"Hey, old man. Don't feel sorry for no honkey. He our enemy," said the man of the ebony face.
Remo, listened to the interchange, yawned. Chiun's dramatics did not impress him. He had seen Chiun play humbled before. Now Chiun was setting them up for him, although from their swaggering they appeared not to need setting up.
"Move over," said the leader to Chiun, "or we'll move on over you."
"I beg a boon," implored Chiun. "I know this poor man who is about to die. I wish to say goodbye to him."
"Don't let him, he'll pass him a gun or something," yelled one of the blacks.
"I have no weapon. I am a man of peace and solitude, a frail flower cast upon the harsh rocky soil of conflict."
"Hey, what he talk?" came the voice of the man with the largest Afro, a spray of coiled black weeds exploding in all directions from his tan head.
"He say he ain't carrying," said the leader.
"He look funny for a gook."
"Don't say gook. He third world," said the leader. "Yes, old man. Say goodbye to the honkey. The revolution is here."
Remo watched the crowd raise their fists to the ceiling of fluorescent lights and wondered how much he would reduce New York City's welfare bill. Unless, of course, they were somewhat competent in which case he would reduce the crime rate.
The group was now giving each other fancy handshakes, saying "Pass the power, brother."
Remo looked at Chiun and shrugged. Chiun beckoned Remo's head to lower. "You do not know how important this is. It is very important. I know personally Kyoto's father. You have some bad habits which inhibit grace when you become excited. I have not corrected them because they will work themselves out and to change them now would inhibit your attack. But what you must avoid at all costs is a full energy attack, because these habits will surely show, and Kyoto's father will hear about your lack of grace. A companion of mine lacking grace."
"Gosh, you have problems," Remo said.
"Do not joke. This is important to me. Perhaps you do not have pride in yourself, but I have pride in myself. I do not wish to be embarrassed. It is not like white or black men were watching but a yellow man of red belt whose father knows me personally."
"And it's not like Fm going against Amos and Andy," Remo whispered. "These guys look tough."
Chiun peered briefly around Remo's shoulder at the group, some of whom were taking off their shirts to show their muscles, for Mei Soong's benefit.
"Amos and Andy," Chiun said, "whoever they are. Now please, I ask this favor of you now."
"Will you give me a favor in return?"
"All right. All right. But remember. The most important thing is not to embarrass my instructional methods."
Chiun bowed and even pretended to brush away a tear.
He stepped back, signalling Mei Soong and Kyoto to join him. One of the men who had removed his shirt showed fine round muscled shoulders and a good rippling stomach stacked with rows of muscles like a washboard. A weight lifter, thought Remo. Nothing.
The man swaggered to Chiun, Kyoto and Mei Soong, signalling they should go no further.
"He is my pupil of a few days," Chiun confided openly to Kyoto, while pointing to Remo.
"You stay where you is. All of you," said the well muscled man. "Ah don't wants to hurt no brother of the third world."
Remo heard Kyoto snort laughter.
"I take it," Chiun said, "that these are the students of your honorable house."
"They have walked in," came Kyoto's voice.
"Walk in?" Remo heard the guard behind him say. "We been working out here for years."
"Thank you," said Chiun. "Now we will see what years of Kyoto instruction does in comparison with just a few humble words from the house of Sinanju. Begin if you will."
Remo heard Kyoto groan. "Why must my ancestors be forced to witness this?"
"Don't worry," came the black guard's voice. "We'll do you up proud. Real proud. Black power proud."
"My heart trembles before your black power," said Chiun, "and my respect for the House of Kyoto knows no bounds. Woe is me and my friend."
The seven black men moved wide for the Mil. Remo set for the attack, his weight centered for instant movement in any direction.
It was funny. Here Chiun was warning him about performance, and Remo needed no warning. It was, the first time Chiun would see his pupil in action and Remo wanted, as he wanted few things, to win praise from the little father.
One should not concern oneself with appearances but results. That is how Remo's training differed from karate, but now he was worried about appearances. And that could be deadly.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
There were seven and Remo prepared to work right, slant in left, pick up two, then come back across, pick up one, and work it from there. It wasn't necessary.
The biggest one, with the ebony face, stepped into the circle. His Afro was manicured like a well-tended hedge, and he stood with bis forearms held forward, wrists limp. One of the blacks behind him, who did not practice the Preying Mantis attack of the school of Kung Fu, laughed.
Large, strong men rarely used the Praying Mantis. It was an attack small men used to compensate. If the big man with the flaming Afro should slip past Remo's attack, Remo would be dead with one blow.
"Hey, Piggy," said the black who had laughed. "You look faggy."
Piggy moved fast for a big man, extending one leg, then moving a stroke towards Remo's head. Remo was under the stroke, driving fingers into the solar plexus, then back up to catch the sirloin roll neck with a down stroke, knee up to smash the face and set it up for a follow through with the fingers extended into the temple. The body hit the mat almost silently, the face still surprised. The left hand remained curved.
Then there were six, six stunned black faces, eyes widening. Then someone had the correct idea to attack en masse. It looked like a race riot in martial arts robes. "Get the honkey bastard. Kill Whitey. Get whitey."
Their screams echoed in the hall. Remo glanced to Chiun to see if there was approval. Mistake. A black hand came into his face and he saw darkness and stars, but as he felt himself going down, he saw the white of the mat, and saw the arms and legs and black hands with lighter palms, and felt a foot come up toward his groin.
He brought one hand up behind the kneecap, and using his fall flipped the body attached to the knee over his head. He brought a foot up into a groin and rolled. As he did so, he moved to his feet, caught an Afro and cracked down into it, smashing a skull.
A voiceless body hit the mat. A black belt launched an attack with a foot shot. Remo grabbed the ankle and kept it going behind his head and brought his thumb up sharply into the man's back, damaging a kidney and flinging him to the side, shrieking in pain. Now there were four, and they weren't as anxious to get whitey. One was downright brotherly as he nursed his broken knee. Three black belts surrounded Remo in a semi-circle.
"All at once. Attack. On three," said one, making sense. He was very dark, black as night and his beard was scraggly. His eyes had no whites, just black fires of hate. Perspiration beaded his forehead. By showing his hate so openly, he had blown his cool.
"Ain't like the movie, Shaft, is it, Sambo?" said Remo. And he laughed.