Remo grimaced, but held his tongue. It had been a long time since Chiun had told him a story of the early days of Sinanju. Sometimes Remo thought Chiun preferred to sweep those days under the rug, because Sinanju was in such a primitive state.
"Now, the days of which I am about to speak were the era of Master Mangko. Have I ever told you of Mangko?"
"Nope. "
"Mangko was the son of Kim, who was not a Master. For in the days of which I am about to speak, the line of Sinanju was not a bloodline. Instead, Masterhood was passed from generation to generation through merit and achievement. A worthy method, but now outdated, of course. "
"Of course," Remo agreed. His eyes were on the horizon. He felt a strange peace out here on the still ocean, even not knowing where he was or where he was going.
Chiun smiled at Remo's agreement and continued in a low, dramatic voice. "Now, Mangko was the third Master of Sinanju. Young he was, and dark of hair and keen of eye. Tall he was, being by Western standards nearly five feet tall."
"A giant."
Chiun glared. "In those days, that was tall. Some would say too tall. It is only the ridiculous modern Europeans who think five feet is not tall."
"Sorry," Remo said sheepishly.
"Now, these were prosperous days for Sinanju, although my lowly village was not then the jewel it is now, of course. "
Remo started to snort in derision, but managed to turn it into a cough. The village of Sinanju was a cluster of mud-ringed huts clinging to the rocky coast of North Korea. It was cold and wet, and, even by the standards of a clam, inhospitable. But Remo didn't say that. He wanted to hear about Moo, and eventually the bare-breasted women he had been promised.
"Egypt knew of us in those days, although they were stingy with steady work. The Chinese knew of us, although they paid slowly and sometimes it was necessary to make an example of certain tribal princes in order to expedite payments."
"Business is business."
"But fortunately there was one client who was always on time with payments and who offered steady work, although it unfortunately involved extra travel time."
"Commuting is the bane of the workaday assassin, then and now," Remo remarked.
Chiun regarded him as if uncertain of Remo's meaning. His hazel eyes narrowed and he went on in a quieter voice, knowing that this would force Remo to strain to catch his every golden syllable.
"This land was known as the Kingdom of Moo."
"How do you spell that, by the way?"
"In the European alphabet, it is M, followed by two O's."
"That's what I thought," Remo said dryly.
Chiun rearranged his kimono skirts. "Are you making fun of Moo, Remo?"
"No, just holding up my end of the conversation. Go on. "
"Now, Moo was a great land. Greater in area than Korea. It was an island, but larger in size and riches than all of the islands now claimed by Japan. It lay further east than Japan, in the ocean now called the Pacific. This ocean, Remo," Chiun said meaningfully.
Remo looked out over the water. Sunlight danced on the choppy waves.
"So great was Sinanju's fame that in the days of the first Master, whose name does not survive in any known record, the High Moo, ruler of the great land of Moo, sent a messenger to my village, requesting assistance. The first Master of Sinanju sailed to Moo and performed a great service for the High Moo, whose throne was beset by pretenders, and in doing this service, was richly rewarded for his efforts. And so Moo became a favorite client of Sinanju. And Moo also became a place beloved by my ancestors, for the rare coins of Moo were a currency more powerful than that of Egypt or China. And these coins enabled us to feed our young so that they did not have to be sent home to the sea. Have I told you how, when the food ran out in those days, mothers drowned their youngest infants, the females before the males, to spare them the slow death of starvation?"
"A million-zillion times."
"It is an important lesson, one you must never forget. For one day you will be in charge of my village."
"I won't forget the story of sending the babies home to the sea until the day I die. Maybe not even then."
"Good. But the occasional reminder does no harm."
"It does help pass the time, especially when the fish aren't exactly fighting to get out of the water."
The Master of Sinanju made his bamboo pole wriggle faster. He frowned. Surely there was at least one fish in this entire ocean.
"As I was saying," he went on, "Moo was good to Sinanju and Sinanju was good for Moo. It was a happy, fruitful association, blessed by the young gods of those early days. Then one cold morning, in the reign of Master Mangko, who was the third Master, there came a message from the High Moo. This was a different High Moo than the High Moo I spoke of earlier. For the High Moo is what a king would be to the English, or a pharaoh to the Egyptians."
"I figured out that part all by myself."
"And why not? I have taught you all you know."
"And I appreciate the continual subtle reminders," said Remo, trying to imagine where the bare-breasted women could possibly fit into this. He would have asked, but he knew that Chiun would probably save that part for the absolute end, just to annoy him.
"This message called upon the Master Mangko to journey to the land of Moo with urgent speed. It spoke of a terrible calamity, which only the Master of Sinanju could remedy. The messenger was of Moo, and like all men of Moo who ventured out into the world, his tongue had been cut off so that he would not reveal the true location of his emperor's domain if he were set upon by bandits, who were very common in those days."
"Unlike today."
"Exactly," said Chiun. He continued. "The message, which was written on tree-bark parchment, was very unspecific, and Master Mangko understood that it had been written in haste. So he slew the messenger and assembled his night tigers."
"Hold the phone," Remo said suddenly. "He slew the messenger! What for?"
"Because the messenger had delivered his message and was no longer needed."
"What was wrong with taking him back to Moo?"
"Remo! Have you no common sense? He was another mouth to feed and would require an extra horse. Men of Sinanju were great horsemen in those days. Did you know that?"
"Two seconds ago, no. Now, yes."
"You are never too old to be enlightened. And so the Master Mangko traveled from Korea through what would later be known as the kingdom of China. It was a hard journey, for they were beset by Chinese bandits and severe winter storms. But at last they reached the coast. But not without price. For one of the night tigers, whose name was Sako, had been wounded by the same Chinese bandits. It was a sad day for Master Mangko, for in his heart he had already chosen Sako to be trained as the next in line. Although, of course, Sako knew none of this."
Chiun paused in his recitation. His voice was hollow when he continued.
"It is a sad thing when a Master dies young, Remo. Sadder still when he does before achieving Masterhood. For who knows what great things Sako might have accomplished had he lived. Poor Sako. Alas. Cut down by Chinese bandits in the flower of his manhood."
"He died of his wounds, huh?"
"No, Master Mangko dispatched him."
"Why?" Remo demanded hotly.
"Because he was wounded and the bandits were riding hard after them. The Master and his entourage had a long sea voyage ahead of them and could not be burdened by a wounded man."
"That's awful!"
"The story gets worse," Chiun said.
"How is that possible? So far, the good guys are killing all their friends."
"Worse," repeated Chiun, his voice dropping to a hush. "They had to abandon the horses."
"So?"
"You do not understand. The Chinese got them."
"Is that bad?"
"Bad! It is a tragedy," Chiun screeched. "Beautiful Korean ponies left to big, brutish Chinese barbarians. Probably they were worked until their proud, straight backs were bowed
and their strong legs crippled. It is sad." A single tear leaked out of Chiun's far eye. He turned his head so that Remo could not see, and brushed it away surreptitiously.
"Then what?" Remo prompted.
"With the Chinese bandits bearing down on them, the night tigers pushed off in boats. Those who remained slew the Chinese with their swords, taking care not to harm their horses, who were after all innocent brutes. For Sinanju never harms animals."
"Just messengers and potential Masters."
"If you insist upon distorting every word I utter, why do you not tell this story?"
"Because I don't know it."
"Exactly. Now, keep silent. The Master Mangko and his night tigers left many dead Chinese on their shores on that long-ago day. Sparing the horses, of course. Then they pushed off in the tiny boats that they had built, and sailed for Moo. Many days they sailed, through storm clouds-but no storm came to pelt their faces with hard rain or push their boats against one another. Lo, the entire earth had become a still place of deathly silent water. For seven terrible days, the future of my village was at the mercy of the great ocean we now sail on. A typhoon might have eradicated all of Sinanju's promise, just as Sako himself perished. Alas." Chiun brushed at his eyes again. His voice trembled with emotion when he resumed his story.
"Bravely, the Master Mangko sailed on. He watched the stars, seeking the configuration that would lead him to Moo. He followed it faithfully day and night. And still the storm clouds gathered, but no storm came."
Chiun was silent, thinking. His eyes grew inward and reflective, as if in his mind's eye he saw the very events he was relating.
"On the twelfth day," Chiun said, quavering, "the Master knew why the storm never swept over him. He understood why he did not spy the shores of Moo. He had sailed over the place where Moo should be. And the storm which was reflected in the sky, belonged not to the sky, but to the very ocean itself. This ocean, Remo."
"Moo sank?"
"Moo had perished, yes. The seas were the color of mud where Moo should have been. And where the very heart of Moo had lifted proudly over the waves, the flotsam of civilization floated and the seas bubbled green as with a sickness. And there were bodies too."
Chiun was silent a long time as he stared out at the white-capped waves. Remo was afraid to speak up. Finally he settled for clearing his throat.
"With a heavy heart," Chiun continued, "Master Mangko accepted the truth. He ordered the boats turned around, and they steeled themselves for the difficult return journey across water and bandit-infested China. He knew terrible days lay ahead for his village, and indeed, this was what came to be. The messenger had brought with him a bag of coins, each stamped with the head of the High Moo. These would be the last such coins, he knew. And when the Master Mangko returned to Sinanju, he himself chose the first female child to be sent home to the sea, because he knew that it would not be long before the coins ran out. For in those days of which I have spoken, the clients of Sinanju were only the slow-paying Egyptians and the stingy Chinese-and the great land of Moo, which was no more. That female child, Remo, was his very own daughter."
In spite of himself, Remo shivered. He was born and raised an American, and the ways of Sinanju were still alien to him. But sometimes he felt the tragedy of Chiun's stories almost as keenly as the Master of Sinanju.
"Since those days, there has been no word of Moo. Until now," Chiun said, removing a large flat coin from a pocket of his kimono.
Remo took the coin. It had obviously been hammered into shape by hand.
"Is this the High Moo?"
"The Low Moo's father, yes, for the coins of Moo are melted down and recast whenever a new High Moo ascends the Shark Throne."
"Shark Throne, huh? Sounds brutal."
"And today, after nearly five thousand years, Sinanju returns to Moo to fulfill the down payment accepted by Master Mangko-and earn the balance too, of course."
"I knew money had to enter into this somehow."
"A crass remark which I will ignore. You see, Remo, when I beheld the Low Moo on television, she was not saying what the charlatan white claimed at all. She was issuing a plea. A plea to the Master of Sinanju to journey to Moo to help the High Moo, whose throne was in mortal danger. "
"So when you said we were going to Moo, that's what you meant?"
"All is clear to you now, Remo?"
"Not quite. If Moo sank nearly five thousand years ago, where does the Low Moo come from and where is she taking us?"
"Why don't you ask her? I have told you my story. Let her tell you her own. Besides, you will need the language practice if you are to get along on Moo."
"Why not? I'll be here all day waiting for you to catch a fish with that rig."
Suddenly the Master of Sinanju jerked his bamboo rod. The line arched up and a silver fish with flat eyes landed in Remo's lap.
"Hey!" Remo said, knocking the fish onto the deck. The fish flopped and wriggled and Chiun speared him with a long-nailed finger. The fish gasped once and its tail ceased to move. Chiun lifted it up by the gills and examined it carefully.
"Ah, an excellent fish. Two more of these and we will dine very well today."
"Tell me, Little Father. How did you catch that fish without a hook?"
"It is simple. I dangle the line until I have the fish's interest. He thinks the line is a worm, and when I feel him bite, I whip the line up. I do it so fast the fish has no time to let go. A hook is not necessary. Besides, it is cruel. Sinanju does not harm animals, and it deals with those animals it eats as mercifully as possible."
"Sometimes I fail to fully grasp your philosophy," Remo said, climbing to his feet.
"It is easy to understand, Remo. For it is written in the Book of Sinanju that 'Death Feeds Life.' "
"Yeah, right under 'No Credit Issued.' If you want me, I'll be talking to the Low Moo."
"Do not dawdle. We will breakfast soon."
"I may pass. I checked last night and there are no matches left on this scow."
"Then we will eat them raw."
"Sushi isn't my thing. Besides," Remo said, scratching his bestubbled face, "I have this irresistible craving for egg-lemon soup."
Chapter 9
Dr. Harold W. Smith had not played golf in years.
This was ironic, for in the days when CURE was being set up, Smith had bought his present home because it was virtually next door to one of the finest golf courses on the east coast. Smith, who had until then been with the Central Intelligence Agency, envisioned himself playing weekend golf. He had no idea of what he was getting into. The gravity of his new post was clear, but the sheer number of man-hours that would be demanded of him, first as the coordinator of CURE's vast network of information-gathering resources, and then later, when he was forced to admit that CURE would need an enforcement arm for situations beyond his operational reach, was not clear.
Smith had not touched his golf clubs in nearly a decade. He wouldn't be doing so now but for the fact that a few practice putts were the perfect cover for what he had to do.
Smith teed up and sent the ball skipping along the fairway. He pulled his wheeled bag behind him because today he did not want to be bothered with a caddy. He hit it again.
Smith had deliberately hit the ball out of bounds. When he found it, in the rough, he pulled out a small pair of high-powered binoculars and pretended to scan the fairway. His gaze drifted over to his house and then settled on the one next to it. Smith peered into the windows.
He saw bare hardwood flooring. He would need a different vantage point. He selected a driver and sent the ball in the general direction of the third hole.
The ball came to rest in a sand trap, and Smith, first checking to make sure that there was no one watching him, got down into the trap. He lay on his stomach, and peering up over the trap, directed his binoculars at the near side of the house.
The rooms were bare. In one he saw a big television but no other furniture. The open driveway was empty. It had been
empty since his wife had first alerted him to the existence of the strange new neighbors.
It was the absence of a car that had caused Smith's initial disquiet to blossom into full-blown suspicion. He lived in an exclusive section of Rye, far from the bus routes. It was the kind of tree-lined peaceful suburban neighborhood he had once dreamed of retiring to, but now understood he could never enjoy because the only retirement from CURE would involve his death.
And if there was one absolute to living in suburbia, it was ownership of an automobile. The owners of the house next door did not own a car. Smith's wife had noticed this, and according to her, the neighbors had confirmed it.
No car, no furniture, no sign of habitation.
As Smith lay in the sand trap, attired in a short-sleeved pullover jersey and khaki pants, he tried to reason out who would buy a house and not furnish it.
More and more, it seemed to him as if the house were purchased; not as a home, but as some kind of blind. Or a staging area.
Grimly Smith climbed to his feet. Something was very wrong. It was time to stop pussyfooting around. He could no longer ignore the obvious. Replacing his driver and pocketing his ball, Smith pushed his golf bag back to the clubhouse.
"That was quick," said the caddy whom Smith had refused earlier.
"I'm more rusty than I thought," Smith muttered.
"Then you should stay out there. Work out the rust."
"Another time," said Smith, anxious to leave. He had attracted attention to himself by returning so early. That was a mistake. It was part of his job never to call undue attention to himself. But this had the earmarks of an emergency. Smith would bring all the awesome computer power of CURE to bear on the puzzle of learning who the new owner of the house next door was, and everything about his background.
As Smith drove off, every caddy and member in the club surged to the windows. Everyone wanted to see the mysterious Dr. Harold W. Smith, who paid the annual membership fee on time every year, but who hadn't been seen on the golf course in a decade. A few of the older members, hearing of Smith's brief visitation, expressed surprise. They had assumed Smith had passed away years ago.
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