Agent Grogan lunged for the old Oriental. The Oriental turned, and Grogan had a momentary glimpse of two yellowish fingers coming at his eyes. That was usually enough time for the human blinking reflex, one of the fastest reflexes in nature, to react. In this case, the fingers were swifter than the blink and Agent Grogan found himself sitting on the street clutching his face. Tears streamed between his fingers and he could not see.
The squeaky voice called back, "Remind me to kill you later."
A few minutes later, the district supervisor arrived, trailed by a battery of camouflaged agents.
"What happened here?" he demanded.
Agent Grogan stumbled to his feet, stabbing at his tearing eyes with a handkerchief.
"I think he poked me in the eyes," he said. "A little guy. An Oriental. Did you get him?"
"No-but he obviously got you. All of you."
"We've got to stop him."
"No, we don't. We've got to go home. We're relieved."
"Relieved! By who?"
"By the little Oriental who played Moe to your Six Stooges. Don't ask me to explain. I don't understand it any more than you do. But the word came from the top. Let's call it a night."
The next morning, when the network news returned for more no-comments, it found every trace of FBI presence mysteriously gone. They instantly assumed Ferris D'Orr had been removed to an even more secure safe house, and frantically scattered to chase it down, so that the American people would sleep better in the knowledge that he was still in safe hands. In their quest for truth and a higher ratings share, they neglected to do a simple thing. They forgot to enter the building to confirm that Ferris D'Orr had, in fact, been moved.
Ferris D'Orr could not believe his ears.
"One man?" he yelled. "One man is supposed to protect me? Are you crazy? Do you have any conception of how valuable I am to our Defense Department right now?"
"Yes, sir," said the FBI field supervisor. "I understand my superior received word of the change from the Secretary of Defense himself."
"Why would he do a crazy thing like that?" cried Ferris. "Wait a minute. What's his name-Somethingberger, right? He must be Jewish. That's it! This is a Zionist plot, isn't it?"
"I'm sure the Secretary of Defense knows what he's doing," the FBI man said.
"Are you Jewish?" Ferris asked suddenly, suspiciously.
"Sir?"
"I asked you an important question."
"Well, actually, no."
"Yon probably wouldn't admit it if you were."
"I have my orders," the FBI supervisor said stiffly. "Now, if you'll excuse me . . ."
The FBI supervisor led his men away, shaking his head. It had been a while since he'd seen such rabid religious hatred. Funny thing was, the guy looked Jewish himself.
After he had left, Ferris D'Orr dazedly sank into a chair. His face was drained of color.
"You poor man," said the Master of Sinanju, entering the room. "Let me help you."
"Who? What? How did you get in here?"
"The elevator," said the Master of Sinanju, pushing the titanium nebulizer into another room.
Ferris jumped to his feet. "What are you doing? Where are you going with that?"
The Oriental stopped momentarily. "I am Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju. You are Ferris?"
"Ferris D'Orr. "
"You are a metallurgist?"
"That's right."
Chiun nodded. "I am removing the offending metals from this room. It is a good thing I am here. Those who guarded you before me should have known better than to leave you alone with the cause of your illness."
"What illness?" demanded Ferris D'Orr, blocking Chiun from leaving the room with the nebulizer.
"You are a metallurgist. You said so."
"We've been through that."
"You are allergic to metal. I am removing the metals."
"I didn't ask for a cleaning person," said Ferris D'Orr haughtily. "Certainly not one who can't speak the language. "
"I was speaking English before you were born," Chiun said. "But I will not hold your insult against you. You are obviously in a weakened mental state from this cruel exposure to metal. Look at this room. It is filled with blocks of metal, all ugly and dull and useless."
"This is my laboratory,' said Ferris D'Orr, trying to shove the nebulizer back into the room. For some reason, it would not budge, even after he pushed with all his might. It was as if the device was bolted to the floor.
"You are beginning to sweat, poor man. Come. It will be better if I take you into the next room."
"I don't want to go into the next room!" said Ferris D'Orr, and although the old Oriental only took his wrist between two delicate fingers, Ferris found himself pulled into the next room as if by a tow cable.
"I have a very dangerous guard coming to protect me," Ferris warned after he was gently but firmiy deposited on an overstuffed chair. "This man is so dangerous he's replacing a crack team of FBI agents. So you better get outta here, pal."
The Master of Sinanju, receiving a compliment, bowed and allowed the faintest of satisfied smiles to etch his features.
"I am Chiun. I have only today returned to your wonderful land, which I see with new eyes. I will therefore allow you to call me Chiun, as other Americans familiarly call one another by their first names."
"Wonderful. But my warning still goes. This guy is a killer."
"I am that guy, the killer," said Chiun.
"You?"
"Me."
"I never saw a killer who looked like you."
"You never saw a killer who killed like me," Chiun said reasonably.
"What do we do now?"
"You have a television set?"
"Right behind you."
The Master of Sinanju turned. "I see no such thing," he sniffed.
"The cabinet. It's a projection TV. You lift it by the handle. "
Puzzled, the Master of Sinanju walked over to a false wood table with a hand slot on the top, He reached in, and the hinged top lifted, exposing not the glass tube of the usual TV set, but a large white screen. Then the Master of Sinanju saw the familiar knobs. He pressed the On button.
The news appeared on the screen and Chiun quickly changed the channel.
"What are you doing?"
"I am trying to find one of my beautiful dramas of happier days. I did not bring my tapes with me, alas."
"Beautiful dramas?"
"Is Edge of Darkness still shown?"
"I think it was canceled."
Chiun's face wrinkled. "It was probably the violence. It had fallen far from the heights of Mrs. Lapon's hysterectomy, and the unfortunate drug addiction of her son, who she mistakenly believed was fathered by her ex-husband, and not Darryl, the doctor."
"Who's going to protect me while you watch the soaps?"
"Me, of course."
"And what am I supposed to be doing?"
"Sitting here recovering from your unfortunate exposure to ugly metal objects."
"You're going to guard me and watch soaps at the same time?"
"Masters of Sinanju are ambidextrous," said Chiun, flipping the channel selector in search of something familiar.
"Masters of what?"
"Sinanju,"
"Sinanjew? You don't look Jewish," said Ferris D'Orr.
"That is because I am not Jewish."
"Good. I don't like Jews."
"My ancestors would agree with you. They never got any work from the House of David. Herod was another matter. "
A round balding face appeared in the big TV screen just in time to receive a thrown grapefruit.
"Ah, they are on TV too," Chiun said pleasurably. "I saw them before in a movie. They must be very popular."
"Them? Those are the Three Stooges, aren't they?"
"They are wonderful," said the Master of Sinanju, settling onto the couch. He arranged his kimono skirts modestly se that they covered his legs.