"That's a lot of ri."
"It was too many ri for Kim, who stood in kneedeep water and puzzled out a solution that would fill his belly with carp without tiring his legs. He wore the simple garments of those days, for the kimono had not been discovered. He was without sandals. Nor had he a belt. Kim had only his hat, which he removed from his head and contemplated at length.
"At that moment a silvery carp swam by, not suspecting that Kim's immobile legs belonged to one that sought its cold meat. With a flourish Kim dipped his bamboo hat into the cold water and lifted it high. As the water drained through the hat's coarse weave, the fish gasped and flopped and so trapped, it surrendered its life without Kim resorting to the cruelty of a hook.
"Carrying his meal in his hat, Bamboo-hatted Kim returned to his home and ate well that day."
"Good for him."
"The next day, Remo, he repeated this feat and was successful. Each day the villagers noticed that Bamboo-hatted Kim walked out in the cold water without hook or line and returned bearing a fish in his hat. And being the lazybones that they were in those days, they fell upon Bamboo-hatted Kim to return to the frigid water and bring them fish, too."
"Sounds like the Sinanju gene pool hasn't improved much in the last five thousand years."
Chiun let the comment pass.
"At first Kim was naturally reluctant. But the villagers plied him with honeyed words and promises of adoration. To these Kim was at first deaf. But one cunning wench with apple cheeks prevailed upon him in the end."
"It wouldn't be the first time someone traded a little nookie for food," said Remo.
"I have never heard of nookie. Is it an ocean fish or a river fish?"
"It's kinda like tuna," said Remo with a straight face.
"I will add it to the list under purple smoothie, another fish unknown in those days," Chiun said somberly.
"You do that," said Remo. "So that was the story of Bamboo-hatted Kim."
"No, that was the story of how Bamboo-hatted Kim earned his nickname. The lesson of Bamboo-hatted Kim is as follows-all that winter Kim went out into the frigid water to gather up the unsuspecting fish because the apple-cheeked wench had whispered a notion that appealed to Kim's lazy instincts. If he walked the three ri every day and brought back fish, he no longer needed to walk the hundreds of ri to Cathay or Egypt or Japan to ply his true trade. For in the those early days, it was the first duty of the Master of Sinanju to feed the village, who depended upon his fish-earning skills."
"Kim took a shortcut, huh?"
Chiun nodded. "An unfortunate one, for as time went on, he softened and grew indolent. Kim allowed himself to be reduced to a fisherman."
"Sounds like a reasonable approach to me."
Chiun eyed Remo critically. "No doubt some of Kim's indolent blood flows through your susceptible veins. We will work on this."
"So what happened?" asked Remo.
"Time passed. Weeks and months followed one another, and Kim found he had to wade farther and farther out because the intelligent fish soon learned to swim farther away, for they noticed that their numbers were dwindling. In time Kim was walking twelve ri. Then twenty. Then thirty. Eventually he reached the point where the water was over his head and his bamboo hat found no fish.
"When after three consecutive days Bamboohatted Kim returned to the village forlorn of countenance, wearing his empty hat instead of carrying it before him laden with carp and corbina, he was jeered by the lazy ones, including the apple-cheeked wench. And his heart was heavy. For there were no more carp or corbina to be scooped up. What had not been eaten, had fled, Remo. The villagers had waxed fat through the bounty Kim had brought back. But instead of living off their fat, as they did some winters, they hooted and jeered and spit upon Empty-headed Kim."
"You mean Bamboo-hatted Kim."
"He was both. For he was soon forced to walk the hundreds of ri to foreign thrones to ply his proper trade. By that time he had grown thick of waist and flabby of muscle."
"He die?"
"Not all at once. He fulfilled a contract with a minor Siamese prince and brought back sufficient gold to purchase sufficient dried yellow corbina from another village to carry Sinanju through the winter. That winter Kim began training his successor in earnest. When the next Master of Sinanju was well on his way to Masterhood, Bamboo-hatted Kim burned his unlucky hat-although nothing could consume his poor reputation."
They walked past several markets and shops, disdaining them all. Quincy had a growing Asian population, but Chiun ignored Chinese- and Vietnamese-owned establishments, too.
"You are very quiet," Chiun prompted.
"Okay, catching too many fish is an old problem. But that was just the West Korea Bay. It's a big planet, and most of it's water. That's a lot of fish."
"How many hungry billions are there now?"
"Seven."
"That is a lot of billions."
"There's still more fish."
"Not if the fish live short lives and the billions enjoy long ones."
"I see your point," said Remo.
They turned a corner of Hancock Street onto a side street. Two blocks down they came to the Squantum Fish Market and they went in.
Ignoring the lobsters in aereated tanks, they went to the glass cases where assorted iced fish lay in halves and fillets.
"What is good today?" asked Chiun of the proprietor.
"We have fresh mudfish."
Chiun's hazel eyes went to the trio of dull black fish that might have been made out of old rubber. "I do not like their eyes."
"The cusk is fresh, too."
"I have had cusk. It is a very tough fish."
"You have shark?" asked Remo.
"Sure. One shark steak?"
"Make it two."
While the shark was being weighed, Chiun eyed Remo and asked, "You eat gross fish. Always with you it is heavy slabs of shark and swordfish and tuna. You eat fish like it is beef steak."
"I'm a big eater."
"Carp is a nice fish."
"You can't get it around here. You know that."
"Soon we will have carp in profusion."
"Could be a long wait," Remo reminded him.
Chiun turned his attention back to the fish case. His wrinkled face gathered up in deepening lines of unhappiness. "I was promised carp and I am reduced to deciding between mudfish and lumpfish."
Remo grinned. "Like it or lump it."
Chiun shot him a withering look, then his face brightened. "Do you have turbot?" he asked the proprietor.
"Sure."
"I will take a pound of your best turbot. For I have heard that fierce wars have been waged over its singular taste, yet I have never tasted it before now."
"It's like halibut."
"Halibut is an acceptable fish. It is better than oily mackerel or bony alewife."
Remo was looking down the rows of fish fillets. His eye fell on a bulge-eyed, blubber-lipped blue fish speared by a white plastic sign on which was written a name in green Magic Marker.
"Wolf fish. What's that?"
"It's good."
"Not with that face," growled Remo. His eye fell on a short-bodied reddish fish with very scared eyes.
"Scup?"
"It's real popular down south," said the proprietor, setting Remo's wrapped shark on the counter, then carefully wrapping up Chiun's turbot.
When his shark was rung up, Remo said, "Since when is shark almost ten dollars a pound?"
"Since fish became scarce."
Reluctantly Remo paid the bill. Together he and the Master of Sinanju walked out of the shop.
"This shark ought to last me a few days," Remo said.
"You will cook it yourself," Chiun warned.
"Anything to keep the wenches out of my waters."
BACK AT CASTLE SINANJU, the phone was ringing.
"Hey! Somebody answer that!" Remo shouted as he stepped in.
"It is same man who called before," shouted down Chiun's name
less housekeeper from the top floor.
Dropping his fish on the counter, Remo grabbed up the telephone.
Harold Smith's voice was hoarse and haggard. "We have an urgent situation developing in the North Atlantic."
"What's that?" asked Remo.
"The Coast Guard cutter Cayuga has been detained by Canadian Coast Guard gunboats."
"What did they do wrong?"
"I do not know, but if what I fear is true, the United States is now at war."
"War? War with whom?"
"That is what you must find out. Fly to St. John's, Newfoundland, immediately. The Cayuga is under Canadian tow, and that appears to be their ultimate destination."
"Sure. Once I wolf down a slab of shark."
"Now," said Smith.
"I'll eat it raw on the way. Without shark I doubt if I can make it through the flight."
Chapter 24
Lieutenant Sandy Heckman would never have fallen for it, but the Canadian Coast Guard captain was so damn polite.
She should have known better. She cursed herself a blue streak when she realized how badly she had screwed up, but by then she was in over her head and the bubbles were breaking the surface.
She had dropped off the two crazies from the National Bureau of Fisheries, or whatever it was. And promptly turned around before her commander could stop her.
This was going to be her last patrol. There was no getting around it. She had in the heat of action sunk a foreign sub in open waters. It was selfdefense, but as soon as the gurry hit the screws she knew it was back to halibut patrol off Alaska or worse, stripped of her commission and set adrift among the landsmen.
Either way she wanted one last rescue.
Off New Brunswick she was searching for the missing Jeannie I out of Bar Harbor, Maine, when a Canadian fisheries-patrol boat showed up, its decks thick with green-uniformed inspectors from the Ministry of Fisheries and Oceans.
They hailed her in very polite terms. "Can we speak to you a moment, Lieutenant?"
"Is this about the submarine?"
"Again, please?"
Maybe it was the brisk tone of his voice or the natty uniform. But Sandy Heckman fell for it hook, line and sinker. Especially line.
"Never mind. Helmsman, throttle down and prepare to make her fast to the cutter."
"Aye, sir."
She had her misgivings, but their politeness had disarmed her completely. Back in her Pacific days, she used to lull drug runners into letting themselves be boarded by just such casual words, crisply spoken. She had taken a course in being crisp and disarming at the same time. Truthfully she'd rather threaten and, if necessary, fire across their damn bows. But drug smugglers tended to be better armed that the average CG cutter, so she'd learned to do it by the book.
Besides, these guys were Canadians. The last oceangoing power they wanted to screw with was the U.S. of A.
The Canadian patrol boat bumped against the Cayuga and a boarding gangplank was laid between the two vessels. Three fisheries inspectors stepped aboard, flashing diffident smiles and announcing that the Cayuga has being seized in the name of the crown.
"This is about the submarine, isn't it?" Sandy asked in a tight voice.
"I know nothing of that," returned the captain, "but this vessel is coming to St. John's." He pronounced it "St. Jahn's," and Sandy Heckman had to suppress the urge to knock the officer on his polite rear.
"These are international waters," she argued stiffly.
The captain made a show of looking about the gray, heaving ocean. "Oh, I believe you are mistaken. My charts show these to be Canadian waters. You are in our Maritimes, and your boat must be brought in for a safety inspection."
"You have no legal authority to inspect a U.S. vessel," Sandy flared.
"Why don't we leave that to the lawful agencies that govern such things?" the captain said smoothly.
Sandy Heckman dropped one hand to her side arm, and the moment it touched the flap, a bullet whined past her left rear.
She saw a smoking M-16 on the other deck. Behind it was a stiff face looking at her down the darkeyed barrel.
She let her hand drop loosely to her side. It hung there shaking. "It's your party. But you know there will be hell to pay," she said in a grating voice like seashells being chewed slowly.
"Be so good as to order your crew into my boat. I will see that your vessel arrives in St. John's safely."
"Well," Sandy muttered as she turned to address her expectant-faced crew, "they can't boot me out of the guard any harder for losing my ship than for sinking a Canadian sub."
Her crew seemed not to share her nonchalance. They looked worried.
The transfer of crew was executed with expert smartness. The gangplank was recovered.
Soon the Canadian fisheries-patrol boat was thundering north to Newfoundland, the Cayuga bringing up the rear.
There was one bright spot. The Canadians served the shivering Cayuga crew paper cups filled with very strong and bone-warming tea.
But then, they were a pretty polite lot. For pirates.
Chapter 25
On the Air Canada flight north, Remo kept asking for water.
"One moment, sir."
"Please wait your turn, sir."
"We're coming to your aisle."
One stewardess actually ignored him outright.
"Isn't this great?" Remo asked Chiun.
"You will never get your water this way."
"Who cares? I can fly in peace now."
"Your breath smells of carrion."
"I only took one bite."
When the meal-service tray finally reached them somewhere over Maine, Remo lifted his rewrapped shark and asked a stewardess if she would zap it in the microwave oven for him.
"Not enough to toast it. Just warm it. I like my shark on the raw side," he said.
"I'm sorry, sir. It is against airline policy to cook a nonregulation meal."
"Please," asked Remo.
The stewardess's voice turned as frosty as her hair. "Sorry. But no. Do you want the chicken or the fish?"
"What kind of fish?" asked Chiun.
"Scrod."
"What is that, exactly?" Remo wondered aloud.
The stewardess looked at Remo as if he was a imbecile. "Scrod is scrod."
"I will have the turbot," said Chin.
The stewardess looked blank. "Turbot?"
And from the sleeve of his kimono, the Master of Sinanju produced a neatly wrapped packet of turbot fillet.
The stewardess took it with a smile and said, "Be happy to, sir."
"How come he gets special service and I don't?" Remo wanted to know.
"Scrod or chicken?" the stewardess asked, ignoring the question.
"Scrod," said Remo, folding his lean arms unhappily.
"I will have scrod, as well, since it is free. But see that my turbot is not too dry," Chiun admonished.
"Of course, sir," the stewardess said smilingly.
The scrod was served with baked potatoes and kernel corn. The potatoes were little bigger than Concord grapes, and the corn was pale and scant. They ignored both and tasted the scrod gingerly, not certain how it was prepared.
"Tastes like cod," said Remo.
"Mine brings to mind haddock," said Chiun.
"Can't be both."
They exchanged bites, which only confirmed each other's contrary opinion.
When the stewardess came back their way, Remo asked her, "How come my scrod is cod and his is haddock?"
"Ask the fish," the stewardess said tartly, without breaking stride.
Chiun fumed. Remo grinned.
"Stewardesses couldn't care less about me," Remo said happily.
"They are in good company. For how will you sire a proper heir to the house if women do not open their willing wombs to your pollen?"
"I'm saving my pollen for the right woman," Remo muttered.
An hour into the flight, the seat phone rang.
"It's not suppos
ed to do that," a stewardess said, her shocked face jerking around.
Remo inserted his credit card into the slot and freed the phone from its receptacle in the seat-back before him.
"What's up, Smitty?"
"Remo, here is the latest. The Cayuga has been taken to the Canadian Coast Guard station at St. John's, Newfoundland. It will be your task to liberate the vessel and its crew."
"Gotcha," said Remo.
When he replaced the phone, the stewardesses were grouped around the seat, and Remo began experiencing an acute attack of deja vu.
"It's not supposed to do that," the first one reiterated.
"It just did," Remo contested.
"But they're not designed for incoming calls."
"Yeah. Only outgoing," another stewardess chimed in.
"There's a reasonable explanation for all this," said Remo.
They looked at him with expectancy on their lipglossed faces.
"Be happy to explain it over dinner after we land," said Remo.
Expressions ranging from disdain to disgust overtook the stewardesses' faces and, without answering, they broke in three directions, returning to their duties.
"Isn't this great?" said Remo.
"Not if one is forced to sit next to you, shark breath."
"At least we know one thing for sure."
"And what is that?"
"Scrod is cod."
"No, it is haddock."
"Cod. It rhymes with scrod. That's why it's called that."
"You were given inferior fish by mistake. I was given true scrod, which is a kind of haddock."
"Remind me to ask Smitty about scrod next time. He's a New Englander. He'll know."
AT THE AIRPORT in St. John's, Remo noticed that the customs officials were members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. They wore brown serge coats instead of the traditional red. Since he was waiting in line, Remo decided to pass the time by asking why.
"You have been watching too much television, Yank," the Mountie said stiffly.
"I hardly watch any," Remo protested.
"Our red uniform is ceremonial."
"I liked the red better," said Remo, trying to be friendly.
"The red is strictly ceremonial."
"I heard you the first time."
"Please spread the word among your fellow Yanks. We are tired of answering this particular question. Here is your passport."
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