"Hail, Emperor Smith," said Chiun.
"That will be all, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said to his secretary.
"Hadn't I better call an orderly?" the gray-haired woman asked, with a sidelong glance at the old Oriental.
"Not necessary," said Smith. "And please. I'll take no calls. "
Mrs. Mikulka looked doubtful but she closed the door quietly after her.
"I didn't summon you, Chiun," said Smith.
"Yet your pleasure at my arrival is returned threefold," Chiun said.
"Remo isn't with you?" asked Smith, sitting down. He had thin white hair and the expression of a man who'd just discovered half a worm in his apple. He had been young when he had set up CURE, but now he had grown old in its service. He adjusted his Dartmouth tie.
"Remo has not yet returned from his latest mission," Chiun said. "But it is of no moment."
"Odd," said Smith. "I had a report that his target had been . . . terminated."
Chiun smiled. Smith was always uncomfortable with the language of death. "Another jewel in your crown," he said and wondered why Smith always greeted success with the same sour expression as bitter defeat.
"I wish you wouldn't call me that," said Smith. "Emperor. You know very well that I am not the emperor."
"You could be," said Chiun. "Your President has lived a full life. Perhaps it is time for younger blood."
"Thank you, no," said Smith, who had long ago grown weary of trying to explain to Chiun that he served the President and was not a pretender to the Oval Office. "Now what can I do for you, Master of Sinanju?"
Chiun looked shocked. "Have you forgotten? It is time to renegotiate the contract between the House of Sinanju and the House of Smith."
"The United States," said Smith. "Your contract is with the United States. But it's not due to expire for another six months."
"When entering into protracted and difficult dealings," said Chiun solemnly, "it is best to begin early."
"Oh. I rather thought we could simply renew the old contract. It's quite generous, as you know."
"It was magnanimously generous," agreed Chiun. "Considering the false understanding on which it was based."
"False understanding?"
Smith watched as Chiun unrolled his straw mat and placed it on the floor, carefully arranging an array of scrolls beside the mat before settling into place. Smith had to stand in order to see Chiun over his desktop.
Smith sighed. He had been through these negotiations before. Chiun would not speak another word until Smith was seated at eye level. Smith pulled a pencil and a yellow legal pad from a drawer and stiffly found a place on the floor, facing the old Korean. He balanced the pad on a knee. After so many years of writing on a computer keypad, the pencil felt like a banana in his fingers.
"I am ready," said Smith.
As Chiun opened a scroll, Smith recognized it as a copy of the last contract he had signed. It was on special rice paper edged in gold and had itself cost hundreds of dollars. Another unnecessary expense.
"Ah, here it is," Chiun said, looking up from the scroll. "The poophole."
"I beg your pardon."
"It is a legal term. Poophole. Have you never heard of it? Most contracts have them."
"You mean loophole. And our contract is ironclad. There are no loopholes."
"There is a saying in my village," said Chiun. "'Never correct an emperor. Except when he is wrong.' And you are wrong, great leader. The poophole is in the paragraph about training a white in the art of Sinanju."
"As I recall, you charged extra for that," Smith said.
"A mere pittance to wipe out what I thought was a great shame. An odious shame. But as it turns out, I made a mistake. "
"What kind of mistake?" asked Smith, who knew that Chiun's mistakes invariably wound up costing him money. "I was not training a white at all," Chiun said, beaming at the happy thought.
Smith frowned. "What do you mean? Of course Remo's white. True, we don't know who his parents were, but all you have to do is look to see that he's white."
Patiently, Chiun shook his head. "No Chinese, no Japanese, no non-Korean ever before has been able to absorb Sinanju training. Yet this supposed white has taken to Sinanju like no other in the history of my humble village."
"That's good, isn't it?" asked Smith, who could not figure out what Chiun was driving at.
"Of course," said Chiun. "It means that Remo is really Korean." He mumbled some words in the Korean language.
"What did you say?"
"Just his name. Remo the Fair. He is part Korean. There can be no other explanation."
"Perhaps Americans just naturally take to Sinanju," Smith said. "You've never had to train an American before Remo."
Chiun made a face. "You are being ridiculous. But enough. Remo is learning Sinanju faster than any Korean. Therefore Remo is not white."
"And therefore," said Smith, "your earlier demands for extra payment for training a white are no longer valid."
"Exactly," Chiun said.
Smith hesitated while he searched Chiun's face, but the expression was bland. Smith had never been able to read his face.
"Are you saying that you're willing to take less money because of that?" he asked.
"Of course not. I contracted to train a white for you, and knowing whites, you would have gotten somebody who jumped around, grunting, breaking boards with much noise. Instead, you have gotten a true Master of Sinanju. You have been getting a bargain for all these years and this will require an adjustment, not only on our next contract, but radioactive payments on all preceding contracts."
"Retroactive," Smith said. "You mean retroactive payments."
"Good. Then we are in agreement. I knew you would understand, wise Emperor."
"I do not understand," Smith snapped. "but I don't want to argue the point. Just tell me. What are your demands this time?"
Calmly, slowly, Chiun picked up another scroll and unrolled it.
"We do not have demands," he said haughtily. "We have requirements and they are these." He began to read from the scroll.
"Two jars of emeralds. Uncut.
"Twenty jars of diamonds of different cuts. No flaws.
"Eight bolts of Tang-dynasty silk. Assorted colors.
"One Persian statue of Darius. Of shittimwood.
"Rupees. Twelve bushels."
He stopped as Smith held up a hand.
"Master of Sinanju. Many of those items are priceless museum pieces."
"Yes?" said Chiun.
"Tang-dynasty silk, for example, is not easily come by."
"Of course," said Chiun. "We would not ask for it otherwise. "
"I don't think any Tang-dynasty silk exists in the modern world," Smith said.
"I have Tang-dynasty silk," said Chiun. "Back in the treasure house of my ancestors. In Sinanju."
"When why do you want more?"
"You never asked that question during previous negotiations when I asked for more gold. You never said to me, 'Master of Sinanju, why do you want more gold? You already have gold.' "
"True," said Smith. "But this is different."
"Yes," said Chiun, beaming now. "It is different. This time I am not asking for more gold. I have enough of gold, thanks to your generosity. But in times past my ancestors were paid in tribute, not always gold. Now I wish to be paid in tribute as befits my heritage."
"My government pays enough yearly tribute to feed all North Korea," Smith said evenly. "You have brought to Sinanju more wealth than it has seen in all the thousands of years of Sinanju history before you."
"No Master before me ever was forced to dwell in a foreign land-an odious land-for so long," said Chiun. "I am the first to be treated thusly."
"I am sorry," said Smith, who despite being the only person in charge of an unlimited secret operating fund kept track of his secretary's consumption of paper clips. "I think your requests are unreasonable."