"Yes," said the leader, anxious to join his creed in the afterlife. "I am ready. Do it now. Kill me."
Chiun stepped back. "Yes, you will die," he said. "But we will not kill you. For you are of the undead, and it is written that only in death are you truly alive. So it follows that only in life are you truly dead."
The leader sat still, drinking in Chiun's words. Then, before the full meaning of those words dawned on him, before he could drive his own fingernail into his neck to escape, Remo moved.
His right hand chopped just under the leader's ear, stopping all movement, paralysing all limbs as the left hand sped forward, faster than the eye could follow, faster than skin could react, faster than bone could break, to snake into the leader's skull, to shave a part of the leader's brain, then withdraw, without stopping movement to join the right hand again at Remo's side.
The leader still sat. No cut appeared on his skin. No break could be discerned upon his skull. His eyes were closed, but the heart still beat, the blood still flowed, the mind still worked.
But the electrical impulses that guided the muscles went no further than the top of his spine. The leader's mind no longer had any direct control of his body. The brain still functioned but his limbs would not respond to his orders. He was trapped.
"See?" said Remo to Chiun. "I didn't bend my elbow that time."
The Houston doctors marvelled at the patient. The old Chinese was almost an exact replica of the case of the Massachusetts girl who had been in a coma since birth.
He, like she, was still alive, but he, like she was unaware of that fact. An incredible case. The Houston doctors were pleased and honored to get it.
They had warned the man who committed him that there was very little chance of his ever recovering.
"That's all right," said the man. "Just keep my grandfather alive as long as possible."
They had warned the man that with the new life-sustaining techniques, it was quite conceivable that the old Oriental could outlive them all.
"That's fine," said the man. "I'd like to think of him as a memorial to the family."
They had warned the man that this sort of prolonged treatment would be very expensive.
"That's fine too," said the man, plopping down five piles of hundred dollar bills. "Money is no object."
The doctors had no more warnings. After they checked the authenticity of the bills, they hoped that Mr. Nichols' grandfather would live a long and full life in the intensive-care unit and that Mr. Nichols and his father would visit any time they pleased.
"Well, actually," said Remo, "we're going out of town for a long time. Just, please, keep granddaddy alive."
The doctors sympathized and wished Mr. Nichols and his father well, even though they could not figure out how, medically speaking, a tall, white, dark-haired American was born to such a short, white-haired, yellow-skinned man.
Remo and Chiun left the Houston Hospital to go back to their hotel.
"I'm glad you did not pay gold," Chiun said. "Chinamen aren't worth it."
"Paper will do," said Remo. "Besides I'm going to have a wonderful time explaining to Smitty why we needed the money in the first place."
"Tell him we will return it. It will gladden the emperor's heart," Chiun said.
"And just how do you propose we do that?" Remo asked. "That was $25,000. A lot of scratch."
"It is as nothing compared to all that you will earn next week when you deliver my daytime drama to the television people. It will make me wealthy. And your three percent share as my agent will enable you to repay Smith."
"My what?"
"Your four percent share," said Chiun.
"My what?"
"Your five percent share," said Chiun, coldly, then turned away and told the wall: "All agents are bandits."
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The Final Death td-29 Page 13