it through."
Smith cleared his throat. In the twenty-odd years Remo had worked for him, Smith never managed a decent comeback.
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