Warren Murphy: Feeding Frenzy

"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?"