"Let's face it, Little Father," Remo said as they remained in their seats at the Bombay airport while the honor guard tried in vain to entice them from the refueling aircraft with discordant band music and songs of Sinanju's service to Moguls past. "No one can afford us except America."
"And not even America. China is growing. We will go to China. And demand every peasant and rice farmer pay us a single coin if we agree to work for the Middle Kingdom."
Remo whispered. "That's a lot of coins."
"A lot is never sufficient."
But in China there were problems, too. A little matter of a Long March ICBM.
The Chinese bowed and scraped in their gray-and-green Mao jackets and swore deep and abiding fealty to the Master of Sinanju behind their bland smiles.
"We offer you more than gold," said a functionary in the Great Hall of the People. He was the fifth functionary that had greeted them. And there remained a long ladder of functionaries between them and the premier, who some said was ill.
"There is nothing more than gold," Chiun returned in the singsong language of the Han.
"We have a space program now."
"Sinanju already possesses a piece of the moon. It is but a gray rock. One is sufficient."
"Did you know that no Korean has ever entered into space?"
"There is nothing in space," countered Chiun with disdain even as his hazel eyes lit with slow interest.
"True. There is nothing in space. Nor will there be anything in space of value until a Korean breathes the clear, pure air of the Great Void."
Chiun's eyes gleamed more. Sitting off to one side, Remo could only listen without clear understanding. He didn't know Chinese, the language they conversed in. Only the words Chinese and Korean shared in common.
"Tell me more," whispered Chiun.
"Men who journey into space are more renowned than any. Their names will be sung down through the ages."
"As will mine. I expect to be known as Chiun the Great to my descendants, and those who follow. Perhaps Chiun the Great Teacher."
All eyes went to the oblivious round-eyed foreign evil who had accompanied the Master of Sinanju to Bejing, and it was agreed that the honorific "Great Teacher" was certainly warranted.
"Greater renown than even yours will befall the first Korean in space. You would not wish this to be a South Korean."
"South Koreans are lazy and stupid."
"All know northerners are more hardy and brave in the extreme."
"I work for gold not glory," said Chiun.
"Some gold can be yours."
Chiun touched his wispy beard. "How much?"
And an amount was mentioned. Delicately. It was so Chinese. The words might have been apricot blossoms falling onto grass. They caressed the senses.
"That much gold and the opportunity to be the first Korean to venture alive into the Great Void is acceptable," said Chiun.
"The rocket ship awaits."
"Hold. Do not think you can trick me. Our bargain is not yet struck."
The Chinese dignitaries sat unmoving. An expression of perplexity touched their still foreheads.
"You offer payment before service. That is not the way of the Han."
"The rocket ship is ready to depart. It will go with a Chinese celestial pilot if you do not go today. Consider this the down payment. The gold will come later."
Chiun made a thoughtful face, deepening his wrinkles. In a corner of the room, Remo yawned broadly.
"I have encountered enemies of late who cannot afford Sinanju and would do without if only Sinanju might be snuffed like a candle," Chiun remarked slowly.
The Chinese expressed astonishment at such perfidy existing in the modern world.
"I will be transported into the Great Void?" Chiun asked next.
"Yes," they agreed.
"And returned?"
"Absolutely," they promised.
And so the bargain was struck in the Great Hall of the People.
Standing up, Chiun strode over to Remo. "I must go now, but I will return."
Remo stood up. "Where are you going?"
"On a short journey."
"To where?"
"Where only a Reigning Master may venture. You cannot follow. I am sorry. Await me here."
"You're not leaving me here with these guys, arc you?"
"You may beg and you may grovel, but you cannot accompany me into the pure air of the realm I am about to plumb."
"Give me a hint."
"No, await me here."
"Okay," said Remo. But as soon as Chiun left, he slipped out an unguarded window.
People's police tried to stop him. Remo broke their rifles and handed them back. Then they tried to tackle him. Remo broke a few wrists and ankles by way of discouragement.
Then they tried to run him down with a long black official car.
Remo stopped perfectly still and let them.
At the last possible second, with the grille bearing down on him, Remo executed a standing backflip and landed in a tiger's crouch on the strong steel car roof.
The car circled and screeched and, when there was no sign of a flat dead American, it straightened out and raced after the line of official limousines bearing the Master of Sinanju.
Atop the car Remo smiled tightly. Maybe he'd get to go with Chiun after all.
Chapter Forty
Her name was unknown, but in Suwon Province she was known as the Wart Woman. When she answered the door to her crumbling hovel, her face was aboil with warts through which she smiled toothless and foolish.
"Enter," she cackled. She wore a faded cinnabar hanbok dress. A cataract clouded one eye. Her black hat rose to a scarlet peak.
Inside, the room was filled with hanging costumes, arcane musical instruments and the dang shrine where she entreated the spirits of the dead.
After they placed four hundred won into the mouth of a boar's head, she asked, "Which spirit general would you consult with? The Fire General? The Lightning Bolt General? General White Horse? Or—"
The president of South Korea hesitated. It was a difficult choice. The choice of spirit general would have a very great impact upon the value of the wisdom dispensed.
He consulted with his advisers in hushed tones.
"The Fire General," urged the unification minister.
"No, the White Horse General," the CIA director insisted.
Waving at them to be quiet, the president spoke to the Wart Woman, by reputation the most oracular Mudang in all of Korea.
"Can you summon MacArthur?" he asked.
"Hee-hee! MacArthur will speak to you through my mouth."
Flinging herself to the racked clothing, she donned a khaki military uniform and service cap. At her dang shrine, she performed certain rites, singing in a caterwauling voice.
The kut had begin.
Soon she was in a trance and flinging herself about the room. Abruptly she fell into a sitting position on the floor, looking at them with eyes that were no longer hers. Even her face lost its semisenile looseness.
"Gentleman," she said through her bobbing corncob pipe, "what seems to be your problem?" All three men would have sworn her new voice belonged to General Douglas MacArthur, savior of South Korea—if only Truman had shown wisdom.
"The new peril from the North," the president stammered. "Is it real?"
"The foe you fear is headed for Pyongyang right this minute."
The president swallowed hard. "What is your advice to us?"
"One word."
The three leaders leaned forward to await the wisdom from the rubbery lips of the Wart Woman, who spoke in the true voice of the great American general.
"Attack!" she said.
Chapter Forty-one
The Master of Sinanju was escorted to an underground complex in a fenced-off area immediately south of Beijing.
As he entered, accompanied by high-ranking generals and others, he surveyed the flat surrounding countryside and said, "I see no rocket."