"The furnace is fine, Master," Dilkes announced. He hated that word now. It sounded so wrong on his tongue.
Nuihc was sitting on the woven mat in the center of the room. "Really?" he said. "I felt ... something." The words came out a lazy drawl.
Why, Dilkes wondered for the hundredth time, was this native Korean sounding more and more as if he'd been born and bred on some rural Appalachian dirt farm?
The accent had slipped out a few times during their days together. The Southern twang was as thick as a bowl of hominy grits. When Rebecca Dalton had phoned with news of the death of the American Master of Sinanju three days before, the Southern accent had blossomed full. Gone was the precise use of language of a cultured Korean master assassin. Nuihc now sounded as though he should be calling Saturday-night square dances in Possum Hollow.
Benson Dilkes, native Virginian, knew the accent wasn't a put-on. But he couldn't figure out why it was coming out of Nuihc's mouth. Or why the lips of the blond man in the corner of the room now always seemed to move in perfect time with the words spoken by Nuihc. Dilkes felt that he was stuck in the middle of some demented ventriloquist act.
"I can check the furnace again," Dilkes offered.
"No," Nuihc said. He closed his eyes, a blissful expression settling on his flat face. "It's more than just the furnace. I can feel it now. A great army comes."
"I don't hear anything."
"Of course you don't. You ain't Nuihc the wise, Nuihc the great, Nuihc the sees-all-and-tells-all." And at this, the Korean giggled insanely. Out of the corner of his eye, Dilkes saw the blond-haired man was laughing, as well. Mouth hanging open wide with demented glee, not a single sound passing parted lips.
"It's Kim Jong Il," Nuihc explained. "Come to welcome us to the neighborhood. I promised him power and glory in exchange for protection. Dang fool thinks he can give it to me with tanks. Beats having to kill him, I expect. And I could do it, too, 'cause I'm Nuihc the killer. Killer of men, killer of hopes and dreams. Killer of childhood. Don't make a whole lot of difference either way to me."
The blond man found this hysterically funny. Over in the corner, he laughed his silent laugh even as Nuihc threw back his own head, clutching his belly as he cackled crazily.
"If the North Korean army is advancing on us, I should go tell the men," Dilkes said, voice loud over the laughter.
Nuihc waved a hand. "No," he said, his Southern accent strong. "Leave them where they are. They're my Army of Death. They're the fellers what are gonna help me rule the world. I give 'em a little training, see, and then I send 'em back to wherever they come from. Nothing can stop them. That's what I always wanted, you know. To rule the world. I couldn't be happy just being a plain old Master of Sinanju or a daddy. I always had one eye on the whole big world."
This was intolerable. He was getting worse by the minute. Talking gibberish, laughing insanely.
For Dilkes enough was enough. Nuihc had gotten them all into this country. As a white American in Communist North Korea, Dilkes thought himself trapped. No more. He was getting out somehow. He was leaving this crazy man to his plots of world domination. Benson Dilkes was going back to Africa. Back to his prize roses and his happy retirement. Let them come and get him if they wanted. Nuihc, the current Reigning Master. Dilkes didn't care. He wasn't going to play this insane game any longer.
"If the premier is sending men, maybe they can help find the old Master of Sinanju," Dilkes said, beginning to back slowly from the room. "They know the terrain, and he hasn't been seen since he ran from the village three days ago."
"He's dead," Nuihc insisted firmly. "This place meant everything to him. It made him nuts to see it in ruins. I felt his insanity." He hugged himself, like cuddling up in a warm blanket. "He couldn't live with it."
Dilkes didn't know what Nuihc was talking about now. Someone seeing Sinanju in ruins. More crazy talk.
"As you say, Master," Dilkes smiled. "If there's nothing more, I'll go check on the men."
Nuihc didn't hear. He had already lost interest in Benson Dilkes. He had turned full attention on the blond man. A human plaything, Nuihc lifted one arm, and the blond did the same. They each mirrored the movements of the other perfectly. The two of them giggled at each other.
"Like father, like son." Nuihc laughed.
At the door Benson Dilkes shook his head. He quietly departed the room on the disturbing image of mirrored lunatics' laughter.
"MARK!" Smith gasped.
The CURE director couldn't believe his eyes. He had seen much that was strange in his time, but little could compete with the extraordinary sight of his assistant stepping straight through a solid wall.
When Smith called, Mark Howard returned. The young man appeared like a phantom through the side of the burned-out building. He wore a nervous smile. "Abracadabra," Mark said.
"How did you do that?" Smith demanded.
"Easy," Mark replied. "The wall's not really there." He waved around the decimated village. "None of them are. You mean you can't see it?" He was optimistic, but seemed resigned to the fact that he alone could see the truth.
Smith still sat on the ground near the Master of Sinanju's body. He looked up the main road of Sinanju.
"I see buildings burned. Some right to the ground."
Howard shook his head. "It's just a projection, Dr. Smith. The buildings I see are still in one piece. They're a little bit behind the fake walls. From what I can tell, the village looks fine. It's like he's superimposing an image of destruction over the whole place."
Smith knew precisely who Howard meant. He also allowed a fresh sliver of hope to enter his grieving heart.
"What of-what of the villagers?" he asked. He kept his eyes trained on Mark, not daring to look down at Chiun.
The answer sent Smith's tired old heart soaring. "That's definitely not Chiun," Mark insisted. "It's not anyone. None of these bodies are real."
The questioning singsong that rang loud at Howard's back startled both the assistant CURE director and Harold Smith.
"Are you certain?" demanded a squeaky voice. Howard wheeled.
The Master of Sinanju stood like a statue carved from stone at the very edge of the village square. His hands were tucked inside his voluminous kimono sleeves. With suspicious slits he looked across the ruins of Sinanju. His eyes lingered on the corpse that wore his face.
"Master Chiun!" Smith cried, climbing quickly to his feet. As he hurried over to meet the old Korean, he dried the cold tears from his face.
Chiun ignored Smith. "The bodies of my people," he snapped at Howard. "Are they real or not?"
"No," Mark Howard replied. "They're just illusions. Like this wall." To prove his point he put his hand against the wall. It disappeared up to the forearm.
Eyes widening in surprise, the old Korean pressed a wrinkled hand to the wall. It felt solid to his touch. He could feel the rough surface of the charred wood. But it seemed too perfect, felt too much like a burned house. Just like the smell of smoke that still lingered in the cold air. All too real. He was ashamed to not have noticed it before. Experience should have made him suspicious. In the past he had been tricked several times by Jeremiah Purcell's more-real-than-real illusions.
"The Dutchman," Chiun snarled, his hand hopping from the false wall.
"He's here," Smith insisted. "That's why we came. To warn you. Mark says-"
"Enough!" Chiun snapped impatiently, cutting Smith off. "What day is this?"
Smith was surprised by the question. The Master of Sinanju kept time better than an atomic clock. "It's Friday," Smith replied.
"Three days," Chiun said to himself. To Smith he asked sharply, "Where is Remo?"