"Let him have it. Give it up," yelled Chiun.
"Give it up, hell," said Remo and whipped up a knee to take out Mr. Gordons's groin. But the knee flailed in the air as Remo's right shoulder felt hot irons ripping at the tendons.
Remo saw the flash of Chiun's kimono come at him and then, to his shock, he did not see the awesome skill of the frail hands tear the smile from Mr. Gordons's face. Instead, he saw Chiun come at his own hands. Remo felt Chiun's long nails pry open his right hand. And then the program was gone. Mr. Gordons had it, dropping the plates as he pushed the program into his shirt.
"Thank you," said Mr. Gordons, who then walked evenly away despite his damaged right side. Remo spun back to his feet and, at an angle to compensate for the damage to his arm, took the first step toward catching that sandy blond head and dismembering its supporting neck. But Chiun's foot was faster, and Remo tripped tumbling forward, groaning in pain from his shoulder. Chiun circled and stood between Remo and Mr. Gordons who was disappearing from the boarding area into the main lobby.
"What'd you do that for? I had him. I had him," yelled Remo, his eyes tearing in frustration.
"We must flee and I must bind your wounds, foolish one," said Chiun.
"You let him get the program. You let him get it. Now we'll never see him again."
"Let us hope for that," said Chiun and with his long delicate fingers began probing the shoulder muscles of his young student. With strips from his own kimono, he bound the arm so there would be no more tearing and then took him to a ticket counter where the Master of Sinanju asked where there was sun and sea water. And being told many places, he selected the nearest, St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands, which was unknown to the Master of Sinanju but which he decided had probably been discovered only recently, in the last five hundred years or so.
With the plates for the white man's paper money, Chiun made a package. And with the other paper printings, their stamps, pasted on the price of their mailing. And with their pens that needed no dipping into ink, not even brushes were these pens, he prepared a missive for Smith whose empire had employed this latest Master of Sinanju.
Dear Harold Smith, Mr.
Lo, these many years has the House of Sinanju served your empire and lo, these many years has your graciousness been bestowed upon our little village. Our children and our poor and our aged eat and are clothed and sleep under roofs that are of new materials.
Never has the empire of Smith been negligent of its obligations. Full well has it paid its gold at appointed times. Without these obligations being met, the village of Sinanju would starve for the soil is rocky and the sea does not yield fish from the cold bay. The services of the Master of Sinanju for centuries has enabled our people to first, eat, and then to live in dignity. You hove met your agreement made more than a decade ago.
The Master of Sinanju has also met his. The Master was contracted to take a normal white man and to teach him Sinanju. As much, you remember it was stipulated, as was needed so that he need not carry weapons to perform. This the young man learned. Within the very first year, he learned this. But he has learned much more than your gold purchased. He was given more than your gold could buy. He has become Sinanju more than anyone, even Japanese and other Koreans, outside of Sinanju has ever become.
He has taken the sun source to his heart and this you did not pay for. He has conquered his body and become its master and this you did not pay for. He has joined and been given Sinanju in the completeness of what he could grasp. This you did not pay for and this the House of Sinanju would never sell. For Sinanju is not for sale; only its services are.
Therefore, with much regret and with gratitude, the Master must inform you that Sinanju terminates the agreement. We will find sustenance elsewhere for the village, as will Remo and I.
Incidentally, Remo being not only white but American white, will naturally have special affection for his homeland and should at a later time you need his services, you would be highly considered by him.
Enclosed are the pieces of metal you wished. The mission is over. The contract is over.
Chiun made the mark of Sinanju, an inverted trapezoid with a vertical line bisecting it—a figure for house—and then one for "absolute" which was more complicated but which represented his name and title, and with the envelope he had purchased along with the stamps and wrapping paper and stationery and pen at the airport merchant's, he covered the missive and made sure it was placed into the metal boxes which were emptied regularly and delivered by messengers. Not since Genghis Khan had there been such a service so well protected. Not a mean accomplishment, for Westerners.
When he returned to the bench where Remo waited, he was pleased to see Remo sitting with his weight properly adjusted for his other muscles to support the torn ones. Often this young man's creative and learned knowledge had pleased the master to gladness. But one could not acknowledge such gladness for the young man's arrogance was already too much to bear. "What were you doing, Little Father, writing a book? You almost filled a whole pad," said Remo.
"I was telling Emperor Smith of your misfortunes, of your damage."
"Why? I'll be okay."
Chiun shook his head with exaggerated solemnity. "Yes. I know that and you know that, but emperors are emperors, even if you wish to call them directors or presidents or whatever you wish to call them. And when an assassin is wounded, no matter how highly prized he is, emperors have no use for them."
"Smitty?"
"Yes. It is sad, my son. A wounded assassin has no home. Emperors' loyalties have limits."
"But I'm part of the organization. I'm the only one outside of Smitty who knows what we do."
"It is a sad lesson of growing up you are learning," said Chiun. "But do not fear. If emperors have no loyalty for assassins, yet there is always a market for our services. In the peace of Rome there was need, in the order of the Khan's sons there was need, and in the turmoil years, there is most definitely a need. Worry not. Rome is gone, the Chinese dynasties are gone. Sinanju lives."
"I can't believe Smitty would feel that way," said Remo, and Chiun quieted him, for the young man needed rest for now. Their airplane would be leaving soon and this flight business, while it appeared to do little harm, did upset the blood in people as did the changing of the moons. But white men did not know this. Even few yellow men did.
When they boarded the plane for St. Thomas, due to arrive at the airport named after a dead emperor, Truman, in less than five hours, Chiun noticed a small metallic spur implanted in Remo's clothes. And since he did not know what it was, he did not throw it away. It might be that of Mr. Gordons, whose technique in all the centuries of Sinanju was unknown, and who Remo foolishly had chosen to defy. But this could be forgiven Remo. He was young, not even yet sixty in years.
Remo did not know that to confront the unknown, one must first stand aside and watch it and wait until it was known. Remo did not know that the Master of Sinanju hoped that Mr. Gordons would continue his adventures and by so doing become known in his methods as had the Hashashins of Arabia with their methods of fanaticism and skill.
Another Master had encountered the Hashashins when they were a new thing and he immediately terminated services with Islamabad, and waited and watched and worked elsewhere as year by year the Hashashins became more known in their methods. So good were they, the very name assassin came from them. And that Master passed on to the following Master what he knew. And the following Master passed on what he knew, as each generation watched and avoided the rich markets of Araby. It was eighty years before Sinanju realized how the Hashashins used hashish on followers and how they recruited an outer layer of fanatics willing to die for paradise, and these fanatics protected their inner layer of leaders.