The boys from But Me No Butz pranced in from stage left. Those from Glory Whole minced from stage right. When they met in the middle of the stage, it was less a harmonious convergence than it was a postpubescent pileup.
They couldn't seem to find their equilibrium. Every time they tried to dance, they stumbled into one another. After a few vain, bumbling tries, their frustration and embarrassment changed to anger. The boys from the bands redirected their energies toward one another. The fight from backstage erupted anew, this time with biting, kicking and hair pulling. By the time the nipple twisters started, the crowd was already breaking up.
As he turned from the pile of goatees and leather writhing on the stage, Remo was nodding in satisfaction.
"If that doesn't get me honorable mention in the annals of good deeddom, I don't know what will." Whistling happily to himself, he ducked out the stage door and into the dimly lit alley.
Chapter 3
The traffic out of Manhattan was worse than it had been going in. Still, Remo didn't mind.
The highway was a crawl to Rye, where he took a clogged off-ramp. The traffic situation in town wasn't much better than it had been on I-95, yet Remo remained unbothered.
He soon broke away from the mass of humanity that was heading home for the day. A lonely road that snaked alongside the black waters of Long Island Sound eventually brought him to a sedate, ivy-covered brick building. Humming happily to himself, he steered his car through the gate and up the great gravel drive of Folcroft Sanitarium.
Folcroft was cover to CURE, the supersecret government organization for which Remo functioned as enforcement arm. Folcroft had also been Remo's home for the past year.
Remo parked his car in the employee lot and headed for the building's side door. He was whistling as he danced down the stairwell to the basement.
The quarters he shared with the Master of Sinanju were tucked away from the rest of the sanitarium. As he pushed open the door, Remo didn't sense a heartbeat or breathing from the rooms beyond.
He stuck his head in the Master of Sinanju's bedroom. An unused sleeping mat was rolled tight in the middle of the room. Aside from a bureau, the room was otherwise empty.
"Hmm," Remo said.
He headed back out into the hall. He took the stairs up to the top floor of the sanitarium, coming out into a dusty hallway that looked as if it hadn't seen a living human being in fifty years. At the far dark corner, an enclosed wooden staircase led to a warped door. The ancient steps made not a single creak as Remo mounted them. The door opened silently.
Folcroft's attic was a time capsule to another age. Medical equipment that had been modern seventy years ago looked like medieval torture devices. Metal had rusted and leather straps were rotting from age. A single bare overhead bulb hung from a low lintel.
At the far end of the long room, three tall windows looked out over the black night. Through the trees, Long Island Sound washed the frozen shore. Above, stars like shards of cold ice twinkled in the winter sky.
As Remo had expected, a familiar figure sat before the ceiling-to-floor windows.
The wizened Asian seemed as old as stars or sea. At the roof of the house Remo had lived in for ten years, there had been a glass-enclosed cupola that the Master of Sinanju often used as a meditation room. The house and its tower sun room were now gone.
Lately, the Folcroft attic had been a poor substitute for his teacher's beloved retreat.
Dried flesh speckled with age was pulled tight over a skull of fragile bone. Twin tufts of yellowing white hair jutted from above shell-like ears. On the back of the old Korean's flaming orange kimono, coiling green dragons framed a bamboo pagoda. The body that moved beneath the shimmering silk kimono was reed-thin and frail.
The old Asian was writing again. He'd been doing a lot of that lately.
Over the past few months the Master of Sinanju had been carting a stack of ornate gold envelopes around wherever he went. He had been writing letter after letter. He didn't have to worry about secrecy, since most times he was writing in languages Remo didn't understand. But at one point when he was peeking, Remo swore one of the envelopes was addressed to the queen of England. The envelope had been quickly pulled away and hidden from his prying eyes.
From what he had managed to see, it almost looked to Remo like the Sinanju version of a resume.
There was a stack of the envelopes on the floor now. A pile of smaller silver envelopes sat beside it. The Master of Sinanju had been including one of the silver envelopes with each of his carefully inscribed letters.
This evening it was not the mysterious letters that held the old man's attention.
The Master of Sinanju seemed oblivious to Remo's approach. Yet when the younger man was nearly upon him, he shook his aged head. His soft hair quivered at the motion.
"You are white," said Chiun, Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju. He spoke the words with sadness, not malice. He did not turn to face his pupil.
"Guilty as charged," Remo replied.
He saw his teacher's face now. A thread of beard quivered at the tip of Chiun's pointed chin. Hazel eyes that still appeared young, despite the Korean's advanced age, stared solemnly out the dirty windowpanes.
Chiun offered a forlorn sigh. "Long have I danced around the subject of your rampaging whiteness."
"What dance?" Remo asked. "You've been griping about me being white for as long as I've known you. You called me an albino at breakfast this morning and a snowman on my way out the door. I should have known something was up. Even for you, that seemed a bit much for one day." He nodded to a parchment on the floor. "This has something to do with my place in the Sinanju Scrolls, I assume." Chiun was no longer writing letters. A sheet of plain rice paper was rolled open at the Master of Sinanju's crossed knees. Near it was an open bottle of ink. The old man held a quill in one bony hand. Although he'd dipped pen to ink hours ago, he'd yet to make a single mark on the paper. The ink had long dried to the quill's tip.
"White," Chiun lamented. "You are not 'fair' or 'pale' or any of the others things I have said you are to avoid stating the absolute truth. You are white."
"White as Michael Jackson," Remo agreed. "And I thought we were over this. Once we found out my family had a Master of Sinanju in the woodpile, I thought you'd finally given all that junk a rest."
"A drop of good in an ocean of you can only offer small comfort. It cannot dissipate the rest of the youness which--it pains me to admit is white. Yes, white, Remo. There, I have said it. You are white. White, white, white."
"Big whoop, I'm white," Remo said. His face was slowly drooping into a scowl. "Why are you so worked up about this all of a sudden?"
"Because I have reached a turning point in my recording of Sinanju history," Chiun replied. "I must finally address your sad condition in the Sacred Scrolls."
"What's so different about today?" Remo asked. "You've been lying in those scrolls for years. Who'd know the difference if you just pulled one of your usual cover-ups?"
Chiun's face and tone grew cold. "I do not lie," he said. "Yes, on occasion I have left a fact unrepresented. But that is not the same as lying. Avoiding the absolute, unvarnished truth is sometimes necessary, Remo, and is not automatically or necessarily a lie."
"All depends on what your meaning of it is, I suppose," Remo said dryly.
"Precisely. And I can no longer not tell the full truth. I must record for future Masters of Sinanju the truth of the is that is you, lest some blabbermouth tell it after me and cast a shadow on my entire Masterhood. For the scandal of deceit could taint my reputation posthumously. Therefore, I must divulge your secret now. Woe is me." Releasing another long sigh, his shoulders sank pitifully.
Remo's eyes narrowed. "Wait a second," he said. "I'm the guy who takes over the scrolls next. You're afraid I might spill the beans, aren't you?"
Chiun gave him a baleful look. "Wouldn't you?" Remo considered.
"Maybe," he admitted. "Since I'm not the Korean version of A
l Sharpton like you are, I doubt the subject of race will come up for me as much as it did for you, but if it's relevant I'd say so. I don't have any reason to be ashamed of who and what I am."
"A distinctly white thing to say," Chiun said, crinkling his nose in displeasure. "I knew this would be your feeling because you have never seen your white skin as the social disease that it is. And so I am left with my great dilemma."
"The truth will set you free, Little Father."
The lightness had returned to his tone. The Master of Sinanju glanced up in suspicion at his pupil. "Where were you all day?" he asked, eyes narrowing.
"Drove into the city," Remo replied. "It's a real zoo this time of year." He squatted, picking up one of the gold envelopes. The scrawl of a foreign language looked familiar. "Is that Russian?" he asked.
Chiun snatched the envelope from his hands. On the back Remo saw briefly the symbol of Sinanju. A trapezoid bisected by a vertical line. It had been formed in a single drop of melted wax that sealed the envelope.
"None of your business," Chiun snapped, sweeping a hand across the pile of envelopes. The entire stack vanished up the broad sleeve of his kimono.
Remo didn't seem very bothered by the old man's harsh tone. He was thinking of the benefit concert he'd just left. Without knowing it, a smile stretched across his face.
Chiun's eyes narrowed. "You seem very pleased with yourself," he said slowly. "Have you fulfilled the tradition of Master Nik?"
"Nah," Remo said. "I just did something nice for me and I'm happy."
The Master of Sinanju's eyes grew flat. "I am glad that you are happy, Remo," he said.
"Me, too."
"It is important that you are happy."
"Here it comes," said Remo.
"Whether or not I am happy is unimportant." Remo was relieved at that moment to hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs leading to the attic.
"Saved by the bell," he muttered.
Across the cluttered attic, the ancient door opened. While it had opened silently for Remo, it creaked now on its rusty old hinges. A familiar face peered into the attic.
"There you are. I saw your car in the parking lot, but you weren't in your quarters."
Remo wasn't a big fan of Mark Howard, the new assistant director of CURE, but at the moment the young man was a welcome sight.
"Just got in," Remo said. "What's up?"
"Dr. Smith said you might be up here," Howard said. "He'd like to see you both in his office as soon as possible." Still at the door, he was looking around the dingy attic. "I thought I'd taken a complete tour of the building, but I somehow missed up here. Some of the corridors in the older wing are like mazes."
Remo wasn't interested in the assistant CURE director's architectural observations. From what he'd seen of the young man in action, he wouldn't be surprised if Howard got lost every time he tried to pull on a sweater.
"Tell Smitty we'll be right down," Remo said. With a nod, Howard backed from the attic. The stairs groaned as he descended.
"We better see what he wants," Remo said to Chiun.
"Of course," Chiun sniffed, gathering up his ink bottle and blank parchment. "Jump the moment a member of your own race calls, but do nothing for the one who has given you everything."
"I can't be anything but white, Little Father," Remo said, shaking his head. "Not even for you."
The Master of Sinanju rose to his feet in one fluid motion. "Yet another example of white ingratitude."
In a flurry of orange robes, the old man headed across the attic floor and swept out the open door.
DR. HAROLD W. SMITH sat rigid in his comfortable leather chair behind his familiar black desk in his Spartan office in Folcroft's administrative wing. A canted monitor just below the desk's onyx surface displayed lines of tidy text.
The monitor couldn't be seen except from Smith's vantage point. As long as they stayed on the far side of the desk, visitors to the office would not even know it was there. The big picture window at Smith's back was made of one-way glass, preventing anyone from sneaking a peek from behind.
The shadows of night hugged his gaunt frame as he studied the data on his computer. Every now and then as he read, a low hum of concern rolled from deep in his throat.
Smith was a gray man with a face like a squeezed lemon marinated in grapefruit juice. To match his natural disposition, he dressed exclusively in suits of gray, most of which had been lurking among the mothballs in his closet since somewhere near the middle of the previous century. The only dash of color that had been allowed to creep into his wardrobe was his green-striped Dartmouth tie. Although it was late in the evening and all of the regular Folcroft staff had gone home, the tie remained knotted tightly at his neck.
His rimless glasses were clean of dust, the flint gray eyes behind them sharp and piercing. When the knock sounded at his door, the director of the supersecret agency known as CURE did not raise his head. "Come in," Smith called.
Only when the door opened did Smith lift his eyes. His thin lips pursed in annoyance when he saw that the young man entering his office was alone.
"They'll be here in a minute," Mark Howard promised when he saw the expression on his employer's face. He crossed the room and took a seat before the desk.
Even before he had sat on the hard wooden chair the office door was swinging open again.
"Why you couldn't make life easier for me and just be born Korean I will never know," the Master of Sinanju was saying as he breezed into the room.
Remo came in behind him. "For the same reason I wasn't born a schnauzer," he said, peeved. "My folks weren't Korean. And in case you haven't heard, only Koreans can make Korean babies."
Chiun's weathered face grew thoughtful. "Emperor Smith, perhaps your experts can do something about this problem," he said as he padded up before the desk.
For countless centuries Masters of Sinanju had hired out to thrones around the world. Even though he did not want it, Smith was awarded the title of emperor, for the simple reason that Chiun refused to work for anything less.
"What problem is that, Master Chiun?" Smith asked.
Chiun stroked his thread of beard wisely between tapered fingers. "This terrible and pervasive lack of Koreanness among your subjects. I have heard on the television how women may go to a place where they are made to be with child without lying with a man."
"Fertility clinics, yes," Smith said.
The old Korean nodded. "That is the name they go by. I have also heard that mistakes have been made causing white women to give birth to black babies and hapless black women to bear ugly screeching whites."
"Yes, I have heard of such mix-ups," Smith said slowly.
"Then your course is clear. Issue a decree for the workers at these places to throw out the inferior white and black bottles and save only the one that makes babies Korean. Within a generation you may begin to wring the whiteness from this land so that future Masters of Sinanju need not be vexed as I have."
Smith cleared his throat. "That is simply not possible, Master Chiun," he insisted.
Chiun's voice lowered. "In that case, is there a procedure by which Remo could be made more Korean?"
Beside him, Remo shook his head. "Doesn't matter if there is, because Remo ain't volunteering."
"Hush," Chiun snapped under his breath. "You will become Korean if I tell you to become Korean. What's more, you will thank me afterward."
"I'm not going to become some freaky Tan like Me sociology experiment just because you don't like having a white pupil," Remo said. "Tell him, Smitty."
Smith was shaking his head firmly. "I am sorry, Master Chiun, but that is simply not possible, either," the CURE director replied.
The old man's face crinkled in displeasure. "You can put a man on the moon, but you cannot turn a white man right. Why bother to have all your science if you are not going to give priority to the things people actually want?"
Still frowning, the wizened Korean sank to a lotus position on the threa
dbare rug.
Grateful for the silence, Smith quickly turned his attention to Rerno.
"Remo, are you aware of an organization called the Congress of Concerned Scientists?" Smith asked.
"Not that I know of," Remo replied. He settled cross-legged to the floor next to his teacher.
"It is a politically active group whose membership includes scientists from around the world. They are concerned with global and national environmental policies, in addition to having a political component."
Remo shrugged. "Sounds like the kinds of nits who tell freezing old ladies in Vermont to turn the thermostat down to zero and put on a sweater 'cause the squirrels in the chimney might not like the soot."
"They are oftentimes extreme in their positions," Smith admitted. "Until now, however, they had remained harmless enough. Some of the personnel at the CCS headquarters in Geneva have recently fallen victim to misfortune. There have been several deaths, as well as a number of disappearances."
"Let's all rev up our SUVs to celebrate," Remo said.
"There is no cause for celebration," the CURE director said, his voice deadly serious. "The victims were all involved in the same project. Apparently, the CCS has spent the past few years developing a genetically altered tree called the C. dioxa. Unlike its counterparts in nature, this plant produces carbon dioxide."
Remo scrunched up his face. "That's a twist," he said. "Plants are supposed to make oxygen, right?"
Smith nodded. "What's more, they clean carbon dioxide from the air. The CCS has turned nature on its head. In addition to carbon dioxide, their tree also produces ammonia and some methane."
"That's bad?" Remo asked.
"The potential for destruction is unimaginable," Mark Howard interjected.
Howard had read a lot of the material the CURE director had forwarded to him on the CCS and the C. dioxa project. He couldn't pretend to understand all that was said about covalent hydrogen compounds or methane and ammonia-producing organisms, but that wasn't necessary. He understood enough to know why Smith was concerned.
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