Eyes growing wide, Smith shook his head sharply. He looked as if he thought the wallpaper might be threaded with hidden listening devices.

"No one wants-" He turned from MacCleary, realizing he was arguing with the wrong man. "No one wants that," he assured the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun stood in the corner of the room. He had turned his indifferent back to the two babbling whites. A wall-mounted black-and-white television set murmured softly at the room. Chiun's button nose was turned upward, his hazel eyes directed at the action on the screen.

Stepping over, Smith reached up and shut off the TV. The afternoon soap opera that had been playing collapsed to an incandescent blotch before fading from sight.

"Excuse me, Master Chiun-" Smith paused. "Forgive me, but is that the appropriate title?" Eyes flitting from the darkened TV set, Chiun's parchment face was flat.

"You do not speak Korean?" he asked.

"No, I don't," Smith admitted.

Chiun allowed a small nod. "Then in English that will suffice. Either that or Gracious Master of Sinanju."

"I, er, prefer Master Chiun if it's all the same to you."

"As you wish, President Smith," the old Korean said.

"That, on the other hand, is a title that is not appropriate," Smith said rapidly. "I am not certain what Mr. MacCleary has told you-"

"Hey, he didn't get it from me," Conn interjected.

"-but you may call me Dr. Smith," the CURE director finished.

Chiun's weathered face brightened. "Ah, you are a physician."

"Not in the sense with which you might be familiar. I have a doctorate in clinical psychology, among others."

"President Smith is a head doctor," MacCleary explained with a knowing wink.

"Stop it, Conn," Smith snapped.

"You cure ailments of the brain?" Chiun suggested.