Warren Murphy: Union Bust

"That hamburger you claim did the damage. Where did the patient get it."

"From filth, ignorance and stupidity."

"No. The name of the place which sold him the hamburger."

"The name is dog and son of dog. The name is Halloran's Happy Hamburgers."

"That's it. Of course. Now I understand," said Dr. Braithwait. "With his nervous system, naturally he would become semi-comatose."

"Because of the impurity of the essence."

"No. No. No. Monosodium glutamate. These hamburgers are nationally made for the entire Halloran chain. They're made of gristle and the worst sections of beef. They sell cheaply and to make them edible they're loaded with monosodium glutamate. Even some normal people have nervous system difficulties from it. That nervous system… well, it just went into a semi-sleep."

"You talk in riddles," said the old man.

"You were right. It was something in the hamburger."

"The impurity of the animal fat. The excessive indulgence. The lack of personal discipline."

"No. Monosodium glutamate."

The old man's face wrinkled into puzzlement.

"I tell you, the spiritual son of the Master of Sinanju has violated the purity of his essence, clearly and simply and understandably, and then you tell me "monosodium glutamate." Now what are you talking about?"

"Monosodium glutamate is a chemical."

The old man nodded.

"It is in food."

The old man nodded.:

"It was in the hamburger eaten by the patient."

The old man nodded.

"Monosodium glutamate affects some nervous systems."

The old man understood that.

"With the incredibly finely tuned nervous system of the patient, it wreaked havoc."

The old man smiled. "For a doctor, you are very stupid. I do not understand a word you say. Come. Let us go to my son. Is he better yet?"

"Not much, maybe today. Maybe tomorrow or the next day, but he will definitely recover."

"I ask you a favour," said the old man.

Braithwait listened respectfully.

"When I first explained to you what caused the harm, I accidentally said this white man was the true son of the Master of Sinanju, even though he was white."

Braithwait nodded. He remembered that idiotic rambling.

"Do not let the patient know this. If he thinks he has any Korean in his soul, he will be impossible to live with. I call him white."

"He is Caucasian," said the doctor. "I'd say Mediterranean—Northern Europe, a combination. High cheekbones may make him Slavic in there somewhere, but he is white."

"I say that. Not you. You cannot call him white. Now do you understand? Simple, no?"

That evening when the patient was shrugging off the last effects of the monosodium glutamate, the old Oriental hummed happily. He kissed the forehead of the patient. He chuckled. He sang. He danced around the table. When the patient blinked his eyes and said. "Where am I?" the old man suddenly flew into a rage, his frail, bony arms flailing.

"Dead. You should be dead. Ungrateful, horrible, undisciplined white man. You are a white man. You will always be a white man. You were born white and you will die a white man. White man with white man's hamburgers."

"Jeez, Chiun, will you get off my back. What happened?" asked the patient. He looked at the straps and seemed amused. He looked at Dr. Braithwait.

"Who's the dingdong with the stethoscope?" he asked.

This infuriated the aged Oriental.

"Who this? Who that? What is this? What is that?" yelled the old man. "Questions you have now. You have many questions about this and that, but you do not question what you put into your blood stream."

Dr. Braithwait had had enough. He would be leaving soon, having told Dr. Smith that the patient was on the road to recovery. He would not have his office turned into a circus, even if it was hidden under piles of coal on a barge in a river.

"You there," he said sternly to the patient, 'put your head back on the table."

"Where am I, Chiun?" the patient asked, ignoring Dr. Braithwait.

"That is of great importance. That you ask. That you must know. You will die if you do not know that, Remo," shrieked the Oriental called Chiun. There was triumph in his voice.

"Your name is Remo, correct?" said Dr. Braithwait. "What's your last name?"

"What's yours?" asked Remo.

"I'm asking the questions. If you don't answer them, you'll stay strapped to the table."

With a little laugh, and a flip of the body as graceful as any ballerina's, the patient burst the bonds and was on the floor.

"Who is this guy, Chiun?"

"Who is your stomach? Aha. That is the question."

The entranceway to the hidden hospital could be heard opening down the corridor. Purposeful strides. The door opening. Dr. Harold Smith, lemon face a mask of calm, entered.

"I could hear you outside the barge," said Dr. Smith. "Stop this racket."

He looked balefully at the patient.

"Hmmm. Very good, Dr. Braithwait. I'd like to talk to you privately a moment, if you please."

"I have a few words to say to you, too, Dr. Smith."

"Yes. I'm sure you do. I will explain everything shortly. I'll meet you at the end of the corridor. I'd like to speak to the patient first a moment, if you please."

Dr. Braithwait glowered at Smith.

"I will be at the room at the end of the corridor, and I will give you exactly ten minutes to complete explaining to me what this is all about," said Dr. Braithwait. "Ten minutes, Dr. Smith."

Braithwait had nothing to pack or he would have packed. From the room he had slept in, he removed a small plastic bag containing an instrument made of metal and black plastic. It looked like an electric drill, but it did not use current. He jammed a vial of strong nerve depressant into the instrument. It was an automatic needle used for inoculating many people when a normal syringe would prove too time-consuming. The dose Dr. Braithwait set was close to fatal. He was not concerned with curing the recipient this time. He cared about living. And if he had to kill to live, he had that right. He eased the automatic needle under his white coat. It would shoot enough depressant to immobilize the recipient. For the strange patient whose nervous system had already undergone a severe testing, it would prove fatal. So be it.

Dr. Braithwait went to the small room at the end of the corridor and waited. Funny, they had supplied him this device on demand. He had merely called Smith, and within eight hours there was someone entering the barge with a package. Ah, such service. Perhaps there would even be the medical school he was promised. In which case the automatic needle would not have to be used. It was just a safety factor. In case.

From his seat, Dr. Braithwait could see Smith pace down the corridor, heavy footed, with a faint trace of a stoop to his shoulders as though he bore a heavy weight, unseen by anyone but the bearer. Dr. Smith entered the room and sat down. He avoided Dr. Braithwait's eyes. Finally, Dr. Smith looked directly at him.

"First, let me say, Dr. Braithwait. You were one of two choices. You met the other at Folcroft, another top internist. You have cancer of the stomach. He is in good health. You have maybe five years to live, depending on an operation. His probabilities of living are higher. So we chose you. That was the reason for the check-up at Folcroft. We're going to kill you, and I had intended to kill whomever we chose. I am going to tell you why you must die. It is unfair, I know. But we are in desperate straits. We have been since our inception. If America was not hanging on the ropes, we wouldn't have existed in the first place."

Dr. Braithwait eased his hand under his white medical jacket and clutched the handle of the needle. It was moist and clammy.

"That's quite a lot to digest, Dr. Smith. I mean hearing about your own death like that."