Luckily, the plane ride to the East Coast was less eventful. He called Smith from the airport after they landed. When their cab drove up Folcroft's gravel drive, the CURE director was waiting on the front steps.

Smith's gray face was already showing displeasure before they even reached the bottom of the staircase. The Master of Sinanju's fourteen lacquered steamer trunks hadn't fit in a single cab. MacCleary had been forced to hire two more to trail the first. All three Yellow Cabs slowed to a crunching stop at the base of the staircase.

MacCleary was first out of the back of the cab. Even as he was mounting the stairs to catch Smith, Chiun was flouncing from the rear of the lead vehicle. The Korean hurried back to oversee the unloading of his trunks.

At the appearance of the old Oriental, Smith's face fell. When MacCleary stopped beside him on the steps, the initial look of shocked confusion on the CURE director's face was already bleeding to anger. "Is that him?" Smith demanded.

Down in the driveway, Chiun danced between the three cabdrivers. Darting hands swatted heads in an attempt to whip the cabbies into shape. The grumbling men began hauling the luggage up the stairs and inside the main foyer.

"Yeah. And I know what you're thinking, Smitty," MacCleary said, raising both arms to stave off argument. His hook glinted in the dull autumn sunlight.

"I doubt that," Smith said through clenched teeth. "Is this your idea of a joke?"

MacCleary shook his head firmly. "Wait'll you see what he can do before you throw him overboard, Smitty. And trust me, you do not want to mishandle his luggage."

The old man chose that moment to come padding up the stairs in the wake of the last cabbie. To Smith, rather than appearing as a savior, the Korean looked as if he should have been checking into Folcroft as a patient.