"Breathing is the key," said Dr. Charlese. "I know that. Breathing is the whole key to control of those vast reaches of your mind. Did you know that the chart I gave you was nylon mesh? No one could tear it with his hands."
"Would you explain what you're talking about?"
"I had only one copy of that chart. I carried it with me. I didn't want it destroyed so I had it hand-painted on strong nylon mesh, reinforced with steel strands. Something like a steel-belted tire. And you tore it up like it was paper."
"I'm trying to piece this thing together. What do you know about breathing?" Remo asked.
"Yesterday, I saw you by the pool. With the Japanese man."
"Korean. Never call him Japanese," said Remo.
"And I saw you do it. I timed it."
"What? Nobody can tell when I'm exercising."
"Your diaphragm gave you away."
"How?"
"It didn't move. I watched your breathing slow down and then your diaphragm didn't move. Not for twenty-two minutes and fifteen seconds. I have a stopwatch. I time everything."
"Can we talk somewhere privately?"
"I've been sort of evicted from my room. But I'm projecting that someone else will pay the bill."
"No, no. I'm not interested in your projecting. I want to know about breathing," said Remo.
"I knew you could tear that chart when I saw your breathing control."
"Wait," said Remo. "Not out here in the hall." He led Dr. Charlese to his suite. He opened the door quietly and put a finger over his lips. A frail Oriental, with a wisp of a white beard and strands of white hair surrounding his otherwise bald head, sat in a chartreuse kimono, mumbling something. He was watching a television program in which the actors spoke in English. Remo guided Dr. Charlese to another room.
"I didn't know there were American soap operas down here," said Dr. Charlese.
"There aren't. He has them taped specially. Never misses one."
"What was he talking about?"
"It was Korean. He was saying how awful the shows were."
"Then why does he watch them?"
"One never asks why with the Master of Sinanju."
"Who?"
"Never mind. Tell me about breathing."
Dr. Charlese explained: The human brain emitted waves at different levels of consciousness. At the Alpha level, or what they called Alpha waves, people were more relaxed and creative and even exhibited powers of extrasensory perception. At the deeper level, where people emitted what were called Theta waves, people could perform extraordinary feats. This was documented. How many times, for example, had Remo heard of a child trapped underneath a car and the mother lifting that car in a sense of calm purpose? How many times had Remo heard of people fleeing danger and leaping over fences to do so, leaps that would have been Olympic records? How many times had Remo heard of a person surviving a fall, while others in the fall were killed? What were those greater powers?
"Get back to the breathing," said Remo. "What does breathing have to do with these things?"
"That's how we discovered that human beings can produce these waves at will. It's a relaxed breathing process in which you slow down your breathing. You relax your way to power."
"And you can do these things?"
"Well, not exactly me. But I've seen others. You see, I'm not exactly a representative of the institute, anymore. They're very finicky."
"About what?"
"Commissions and things, and using this power for good, I say power is power and has no purpose other than itself."
"You stole money or something?"
"There was an accident. They blamed me for the girl's death, but I say what is the life of a child when I can help all mankind. I, Dr. Averill Charlese. And, with you, we could make a fortune."
"Breathing, you say, huh?"
"Breathing."
And Remo listened. About the institute. About the narrow-minded people running it and how Dr. Charlese was not actually a doctor exactly. He was a doctor in the broader sense. One person bestowed the title on another, therefore he was bestowing it on someone he knew was worthy of the title. Himself.
"You could call yourself doctor, too," said Charlese.
"Breathing you say," said Remo.
In the late afternoon, Remo heard the set in the lounge of the suite click off. He nodded for Dr. Charlese to follow.
When they entered the lounge, the old Oriental turned his head.
"Little Father," Remo said, "I would like to introduce you to someone very interesting. He is not privy to any secrets of Sinanju. Neither has he been taught by any master. He learned what he knows in an American City called Houston, Texas, from white men."
Chiun's placid eyes moved up and down the lacquer-haired visitor with the bubbling Rotarian smile. He turned away as if someone had pointed out an orange rind. He was not interested.
"Dr. Charlese, I would like you to meet Chiun, the latest Master of Sinanju."
"Pleased to meet you, sir," said Dr. Charlese. He offered a pudgy hand. Chiun did not turn around. Dr. Charlese looked to Remo, confused.
"He says hello a little differently," said Remo, by way of explanation. Chiun's way of saying hello was to not even turn his head as Remo explained some of the things Dr. Charlese had been talking about.
"Breathing," Remo said. "Nothing mysterious. Nothing great. Just good old American science. By white men."
Chiun chuckled. "Am I now led to believe the awesome magnificence of the Glorious House of Sinanju has been put into a little pill for people? That centuries of discipline and wisdom can be discovered in a test tube?"
"No test tube," said Remo. "Breathing."
"When we talk of breathing, we talk of approaching the unity which makes you a force," Chiun said. "When that man talks of breathing, he means puffing."
"I don't think so, Little Father. I think they may have stumbled onto something. Maybe by accident."
"So glad to meet you, sir. The name's Charlese. Dr. Averill Charlese, no relation to Averill Harriman, the millionaire. And you, sir, are Mr. Chiun?"
Chiun looked off into the blue Mexican sky outside their window.
"He doesn't like to discuss these things with strangers, especially foreigners."
"I'm not foreign. I'm American," said Dr. Charlese. "And so are you."
Remo heard Chiun mumble something in Korean about being able to take whiteness out of the mind but not the soul.
"Go ahead, talk. He's really listening," Remo said. Dr. Charlese began drawing diagrams of the mind on small white cloths he found under an unused ashtray.
Breathing, thought Remo. It had been more than a decade now since he heard that first strange instruction. More than a decade since he had stopped using his body and mind only partially, as other men did.
What appeared to others as great feats of strength and speed were really as effortless to him now as flicking a light switch. As Chiun had said, effort was expended when one functioned improperly. Correctness brought ease.
Remo had been taught that ease when he had been given Sinanju, called Sinanju after the village on the West Korea Bay whence came the Masters of Sinanju. From king to king and emperor to emperor, from pharaoh to Medici, these masters-one or, at most, two-generation-rented their talents and services to the rulers of the world. Assassins whose services paid for the food in the desolate little Korean village where crops did not grow and the fishing was poor. Each Master did not rule the village, but served it, for he was the provider of food.
During many generations their actions were observed by those who would imitate Sinanju. But they only saw, as Chiun had said, the kimono and not the man. They saw the blows when the blows were slow enough for the human eye to see. And from these blows and kicks and the other movements that were slow enough for normal men to see, came karate and ninja and taikwando and all that was thought to be the martial arts.