"Now the days of which I speak are the old days of Sinanju, before Wang, who discovered the sun source. This was when Masters performed many functions, and not merely practicing the assassin's art. Masters in those days would perform executions for the proper price. For this task, a previous Master had had forged a tremendous sword, known as the Sword of Sinanju. Later, as you know, Remo, the thieving Chinese stole this great trophy, and kept it."
"Until we got it back," said Remo.
"Until Chiun the Great recovered it, aided by a white lackey who may or may not be recorded in the Book of Sinanju under his true name," Chiun said frostily.
"I want to be remembered as Remo the Long-Suffering."
Face impassive, the Master of Sinanju resumed speaking, "When Yong appeared before the Chinese emperor, he had with him the great Sword of Sinanju because in those days one never knew what service Chinese emperors would demand. A courtesan might require beheading. Or the garbage might have to be taken out. To Yong's surprise, it was none of these things. He was asked to slay a dragon."
"Really?"
Chiun nodded. "In those days, dragons were more plentiful than they are now, but still rare. Yong had never before beheld a dragon, although he had heard tales of their fierceness and fury. This particular dragon was known as Wing Wang Wo."
Remo lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "The dragon had a name?"
"This dragon did. Yong agreed to slay the dragon, but not for the usual sum of gold. He asked the Chinese emperor for only one thing in return. The dragon's carcass."
"The Chinese emperor agreed to this. For like all of his line, he was penurious. That means cheap, Remo."
"I figured it out from the context," Remo grumbled.
"It does no harm to explain the difficult words when dealing with willful children," Chiun said. "Now Yong ventured out into the Chinese countryside. And soon he came upon a magnificent if cranky dragon, storming about, its iridescent green-and-gold scales ablaze in the harsh Chinese sun."
"Yong thought he saw a dragon?"
"Yong did see a dragon. And knowing that only the foolhardy attacks a foe without first studying him, Yong watched this dragon go about his business of devouring simple peasants."
"Yong didn't stop the dragon?"
Chiun shrugged. "Interrupting Wing Wang Wo's meals was not in Yong's contract. Now be silent, One-Whose-Tongue-Is-Never-Still.
"Soon, Yong devised a plan. First he caught the dragon's attention by bestowing upon him an insulting Chinese hand gesture."
"Flipped him the bird, huh?"
Chiun glared.
"Sorry." Remo fell silent.
"Naturally," Chiun resumed, "this enraged Wing Wang Wo, who blazed ineffectual flames at the ever-nimble Yong. Hurling cutting taunts, Yong lured the dragon to a cave he had explored earlier.
"Seeking to avenge his sullied honor, the dragon naturally followed. For-and you must always remember this, Remo-a dragon's breath is the only thing about them that can truly be called bright."
Remo winced.
"Once in the great cave, Yong hid behind a great stone. The dragon padded past him unsuspecting, the sulphur of its breath blocking its own nostrils. The great arrowlike tail dragged past, and Yong slipped back out of the cave to climb onto a ledge just above the cave mouth, where he had placed the Sword of Sinanju, which was seven feet in length and a mighty weapon."
Chiun lifted an imaginary sword in both thin-fingered hands. His voice shook in the telling.
"Sword held high, Yong waited patiently."
Up and down the aisles, the passengers within hearing paused to listen attentively.
"In time, the dull-witted Wing Wang Wo stuck his thick head out of the cave mouth, whereupon Yong relieved him of this trophy with one swift blow. Chuk!"
Chiun brought the imaginary sword down.
"Ouch," said Remo.
"The dragon whelmed, Yong had its meat stripped away and-"
"He ate the dragon?"
Shaking his head, Chiun lifted a long finger. "No. Yong wanted only the bones. For he knew what the Chinese emperor did not. That dragon bones are a potent medicine. Mixed in an elixir and drunk, they prolonged life. Yong drank dragon elixir every month for the remainder of his days, even though twice a year would have sufficed. And that is why Yong lived to a venerable age."
"Yeah? How long do Sinanju Masters normally live?"
"Only one hundred to one hundred twenty years. It is because we work so hard and are unappreciated."
"I feel for you," suddenly remembering that Chiun had turned 100 a couple of years ago. The thought made him feel cold inside.
"Master Yong lived to be an undeserved one hundred forty-eight years in age," Chiun sniffed. "For he squandered every dragon bone brought back from Cathay in prolonging his own selfish life. And it is for this reason, Remo, that Yong is known in the annals of Sinanju as Yong the Gluttonous."
Mild applause rippled along the aisles. The passengers returned to their magazines and their meals.
"All right," Remo said slowly, trying to figure out what this had to do with a possible dinosaur in Africa. "Yong was a pig. But what-" Then it hit him.
"Hold the phone, Little Father."
"What phone?"
"You know what I mean. Are we by chance off on a wild dragon hunt?"
"I am not aware of any dragons that are not wild."
"Chiun, if you're thinking of grinding up dinosaur bones just so you can live to be as old as Methuselah, I think Smith is going to have something to say about that."
Chiun's hazel eyes grew veiled. "Of course. He is going to say how pleased he is that he will have a proper Master to serve him for many years to come. Perhaps, Remo, when I am one hundred forty, you will be wise enough in years so I can properly retire to my humble village."
"By that time, I'll be retirement age myself."
"Americans retire in their prime," Chiun said dismissively. "It is a foolish thing."
"Besides, a dinosaur is not a dragon. There is no such animal. Dragons are mythological."
"Since when are you an expert on dragons?"
"Since never. But when I was a kid, I was a major dinosaur fan. I still know all the names by heart, Iguanodon, Stegosaur, Triceratops, Allosaurus, and the overwhelming favorite of St. Theresa's Orphanage, Tyrannosaurus Rex. And what we saw on TV was a Brontosaurus-assuming the footage wasn't faked."
"It is a dragon."
"Dragons have big bat wings and breathe fire."
"Ha!" Chiun crowed. "A moment ago you refused to believe in dragons. Now you know all about them."
"I know a dragon from a dinosaur. You're chasing after a freaking dinosaur."
"Merely another word for an African dragon. Perhaps it is a Zulu word. I am sure his bones are as efficacious as a Chinese dragon. If not more so."
"No chance."
"You are obviously prejudiced against African dragons. It's a terrible thing, racism. I will have to drum this white failing out of you once this assignment is over with."
"I give up."
Chiun smiled. "I knew you would."
Chapter 9
Nancy Derringer sat in the dirt around the makeshift campfire listening to the man who claimed to lead the Congress for a Green Africa. He had identified himself as Commander Malu.
The commander made a long, windy speech about African pride and the rape of the Continent by colonial powers, imperialist thieves, and business interests that put the squandering of natural resources before the land itself.
"What does any of that have to do with hijacking us?" Nancy asked pointedly.
King whispered, "Nancy, don't antagonize him!"
"I asked a question," Nancy repeated. "And I would like an answer."
Colonel Malu scratched his bushy beard. "Very well. Just as the elephant no longer runs in herds and must be protected in preserves, so too must this fine animal be protected from harm."
"Harm! You idiots threw enough lead around to kill us all twenty times
over, and you talk about harm?"
"No one was hurt."
"Which is a miracle."
*And it was. Nancy still couldn't believe it. After the shooting had died down and they had been taken at gunpoint from the train and made to sit in a circle with the captured Burger Beret team, it was discovered that there had been no fatalities. In fact, no one had so much as been wounded. Unless one counted Skip King catching his ankle in a clump of nettles and drawing blood.
"I would like to examine the reptile for injuries, if you don't mind," Nancy said in a voice she had no trouble keeping steady.
"And why should I allow this?" Commander Malu asked.
"Because I am a trained herpetologist and responsible for keeping Jack-"
"Mokele m'bembe, please."
"Mokele m'bembe healthy," Nancy said tartly.
Commander Malu's eyes shifted away. His gaze fell on Skip King, who glared back. "I will allow this," he said slowly.
"Thank you," said Nancy. Two men came up and took her by the elbows. She was lifted to her feet and her bonds removed. Then they escorted her to the train.
King's stern voice floated after them.
"If anything should happen to Nancy, you bastards, there isn't a place on earth you can hide from Skip King."
"Oh please," Nancy said.
"He is very brave, for a white man," Commander Malu allowed.
"His jock strap must be cutting off circulation to his brain."
Malu's laugh shook his great body as if he were pudding. "Ha! You have spirit. A white woman with spirit is a rare thing, I think."
"You obviously don't know any white women," Nancy retorted.
Nancy was given a flashlight, and she walked around the flatcar. The Apatosaur lay torpid, his tiny head tucked into the locomotive cab. His orange lids were closed, and the black-ringed nostrils pulsed and quivered in time to the bellows rhythm of its great dappled body.
Nancy plucked out a few trank darts earlier sweeps had missed and touched the pulsing vein on the long neck. It was steady, like a surging garden hose. The skin was cool to the touch and rather dry.
She turned to the commander.
"Jack is used to having his skin moist. It could crack if he isn't watered down."
Malu beamed. He looked to the heavens. "Perhaps it will rain this night," he said.
"Look, can we cut a deal?"
Concern flicked across his face. "Deal? What sort of a deal?"
"You say you're interested in a green Africa."
"We are."
"There isn't a greener continent on the face of the earth, but I won't argue the point. The company that sponsored this expedition is Burger Triumph. Surely, you have heard of them."
Commander Malu made a face. "Yes. They lace their hamburgers with sawdust."
"I heard that, too. And they made a fortune selling that junk. I'm sure they'd pay a wonderful ransom for the dinosaur."
"And how will we get word of our demands to these people?"
"Send King."
Malu shook his head ponderously. "I cannot do that."
"Why not?"
"A man who is named King is obviously a leader of men," Malu explained. "He may be the most valuable white man we have ever captured. The hamburger people would pay more for him than they would for this fine animal who we would never give up anyway. For mokole m'bembe belongs to Africa. And how do I know that this hamburger company has not captured great mokole m'bembe just to grind him up to take the place of sawdust in their terrible hamburgers?"
"Oh, don't be-" Nancy frowned. She bit her tongue in frustration. There was no point in arguing. It was typically African logic, as logical as the importance of King's name, and therefore impossible to counter with reason, or even proof.
"So what's going to happen to us?" she asked in a voice she made calm.
"Perhaps there will be a ransom for all of you. I do not know. I must sleep on it."
"Look, you can't expect us to pass the night out here."
"Why not? It is a nice night. Perhaps it will not rain."
"And what are you going to do if Old Jack wakes up?"
Commander Malu grunted. "You will put him back to sleep."
"He's been tranked twice in one day. A third time could be dangerous."
"When one fights for a green Africa, one assumes he will walk in the footsteps of danger."
"You sound like King."
"I will take this as a compliment, coming from a white woman."
"Don't," Nancy snapped.
The commander lost his genial expression. He snapped out a curt order in some language other than Swahili and Nancy was brusquely returned to the campfire, rebound, and set back in her place at the campfire's edge.
"You are all very, very lucky," King growled. "Another minute and I would have torn these bonds free and come looking for you." He leaned over and asked, "You all right, Nancy? They didn't hurt you, did they?"
"If they do, it will be all your fault."
King demanded, "How do you figure that?"
"This was supposed to be a research mission. If you hadn't tranked Jack prematurely, none of this would have been necessary."
"You have a funny way of expressing gratitude, you know that? Without my vision, you wouldn't be here in the first place."
Nancy shut her eyes, as if in pain. "I should have gone to McDonald's."
"Their fries aren't as crispy as ours. Everybody knows that."
Chapter 10
As they stepped off the plane, Remo was saying, "Better let me handle customs, Little Father. It's going to be hard enough to get any cooperation out of the local authorities without getting hung up in customs."
"I will allow you to try," said the Master of Sinanju.
At customs, their lack of baggage prompted concern.
"Why do you not carry bags?" the customs inspector asked in an accusing voice.
"They got lost in London," Remo explained.
"You did not wait for your bags?"
"We were in a rush."
The customs man cocked an eyebrow that pushed his sweaty forehead into thick gullies. "A rush to come to Gondwanaland?"
"Right."
"That means you are spies and are hereby under arrest," he snapped, motioning toward two white-uniformed security police.
"Hold the fort," Remo said. "What makes you say we're spies?"
"Because the only rush is to get out of Gondwanaland. Therefore, you are spies out to uproot our popular president, Oburu Sese Kuku Ngbendu wa za Banga, which means 'The Always-Victorious Warrior Who Is To Be Feared.' "
"Actually, it means 'Rooster Who Mounts Anything Female'," Chiun whispered.
Then the Master of Sinanju stepped in front of Remo.
He spoke a short phrase.
The customs officer looked incredulous. Chiun added another pungent sentence and the man's eyes grew round. He took a step backward, as if confronting his own ghost.
"Now you did it, Chiun," Remo groaned. "What did Smitty say about not getting the locals all riled up?"
Then, shaking his head, the customs officer cried, "Fellows! Come see! Come see! The Master of Sinanju has come to Gondwanaland!"
There was a general rush from the other customs stations. Tourists who had been tied up in hour-long inspections of their luggage-in which fewer items went back into them than were taken out-were waved through as the entire customs force crowded around the Master of Sinanju, begging for autographs.
To Remo's growing surprise, Chiun signed them dutifully and answered excited questions put to him in Swahili.
A customs man came up to Remo, grinning and waving the signature.
"I have the Master of Sinanju's own signature! It is not a great thing?"
Remo glance at the sheet. "He didn't dot the i in 'Chiun. ' "
The man looked, his face sagging. He grabbed the next man to walk by and compared signatures. The other man had one with the i dotted. A third man also had one with the i dotted. And a four
th.
An argument broke out over rights to the signature with the undotted i. Remo couldn't follow it because it was in Swahili, but it seemed that all four men decided that the flawed autograph was the rarest one and therefore the most valuable.
They fell into a busy four-cornered fistfight. That, Remo understood.
While they were fighting, Remo picked the coveted autograph off the floor and dotted the i.
Meanwhile, the Master of Sinanju was putting the arm on the other customs officers, who each clutched autographs.
Remo had trouble following what Chiun was saying until, suddenly, the customs men were pulling key rings out of pockets and fighting one another for the privilege of throwing their keys at the Master of Sinanju's feet.
Remo stepped in then.
"We only drive automatic shifts," he said. "Everybody else can take their keys back."
Two-thirds of the keys were recovered.
"And we insist upon a car with a good spare."
More keys were taken back. The struggling died down.
"Lastly, the car's gotta be blue."
"What if it is not a car?" one man asked.
"What is it, if it's not a car?" Remo wanted to know.
"It is a Land Rover."
"Then you're in luck. Land Rovers are our favorite."
The owner of the Land Rover began hopping about in happy circles. "I win! I win! I win! The Master of Sinanju is going to drive my machine!"
"Actually, I'm going to do the driving," Remo said, putting out his hand to accept the key. The metal barely touched his fingertips before it was swiftly withdrawn.
"I will have no lowly white drive my car," the owner said huffily.
"You lose your golden opportunity, then."
"He does not," said Chiun, putting out a longnailed hand. "For I will drive."
Remo gulped. "You?"
"I might perhaps be rusty," Chiun allowed. "But the skill will return. It is probably just like falling off a bicycle."
"If it is," Remo said sourly, "try to fall off your side, not mine."
Ten minutes later, they were careening through the crumbling streets of downtown Port Chuma, sending chickens and other livestock out of their path while Remo held on to the Land Rover seat for dear life.
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