And there was the camera looking at him with the big glass eye that was not only going to spread his face all over the country but show those special things he could do, so that from now on everyone would be looking for him if he disappeared. As the television newswoman approved, pointing the microphone toward his face, he suddenly wondered if he should wave to the folks upstairs and say hello. He could see Smitty, the head of the organization, choking on air if he said hello. Maybe he should say:
"Hi, America. I'm Remo Williams, and I can do these wonderful things because I have had training no white man has ever had before-and damned few Koreans, too, maybe one every half-century or so. Maybe you've seen me before. I kill a lot. So here I am, Remo Williams, saying your government couldn't survive within the Constitution, so they have me break it high, wide, and handsome just so we can all survive from week to week, from one disaster to the next."
He thought of that as the mother was hugging the little girl, kissing the cheeks, laughing and crying and thanking Remo, and really only happy she had the child back. He thought it while Nathalie Watson was asking him if he realized what he did. He thought of it, and then he thought of lemon-faced Harold W. Smith, chief of the organization, choking at the televised proof that the secrecy so many had died for had been destroyed on an impulse. Whoopee. And Remo Wiiliams began to laugh. And the laughter seized him.
"Sir, sir. Are you overjoyed? Is that why you are laughing?"
"No," laughed Remo.
"Why are you laughing?"
"Get the microphone out of my face," said Remo. There was moisture in his eyes.
The microphone came up closer to his lips.
"Get the microphone away from my face," said Remo. He was still laughing.
But Nathalie Watson, award-winning newscaster, was not going to be moved by something as insignificant as a personal request. Nathalie Watson, her good side toward the camera, moved the microphone a touch closer. Nathalie Watson saw the laughing man's hands. They seemed so slow. But somehow her hands were slower. Nathalie Watson was suddenly looking at the camera with a cord coming out of the center of her mouth. Something was lodged in her throat. It felt cold. It was metal. The microphone had a definite aluminum taste. She wondered what she looked like with a microphone cord coming out of her mouth. She looked at the camera and smiled. If the lunatic hadn't damaged her magnificent teeth, no harm would be done. She saw the laughing lunatic go up to the cameraman. He took the camera. The cameraman had been a linebacker at a Big Ten school. He had also gotten a degree in communications. This prepared him perfectly for carrying something heavy and pointing it. He did not take kindly to people grabbing his camera.
His playing weight had been 244 pounds of lean muscle. He had put on a bit more beef since then and now weighed 285. For the sake of beautiful Nathalie and his camera the lunatic was reaching for, the cameraman took a football-sized fist and pounded it down into his head. He was sure they would have to dig this guy out of the ground.
His fist felt quite funny as it struck. Was the guy's head metal? No. The truck was metal. The Channel 14 truck was all metal. It made a very loud sound. It made the sound because he was being thrown into it. It shivered and he collapsed.
Remo had the camera. He recognized it as the kind cameramen changed film with in one motion. One only had to slide it backward. It did not slide backward. Was it right-side-up? Remo slid the film magazine up. It did not slide up. Nor did it slide down or forward.
"It's a simple one-piece move," said the producer, who knew his film was going to be lost; now all he wanted was to save the camera.
"I did that," said Remo. This time he slid harder. He slid in all directions. A flaky gray cloud appeared in his hands, along with the film that smoldered with a bitter smell of burning tires. The camera had disintegrated from the friction. The film had been set on fire. He gave it back to the producer.
"Any idiot could have opened the damn thing," said the producer.
"Wrong idiot," said Remo pleasantly. One of these days he was going to have to learn how to work gadgets. He jumped up on the truck. There were about twenty people in the crowd.
"Look. I want a favor. I want you to say this never happened. I have personal reasons. Any reporters, including these people here, come to you and ask you about this, just say the girl fell in on the shore and her mother picked her out."
"You don't want credit for it?" called out a man from the crowd.
"I want you to say it never happened. Say the camera crew is on coke or something."
"Anything," cried the mother. The crowd closed around her, pointing at the crew.
"I saw them sniffing," said a woman, "didn't you?"
"Absolutely," said another.
One man in the crowd very quietly slipped away. He was a grain inspector for the government. He worked for the Department of Agriculture. He filed his reports on a computer terminal in his office in nearby Kalkaska, Michigan. About twenty years before, he had gotten a directive. The government, concerned with price fixing, wanted him to file reports on anything unusual. The request was general, and he wasn't sure what they wanted, but they did want him not to talk about it. He knew a couple of other grain inspectors in the Kalkaska office had gotten the same request, knew it because they mentioned how unusual it was. He said nothing because he was under the impression he wasn't supposed to talk about it. Shortly thereafter the other men were talking about how the program had been dropped. Just like the government, not knowing what it was doing.
But it wasn't dropped for him, and he realized he had just passed a weeding-out process. Early on, he used to phone in his reports to a special number. They were interested mainly in criminal activities. He never knew what good it did, but a couple of times, prosecutors nailed the people he had suspected, never knowing it might have been him who turned them onto it. One time a gangland figure notorious for eliminating witnesses turned up crushed like a grape in a room that only had an entrance through the twentieth floor. No one could figure out how they got a machine into that room to do that sort of damage. But the gang that had been preying on grain dealers disappeared with him.
When computers came in he was given a computer access number special to him. And he would punch in his code, punch in his information. There were two strange things about this. One, they wanted information on anything strange or different nowadays, not just Agriculture departmental business, and two, he never got an answer back except to confirm that it was sent. Each month he got a check from his department mailed to his home, sort of a bonus, nothing exceptional, but he knew he was the only one getting it.
Now as he drove through the Michigan countryside and its spring-sodden fields, he wondered about that. Wondered if he shouldn't pass up the incident at the pond. It wasn't illegal except possibly for the assault on the television people, and that the local police could handle if they ever could get a witness against the assaulter.
What the man had done was strange. Was it the sort of thing they would be interested in? He wondered again as he sat down to his terminal. He decided to make it brief. He was almost embarrassed to even report it.
"Saw man on pond run across water. Fifty yards. Did it to save a kid, then asked everyone to say they didn't see it. Destroyed television camera. Man seemed to have incredible force. Thought it might be of interest. Sorry if it isn't. It wowed me."
And then he punched in his code sign-off.
And for the first time in twenty years, he got an answer that was more than just an acknowledgment of a received message.
"Ran on water? How far?"
The Agriculture inspector's fingers suddenly felt numb. He punched the keys, hit several wrong characters, and had to repunch. Finally he got out the message.
"Fifty yards."
"Describe man."
"Thin, sort of. Dark hair. High cheekbones. Wore light jacket and loafers. Didn't seem to mind the cold."
"Did he have thick wrists?"
"Affirmative. They were thick.
"
"Did the television cameras get pictures of him?"
"Yes."
"Where is the film? Who has it? Is it scheduled for this evening? Answer if you know. Do not attempt to find out."
"Film burned up. Crew assaulted by man."
"Are they dead? Witnesses?"
"Not dead. Man got up on truck and told everyone to deny what they saw. Everyone willing because man saved little girl. I think no one minded television crew getting punched out."
"Punched out? Explain."
"Cameraman put up a fight."
"You said no one dead?"
"Correct."
"And film destroyed?"
"Correct."
The grain inspector saw the sign-off on the screen, and never heard from whoever was at the other end again. He wasn't even sure what continent the other terminal was on.
At the other terminal, Harold W. Smith looked out of the one-way windows of Foicroft Sanitarium on Long Island Sound and said one simple swear word. It had to do with human waste and began with an S. It referred to the antics of Remo. Remo was now performing in front of television cameras. He wondered whether he should even use him anymore. Unfortunately, he had to.
Chiun, Master of Sinanju, glory of the name of Sinanju, teacher of the youth from outside Sinanju named Remo, prepared to enter into the history of Sinanju the bald fact that Remo was white, possibly without even a trace of natural yellow blood. He did this in a hotel room with a scroll laid out before him.
The ugly gray light of the American city named Dearborn, in the province of Michigan, filled the room that was crowded with heavy American furniture. Big wood chunks supported heavy brocaded pillows. Chiun sat on his mat, an island of dignity surrounded by the accoutrements of the new world. The television set, the one magnificent thing in the cesspool of this culture, was off.
His topaz writing kimono was still. His delicate hand with the graceful long fingernails carefully dipped the quill into the dark inkbowl. He had been leading up to this moment for years, first hinting that Remo, who would be the next Master of Sinanju, had come from outside the village of Sinanju, then outside Korea itself, then even to the point of referring to where Remo was born as being beyond the Orient. Now he would say it: Chiun had given Sinanju, the sun source of all the martial arts, to a white. The House of Sinanju would one day be inherited by a white. He felt the ages of these greatest assassins looking down on him. The great Wang, who had done so much to elevate the Masters of Sinanju, taking them from positions of servitude in the courts of the Chinese dynasties to legendary status. Master Toksa, who had taught the lesson to the pharaohs. The Lesser Wang. And there was little Gi, who had determined that the reason Sinanju had unlocked the full power of the human animal was that it was the most perfect product of the most perfect race. Little Gi was never a great assassin, but he was the most loved historian of all the Masters of Sinanju. Little Gi looked down on Chiun the hardest. It was little Gi who once believed that power to be a great assassin was in the color of the skin.
It was Gi who had convinced Kublai Khan to rise above Mongol barbarism, to stop doing their own sloppy assassinations and to let professionals like Sinanju serve a great court.
To this Kublai Khan agreed, and asked that little Gi teach his son such body control. Now, understanding the minds of emperors, Gi knew he would not refuse. Nor could he fail. But the boy was clumsy, stupid, and unable to follow directions despite an agreeable nature. He had the intelligence and natural agility of a clod of mud. It had been a triumph to get the boy across a room on both feet.
"Great emperor," Gi told his father, the Khan, Kublai, "your seed shows an infinite ability to excel, to excel to such an extent that he must command assassins, not dirty his hand like some horseman."
Now Kublai's father was Tamerlane, son of Genghis, the Khan. And they were Mongols, horse Mongols, riding Mongols, killing Mongols, who took great pride in their horses and swords and bloody massacres. Their method of rule was simple terror, and they left the greatest of the cities of the world, like Baghdad, in cinders. They were as fit to rule as a child throwing a tantrum for a toy. Tamerlane's Mongols, being barbarians, of course had no need of an assassin. They did not understand that if one had an assassin one could kill few instead of many, one could rule cities instead of pillage them.
Kublai understood, but still liked to pride himself on being Mongol, a horse Mongol. So when Gi referred to the Khan's son as more than a horse rider, Kublai became furious. He said his son was Mongol, as Mongol as Genghis and Tamerlane, as Mongol as the plains from which they came. Now this was said in the imperial city of Cathay amid the splendor of silks and cushions and pools of perfume, lily pads of gold flake and women of such beauty as to turn the eyes of statues.
"No, great emperor. You are greater than your father, and your son, greater than you. And his son shall be greater still, because you are the ones meant to rule the world. Men ride horses from saddles, but they ride men from thrones. Now which I ask you is greater?"
And Kublai Khan had to agree ruling men was greater than ruling horses. And little Gi then pointed out that when a royal attempted to do the work of an assassin, a royal was not as great as he could be by ruling assassins.
For if the Khan gave up the idea of his son learning Sinanju, then the son would be yet greater still because he would rule assassins. Little Gi not only got rid of a hopeless dolt, for Mongols never could move like Koreans, but he also earned more tributes from the great Khan at the same time.
Later generations, bereft of suitable candidates in the village and the peninsula, would attempt to teach a Thai, even an arrogant Japanese, who later took the meager scraps of Sinanju and turned them into Ninja. But none but Sinanju were successful, in thousands of years.
Now the most un-Sinanju person in imagination, an American white of dubious parentage, had become in all manner and thought, but for regressive white habits, a full Master of Sinanju. And Chiun had to explain how, and most importantly why, he had chosen such an unlikely student.
The subject had been introduced in previous chapters of Chiun's histories by implication: the Master hinted strongly that America was a form of an extension of the Korean peninsula, stressing that the Indians who crossed over from the Bering Strait were Oriental in origin. In a few thousand years only a handful of scholars would know the difference anyhow. And besides, there was always that good Korean girl who would take Remo's seed and begin the breeding-out process. A simple sixteen generations should purify the line adequately.
And then no one would know. But Chiun had come to the part where the parentage of Remo had to be written and he certainly could not enter Remo's origin into the history of Sinanju as "not exactly in the center of the village of Sinanju proper," or even "the far suburbs." America was America was America and not, in truth, an extension of the Korean peninsula. Future masters would have maps, and Chiun did not wish to be remembered as one who told untruths. He had been working on Remo many years now, first to get him to write a history, which he wouldn't, and second to refer to Chiun as the "Great Chiun." A great Master was established by future generations.
So Chiun now was poised with ink-heavy quill over the lambskin parchment, the Korean symbol for white in his mind, ready to see it on the scroll.
And then Remo entered the hotel room. Chiun knew it was Remo because the door did not open with grinding of metal on hinge but rather balanced and silent, resting naturally on the handle and the hinge. Also, there was not the cold thump of weight falling on the balls of the feet, or the odor of meat-laden breathing used by those who breathed the way they were born.
The person entered the room with the grace of the wind, and the only other who would do that now was Remo.
Chiun immediately put the quill back in the well and asked if Remo would like to begin training in recording events of history.
"Anything you wish to say," said Chiun, his white wisps of hair trembling with joy.
"Why are you happy to
see me, little father?" said Remo.
"I am always happy to see you."
"Not that happy. What's wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong."
"Is that the same scroll I left you with this morning?" said Remo. He glanced at the letter symbols of grace and power, an elegant writing. Not only hadn't Chiun advanced much since the morning, he was stuck on that same word.
Remo turned on the television to Channel 14 Dynamic News. There was a lot of active-authoritative music, then a graphic that faded into a shot of people sitting around talking. Then the people sitting around talking were shown talking to people who were not employed by Channel 14. These were politicians. There was a fire. Channel 14 people talked to firemen. At every change there was the music. Armies could have marched to that music. Channel 14 could have run excerpts from the fall of Berlin to that music.
Nathalie Watson was not there. An anchorman talked about it. He talked about the horror of assaults on newsmen attempting to keep America free. He talked about a reporter's word being the most trustworthy element in any story.
"Boldly and proudly we at Channel Fourteen Dynamic News declare forthrightly that concerning the situation in the lake district, we will not comment. And we might add that at Channel Fourteen, we lead the fight against drugs. Ms. Watson will return just as soon as surgeons extricate a Channel Fourteen Dynamic News microphone from her esophagus."
The martial music went on again.
Safe, thought Remo. He had gotten away with it. And he was feeling good. He looked to Chiun. Chiun was smiling. He was not even angry that Remo had turned to something else, not focusing immediately on what Chiun had brought up.
"What is it?" said Remo.
"Nothing," said Chiun. "I am looking for just the right word for the history that you will take over someday. I thought perhaps you might help with the word."
"What word do you want me to help with?"
"Perhaps you can write something about your not telling me your parentage and that your movements have always been Sinanju upon being shown them so well by, say, the Great Chiun."
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