"I can still hear her," the Oriental said, in a voice that seemed to have disapproval built in.

"I know, Chiun. So can I," Remo said. He went back and closed the door of the telephone booth, gently so it would not squeak. He rejoined Chiun, who shook his head.

"That woman could broadcast from the ocean floor with no instrument but her mouth," Chiun said.

"I know," said Remo. "Maybe if we stood across the street?"

"That will not do," said Chiun. He reached out

13

a long-nailed index finger to riffle the pages of a magazine. "Her voice crosses continents."

"Maybe if I wadded up some bread and shoved it into the earpiece of the phone?"

"Her voice would harden it into cement," Chiun said. He moved his hand to another magazine and, with the long fingernail, flipped the pages. "So many books you people have and none of you read. Maybe you should just do whatever it is she wants you to do."

Remo sighed. "I suspect you're right, Chiun," he said.

Hands clapped tightly over his ears, he ran back to the telephone booth. He pressed the door open with his shoulder. Without uncovering his ears, he yelled into the mouthpiece, "Ruby, stop yelling. I'll do it. I'll do it."

He waited for a few seconds, then released his hands from his ears. Only blessed silence came from the receiver and Remo picked it up, sat on the small stool in the booth and closed the door.

"I'm glad you turned that buzzsaw off, Ruby, so that we can talk," he said. Before she could answer, he added quickly, "Just kidding, Ruby. Just kidding."

"I hope so," said Ruby Gonzalez.

"Why is it these days that whenever I call Smith, I get you?" Remo asked.

"Because that man work too hard," Ruby said. "So I make him go out and play golf and get some rest. I handle all the routine stuff, like you."