"I don't know that technical stuff. I don't have to. I'm the president."
"But you do know that alpha-beta titanium is the best for commercial use?"
"I've heard it said, yeah."
"This device, through focused ultrasound, causes the metal to vibrate so the atomic structure is, to put it in layman's terms, discombobulated. It falls into a liquid state without heat or loss of material."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. But alpha-beta titanium won't respond to the nebulizer. I've spent the last two weeks trying every possible vibratory setting to get the same reaction. It's like trying to crack a safe. You know the tumblers will respond if you hit the right combination. You just have to keep searching for that exact number sequence."
"Well, keep searching."
"If alpha titanium discombobulates when exposed to synchronized frequencies, then might not alpha-beta-phase titanium respond to out-of-sync vibrations?"
"You're the whiz kid. You tell me."
"No, I'll show you."
And Ferris D'Orr got to work.
Ogden Miller, president of Titanic Titanium Technologies, Inc., pulled up a stool and lit another cigar. His face shone like a wet light bulb; his eyes glazed in thought. He had visions of his company dominating America's defense and aerospace programs into the twenty-first century. Perhaps beyond. This was big. It was bigger than big. It was a metallurgical revolution. He had visions of a two-page ad in the next Aviation Week announcing the first one-to-one buy-to-fly ratio in metallurgical history. And it had been created on Titanic Titanium company time. Which meant that Ogden Miller owned it. If it worked on alpha-beta titanium, that is.
Under his superior's watchful eye, Ferris D'Orr worked through lunch. He worked past five o'clock. And he worked well into the evening, setting and resetting the micrometer dials and triggering the nebulizer, without result.
At exactly 9:48 eastern standard time, the billet in the AB tray liquefied.
The two men, their eyes bloodshot from hours of staring at that stubborn chunk of bluish metal, blinked furiously.
"Did it melt?" whispered Miller. "My eyes tell me it did."
"I don't trust them."
"Mine neither."
"Do you want to dip your finger into it, or should I?"
"I want the honor this time."
Ogden Miller walked to the AB tray and carefully touched the cool surface of the bluish material in the tray. It shimmered. It felt cool to his touch, like a very dense pudding. When he lifted out his finger, it gleamed silvery-gray and the puddinglike stuff plopped down into the tray, one fabulous drop at a time.
Ogden Miller looked back at Ferris D'Orr. "AB titanium. You're certain?"
"We did it!" Ferris howled. "We can pour titanium into molds like steel."
"We can forge it, weld it. Hell, we can practically drink it!"
"I think that would be going too far; Mr. Miller."
"Well, Ferris, we can drink champagne, can't we? Get those out-of-sync settings down on paper and we'll celebrate."
"What about that matter?"
"What matter?"
"The secretary."
"Hell with her," said the president of Titanic Titanium Technologies. "Let her sue. We'll settle out of court and still be billions in the black."
"Billions," said Ferris D'Orr under his breath.
"Billions."
Chapter 8
Remo Williams awoke with the rain.
Or rather, the rain woke Remo Williams. He had spent the night in his unfinished future home, sleeping on the hard floor and collecting a few splinters from the unplaned wood. The rain started shortly after dawn, a light sprinkle, and pattered on his sleeping form.
A fat droplet splashed on Remo's high cheek and rilled into his parted mouth. He came to his feet, tasting the cool, sweet drop. It was different from the rain in America, which tasted brackish and full of chemicals. He threw his head back to catch more drops.
Today, Remo decided, he would thatch the roof. Then he remembered that he didn't know how.
Remo reluctantly made his way through the mud to the House of the Masters, which shone like a slick jewel in the rain.
Remo knocked first. There was no answer. "C'mon, Chiun."
He knocked again, and receiving no reply, focused on his breathing. A Westerner, straining to hear better, concentrates on his ears. But that tenses the sensitive eardrums and is counterproductive. By focusing his breathing, Remo relaxed his body and attuned it to his surroundings.
Remo's relaxed but very sensitive ears told him that Chiun was not inside the house.
"Anyone see Chiun?" Remo asked of the two women walking by with burdens of cordwood.
They smiled at him and shook their heads no.
Remo shrugged. He tried the door. It was not locked and he went in.
Everything was as before; heaps of jewels and bowls of pearls were scattered across the floor. On the taboret beside Chiun's low throne there was a piece of parchment. Even across the room, Remo recognized his name, written in English.
Remo snatched up the paper. To Remo the Unfair:
Know that I do not fault you, my son, for the misfortune that has recently befallen me, the Master of Sinanju, who has lifted you up from the muck of a foreign land and raised you to perfection. That you have never thanked me for my sacrifices is of no moment, I do not hold this against you. Nor do I fault you for the manner in which you have stolen the affection of my people. It is their affection to give, and how could they resist the insidious blandishments of one who has been trained by Chiun-whom I know you will refer to in the histories that you will write as Chiun the Great. Not that I am telling you your business. Write the histories as you see fit.
Do not worry about me now that I have gone from Sinanju. I am in the evening of my life, and my work is done. I would stay in the village I have selflessly supported, but no one wants an old man, not even to honor for his great accomplishments. But I did not do the work of my House to be honored, but to continue my line. And now you will take up that burden from my drooping shoulders. May you bear many fine sons, Remo, and may none of them visit upon you the ingratitude and indignities which have been my sorry lot.
The village is yours. The House of the Masters is yours. Mah-Li is yours-although I expect you to honor the traditional engagement period. I do not blame you for casting me aside like an old sandal and lavishing your fickle affections upon Mah-Li-formerly known as Mah-Li the Beast-for she is young like you, and youth never appreciates the company of the stooped and the elderly, for it reminds them of the loneliness and infinnities that lie in store for them. Sometimes deservedly so.
Build your toilets, Remo. As many as you like. Make them big enough to swim in. I grant you my permission. And condoms. Build those too. May the shoreline of Sinanju boast condoms taller than any known in the modern world, as a true testament to the glory of Remo the Unfair, latest Master of Sinanju.
I go now to live in another land-the only land in which I have known contentment and the respect of a fair and generous emperor.
P.S. Do not touch capital. Spend all the gold you wish, but do not sell any treasure. The gold exists for the use of the Master, but the treasure belongs to Sinanju.
P.P.S. And do not place your trust in the villagers. Not even Mah-Li. They are fickle. Like you. And they do not love you, you know, but only covet your gold.
The note was signed with the bisected trapezoid that was the symbol of the House of Sinanju.
"Oh, great," said Remo in the emptiness. He plunged into the next room, where Chiun kept his most personal effects. They were stored in fourteen steamer trunks, all of them open. There were no closets in Sinanju. It was another improvement Remo had hoped to make.