" China 's Premier is visiting your country," he said, and spit again.
"Chiun. Where is your sense of balance?"
"Where is your country's sense of honor?"
"You mean you're for Chiang Kai Shek?"
Chiun spit again at the remains of the television set. "Chiang and Mao are two brothers. They are Chinese. You cannot trust the Chinese. No man should trust Chinese who wishes to keep pants and shirt. The fool."
"You have something against the Chinese?"
Calmly Chiun opened his hand and looked at his fingers. "My, you are perceptive tonight. My training has done well by you. You perceive even the faintest vibration. You soar to ultimate understanding."
"Okay, Chiun. Okay. Okay."
But it was not okay.
The next night, while passing the third Chinese restaurant, Chiun spat for the third time.
"Chiun, will you cut that out?" Remo whispered, and for a reply, drew a deft elbow in the solar plexis that might have sent an ordinary man to a hospital. Remo let out a grunt. His pain seemed to make Chiun feel better because Chiun began humming as he shuffled along, waiting for the next Chinese restaurant to spit at.
Then it happened.
They were big, perhaps the biggest bulk of men Remo had ever seen up close. Their shoulders were at the tip of his head, and they stretched broad and wide, their bodies came down straight and sturdy like three large cigarette machines. Their shopping bag size heads were connected to their shoulders by what medically would be called necks, but more accurately were only swollen growths of muscle tissue.
They wore blue blazers with Los Angeles Bisons patches on them. There was one crew cut, a greasy longish job, and an Afro. They must have weighed nearly a half ton.
The stood there in front of the glass window of the furniture store singing in harmony. Training camp had obviously ended and they were out for a night on the town. When in good and joyous faith, made more joyous by booze, they accosted a wizened old Oriental, none of them had intended at the time to end his professional football career.
"Hail, brother of the third world," sang out the giant with the Afro.
Chiun stopped, his delicate hands resting, clasped before him. He looked at the black man and said nothing.
"I hail the President's decision to welcome your premier, a great leader of the third world. The Chinaman and the black man are brothers."
Thus ended the wonderful career of defensive tackle Bad Boulder Jones. The newspapers the next day said that in all probability he would be able to walk again within a year. His two companions were suspended for a game and fined $500 each. They both insisted to the police and to the press that a little old Chinaman had picked up Bad Boulder and thrown him at them.
Coach Harrahan, according to the press, said that he was not really a strict coach, but this sort of heavy drinking was ruinous to a team. "It has already permanently injured one of the great defensive tackles in football history. It is a tragedy, compounded by an obvious lie."
While the coach was sorting his problems, Remo was sorting his own. He was getting Chiun the hell out of San Francisco and on to San Juan, where one night he was forced to ask a favor he thought Chiun would never grant.
Chiun was resting in his suite where he was listed as Mr. Parks and Remo as Ms manservant. Smith had just gotten off to a safe return to headquarters. The only way to ask it was to ask it.
Remo asked it.
Chiun. We must guard the life of a Chinese person, and attempt to save the life of another."
Chiun nodded.
"You will do it?"
"Yes, of course. Why not?"
"Well, I know how you feel about Chinese, that's all."
"Feel? What is there to feel for vermin? If our lords who pay our sustenance wish us to watch and protect cockroaches, then we do just that."
Chiun smiled. "Just one thing," he said.
"What is that?" Remo asked.
"If we are supposed to get any money from the Chinese, get the money first Before you do anything. Just the other day, they hired some people from my village and had them do most dangerous tasks. They not only did not pay them, they attempted to dispose of them."
"I didn't know the Chinese Communists hired the people of your village."
"Not the Communists. The emperor Chu Ti. "
" Chu Ti? The one who built the forbidden city?"
"The same."
"What do you mean, the other day? That was 500 years ago."
"A day in the memory of a Korean. Just be sure we get paid first."
"We will." Remo was again surprised when Chiun willingly agreed to trim his beard for the assignment.
"When you deal with vermin, it makes no difference how you look," Chiun had said.
And now they waited outside the ladies' room at Dor-val Airport. The late September rain played on the windows and had cut chillingly through their light summer suits. They would have to purchase fall clothes as soon as possible.
"She is probably robbing the washroom of soap and towels and toilet tissue," said Chiun, smiling.
"She's been in there ten minutes. Maybe I'd better check," Remo said.
So taking out his Special Services badge which came with the identities Remo and Chiun had been given by Smith, Remo stormed into the ladies' room, announcing "Health inspector, ladies. Be just a minute." And since the tone was correct and officially distant, no one had protested but left quickly.
. All but her. She was piling up paper towelling and stuffing it in her great coat.
"What are you doing?" Remo asked.
"There may be no towels or paper in your country. There is plenty here. Plenty. Paper in every stall."
"There's paper all over the United States in every stall."
"In every stall?"
"Well, except when someone forgets to fill them up."
"Aha. Then we take a little. I brought some with me from Peking."
"Toilet paper?"
"Preparedness for a task is the doing of the task. He who does not prepare a task by looking at it from many sides is destined to stumble on one side. Be prepared."
"You a girl scout?"
"No. The thoughts of Mao. Where is the book?" She looked at him anxiously.
"It's outside with my partner."
"Have you read it yet?"
"I've only had it ten minutes."
"Ten minutes can be two most valuable thoughts of Chairman Mao. It could liberate you from your imperialistic, exploitative ways. And also your running dog."
Remo grabbed the young girl firmly but gently by both shoulders.
"Look, kid," he said. "I don't care what names you use for me. If it gives you kicks, all right. But watch what you call Chiun. 'Running dog' and 'imperialist lackey' are not fitting words for a man three or four times your age."
"If the old is reactionary and decadent, it must be buried, along with all the other anachronisms afflicting mankind today."
"He's a friend of mine," Remo said. "I don't want him hurt."
"Your only friends are the party and your worker solidarity."
The young girl said that, waiting for approval. She did not expect two sharp stinging pains under her armpits. Remo kept his thumbs working, rotating, pressing the flesh up into the joint. Her delicate almond eyes went almost round with pain. Her mouth opened to scream and Remo switched one hand to her mouth.
"Listen kid and listen close. I do not want you insulting that man outside. He deserves your respect. If you are unable to give that, at least you may avoid disrespect. I would suggest that he knows more about the world than you and if you would just shut up for a moment, you might learn something from him.