"There is one thing I still do not understand," Smith said cautiously.
Chiun's forehead gathered in wrinkles. "I believe I covered everything."
"Why didn't the Master Sam kill the ninjas?"
"He was not paid!" screeched Chiun like a teacher before a recalcitrant child.
"But not killing them took money and employment away from future Masters," Smith pressed on. "Wouldn't it have been better to have killed the ninjas?"
"That is the way the story is written in the histories of my ancestors," Chiun returned defiantly. "To ask for information not written in those scrolls is impertinent."
"I'm sorry," said Smith stubbornly. "I thought it was a reasonable question."
"Reasonable to whom? I am sure Master Sam had a good reason for handling it the way he did. He must have forgotten to write it into his scrolls."
"Scrolls," said Smith suddenly. He was looking at the letter signed "Tulip." The envelope had been mailed from South Korea. Smith had been puzzled by that, but his full attention had been captured by the contents of the letter itself. Now the significance of the postmark was beginning to sink into his mind.
Looking up, he asked the Master of Sinanju a question. "You mentioned the scrolls of your ancestors," said Smith. "Might I assume that you regularly transcribe the history of your service to America in similar scrolls?"
"In great detail," said Chiun proudly.
"I see. And where are these scrolls now? Yours, I mean."
"In Sinanju. In past times I kept them with me, but I was unable to bring them back with me when I last returned to these shores. But do not worry, Emperor Smith, I have an excellent memory. When I am free to send for my scrolls, I will duly record this most recent year of service to your highness. And while I am on the subject," he said, removing a blue-ribboned scroll from his coat, "I have completed the latest contract. It only needs your signature to guarantee that you will be served well in the coming year."
"Leave it on the desk," said Smith. "I will read it and we will discuss it later."
"It is exact in every detail of our last negotiation," protested Chiun.
"I am sure that it is," said Smith. "But if you'll look out the window, you'll notice that the sun is coming up. We've been here all night. I really need some rest before I can deal with such a weighty matter."
"Let me read it to you, then," said Chiun. "There is no need for you to strain your royal eyes."
"I'd rather read it at my convenience, if you don't mind," insisted Smith, gesturing for the scroll to be left on his desk. The Master of Sinanju hesitated, but he had already snapped at the Emperor Smith twice this night. There was no need to push the matter. What was another few hours? Reluctantly he set the scroll on the desk and bowed from the waist.
"I will await your decision," he said.
"Thank you," said Smith.
When the Master of Sinanju had gone, Smith considered the envelope on his desk. Yes, it made sense. There was no way for CURE's existence to leak out of the American government, whether from past or present administrations. In all his years at the helm of CURE, Smith had overlooked the simple fact that all along the Master of Sinanju had been recording his every assignment for posterity. The events of the last year had caused those scrolls to be left unguarded, and now it had come to this.
There was no telling what the consequences might be, but CURE was not necessarily doomed. It all hinged upon whether the next President kept his campaign promise. And Smith, knowing politicians, would not bet on that.
Smith looked at his watch and decided to wait another hour before he reported his findings to the President. No need to wake him. And noticing also that his secretary was due to arrive for work at any moment, Smith sent the CURE terminal slipping back into its desk well.
Smith's secretary was as punctual as always. She knocked on Smith's door before entering. She was a bosomy middle-aged woman in bifocals, her hair tied into an efficient bun.
"Good morning," she said, setting a container of prunewhip yogurt and a can of unsweetened pineapple juice on the desk. "I picked up your usual breakfast from the commissary."
"Thank you, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said. Taking from a desk drawer a disposable plastic spoon with which he had eaten his yogurt for the last twenty years, he dug in.
"I see you've been working all night."
"Er, yes," Smith admitted, puzzled by his secretary's overly familiar tone. She did not normally remark on matters outside of her duties. "Important matters," he said.
"I imagine curing the ills of the world is worth losing a night's sleep here and there," she said, closing the door behind her.
Smith's mouth hung open. Yogurt ran down his chin and dripped, unnoticed, onto his wrinkled trousers. He had completely forgotten he was eating.
"Figure of speech," Smith assured himself huskily. "Yes. A figure of speech. She couldn't know. Not Mrs. Mikulka. I've got to relax. This thing has me jumping at shadows."
Chapter 18
The President of the United States was already awake when the special telephone rang. He had been lying in bed enjoying a few minutes of extra rest before having to get up, when the muffled ringing started.
"Not again," cried his wife.
"Could you excuse me, dear?" the President said, maneuvering himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The phone rang again.
The First Lady mumbled something under her breath and climbed into a sheer nightgown. "If that's World War III, I'll be in the shower."
When she was out of hearing, the President opened the end-table drawer and lifted the receiver of the red phone. "Good morning," he said cheerily.
"I'm sorry to wake you, Mr. President," said the voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith.
The President's voice hardened. "I've been awake for several minutes. Why does everyone assume I'm not awake at this hour? It's already nine o'clock."
"Yes, Mr. President," Smith said stiffly. "If I may make my report."
"Fire away," said the President.
"As you may know, there was an attempt on Governor Princippi's life last night."
"A gang of street punks," said the President. "Probably copycatting the attacks on the Vice-President."
"There's no reason to believe otherwise at this point in time," Smith said, "but we should not assume anything."
"The gang members are dead, I'm told."
"Yes, my special person accounted for most of them."
"That should impress the governor."
"Mr. President, the governor knows about our operation. And he's not happy with it, or with me."
The President's hand tightened on the receiver. "How?"