Warren Murphy: Air Raid

"Tell Smitty we'll be right down," Remo said. With a nod, Howard backed from the attic. The stairs groaned as he descended.

"We better see what he wants," Remo said to Chiun.

"Of course," Chiun sniffed, gathering up his ink bottle and blank parchment. "Jump the moment a member of your own race calls, but do nothing for the one who has given you everything."

"I can't be anything but white, Little Father," Remo said, shaking his head. "Not even for you."

The Master of Sinanju rose to his feet in one fluid motion. "Yet another example of white ingratitude."

In a flurry of orange robes, the old man headed across the attic floor and swept out the open door.

DR. HAROLD W. SMITH sat rigid in his comfortable leather chair behind his familiar black desk in his Spartan office in Folcroft's administrative wing. A canted monitor just below the desk's onyx surface displayed lines of tidy text.

The monitor couldn't be seen except from Smith's vantage point. As long as they stayed on the far side of the desk, visitors to the office would not even know it was there. The big picture window at Smith's back was made of one-way glass, preventing anyone from sneaking a peek from behind.

The shadows of night hugged his gaunt frame as he studied the data on his computer. Every now and then as he read, a low hum of concern rolled from deep in his throat.

Smith was a gray man with a face like a squeezed lemon marinated in grapefruit juice. To match his natural disposition, he dressed exclusively in suits of gray, most of which had been lurking among the mothballs in his closet since somewhere near the middle of the previous century. The only dash of color that had been allowed to creep into his wardrobe was his green-striped Dartmouth tie. Although it was late in the evening and all of the regular Folcroft staff had gone home, the tie remained knotted tightly at his neck.

His rimless glasses were clean of dust, the flint gray eyes behind them sharp and piercing. When the knock sounded at his door, the director of the supersecret agency known as CURE did not raise his head. "Come in," Smith called.

Only when the door opened did Smith lift his eyes. His thin lips pursed in annoyance when he saw that the young man entering his office was alone.

"They'll be here in a minute," Mark Howard promised when he saw the expression on his employer's face. He crossed the room and took a seat before the desk.

Even before he had sat on the hard wooden chair the office door was swinging open again.

"Why you couldn't make life easier for me and just be born Korean I will never know," the Master of Sinanju was saying as he breezed into the room.

Remo came in behind him. "For the same reason I wasn't born a schnauzer," he said, peeved. "My folks weren't Korean. And in case you haven't heard, only Koreans can make Korean babies."

Chiun's weathered face grew thoughtful. "Emperor Smith, perhaps your experts can do something about this problem," he said as he padded up before the desk.

For countless centuries Masters of Sinanju had hired out to thrones around the world. Even though he did not want it, Smith was awarded the title of emperor, for the simple reason that Chiun refused to work for anything less.

"What problem is that, Master Chiun?" Smith asked.

Chiun stroked his thread of beard wisely between tapered fingers. "This terrible and pervasive lack of Koreanness among your subjects. I have heard on the television how women may go to a place where they are made to be with child without lying with a man."

"Fertility clinics, yes," Smith said.

The old Korean nodded. "That is the name they go by. I have also heard that mistakes have been made causing white women to give birth to black babies and hapless black women to bear ugly screeching whites."

"Yes, I have heard of such mix-ups," Smith said slowly.

"Then your course is clear. Issue a decree for the workers at these places to throw out the inferior white and black bottles and save only the one that makes babies Korean. Within a generation you may begin to wring the whiteness from this land so that future Masters of Sinanju need not be vexed as I have."

Smith cleared his throat. "That is simply not possible, Master Chiun," he insisted.

Chiun's voice lowered. "In that case, is there a procedure by which Remo could be made more Korean?"

Beside him, Remo shook his head. "Doesn't matter if there is, because Remo ain't volunteering."

"Hush," Chiun snapped under his breath. "You will become Korean if I tell you to become Korean. What's more, you will thank me afterward."

"I'm not going to become some freaky Tan like Me sociology experiment just because you don't like having a white pupil," Remo said. "Tell him, Smitty."

Smith was shaking his head firmly. "I am sorry, Master Chiun, but that is simply not possible, either," the CURE director replied.

The old man's face crinkled in displeasure. "You can put a man on the moon, but you cannot turn a white man right. Why bother to have all your science if you are not going to give priority to the things people actually want?"

Still frowning, the wizened Korean sank to a lotus position on the threadbare rug.

Grateful for the silence, Smith quickly turned his attention to Rerno.

"Remo, are you aware of an organization called the Congress of Concerned Scientists?" Smith asked.

"Not that I know of," Remo replied. He settled cross-legged to the floor next to his teacher.

"It is a politically active group whose membership includes scientists from around the world. They are concerned with global and national environmental policies, in addition to having a political component."

Remo shrugged. "Sounds like the kinds of nits who tell freezing old ladies in Vermont to turn the thermostat down to zero and put on a sweater 'cause the squirrels in the chimney might not like the soot."

"They are oftentimes extreme in their positions," Smith admitted. "Until now, however, they had remained harmless enough. Some of the personnel at the CCS headquarters in Geneva have recently fallen victim to misfortune. There have been several deaths, as well as a number of disappearances."

"Let's all rev up our SUVs to celebrate," Remo said.

"There is no cause for celebration," the CURE director said, his voice deadly serious. "The victims were all involved in the same project. Apparently, the CCS has spent the past few years developing a genetically altered tree called the C. dioxa. Unlike its counterparts in nature, this plant produces carbon dioxide."

Remo scrunched up his face. "That's a twist," he said. "Plants are supposed to make oxygen, right?"

Smith nodded. "What's more, they clean carbon dioxide from the air. The CCS has turned nature on its head. In addition to carbon dioxide, their tree also produces ammonia and some methane."

"That's bad?" Remo asked.

"The potential for destruction is unimaginable," Mark Howard interjected.

Howard had read a lot of the material the CURE director had forwarded to him on the CCS and the C. dioxa project. He couldn't pretend to understand all that was said about covalent hydrogen compounds or methane and ammonia-producing organisms, but that wasn't necessary. He understood enough to know why Smith was concerned.

For his part, Remo kept his irritation in check. Howard was a change to CURE that Remo had not yet accepted. These days he was doing his best to acclimate himself to the young man's presence by ignoring him as much as possible. The same could not be said for the Master of Sinanju.

"How grave must be the danger to crown and country for the Emperor's young Prince to speak with such passion," Chiun intoned. "Yet even with talk of peril, the sweetness of your voice fills my soul to overflowing."

Remo had been putting up with a lot of kissing-up these past few months. Too much, in fact.