Remo was upside down against the far wall, but he was not touching it. His feet pointed toward the ceiling, his arms were fully extended and he held himself up on his two index fingers.
He raised his head awkwardly and saw Chiun.
"How's this, Chiun?" he called.
"Try it on one finger," Chiun said.
Remo slowly shifted the balance of his weight until his body was directly over his right index finger. Then he lifted his left hand off the floor.
"Hah? Hah?" he called triumphantly. "How about that, Little Father?"
"There is a man in your circus who can do that. Now bounce."
"Bounce?"
"Yes. Bounce on your finger."
"All right. If you say so," Remo said. He tensed the tendons of his wrist, then relaxed them slightly. His body lowered imperceptibly over his hand. Then he snapped the tendons into tightness. The sudden expansion raised him by inches. He did it again and again, faster and faster. On the fourth try, the upward momentum of his body pulled his right index finger an inch off the floor.
He came back down on the index finger. It held, but wavered a moment, and the slight wavering tossed him off balance. His feet hit the wall, rebounded, and he fell softly into a ball on the rug.
He looked sheepishly toward Chiun, but Chiun's back was turned to him, again looking at the television.
"I fell, Chiun," Remo said.
"Shhhh," said Chiun. "Who cares?"
"But I fell. What did I do wrong?"
"Be born," Chiun said. "Be quiet. I am listening to something."
Remo got to his feet and went to stand alongside Chiun, whose attention was riveted on the six o'clock news.
The announcer's crisp voice was saying: "In announcing the cutoff of Lobynian oil to the United States, President Baraka said it was in retribution for this nation's continued support of Israel."
Chiun looked to Remo. "Who is this Baraka?"
"I don't know," Remo said. "The president or something of Lobynia?"
"What happened to King Adras?"
"Adras? Adras?" Remo thought. "Oh yeah, he was deposed. By Baraka."
"When?" demanded Chiun.
"I don't know," shrugged Remo. "Three ... four years ago."
"Bird droppings," Chiun hissed. His hand flashed out and slammed the off button on the television set.
He turned to Remo, his hazel eyes filled with anger. "Why did you not tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"About this Baraka. About King Adras."
"What should I have told you?" asked Remo, puzzlement on his face.
"That King Adras was deposed by Baraka." He looked at Remo in outrage. "Never mind," Chiun said, "I see I shall have to do everything myself. One can not count on a pale piece of pig's ear for anything. Nobody tells me anything. It is all right. I will get along very well by myself."
He turned and walked away from Remo.
"Will you please tell me what the hell this is all about?"
"Silence. Pack your bags. We must leave."
"Mind telling me where we're going?"
"Yes. We are going to Lobynia."
"Why?"
"Because I have work to do. But don't worry. I won't ask you to help. I'll do it myself. I'm used to doing everything myself."
He turned and walked into the other room, leaving behind Remo, who shook his head and said over and over again, "God spare me. God spare me."
Thirty-six hours later, Remo sat facing Dr. Smith in a sealed car in the parking lot of John F. Kennedy International Airport, where cargo shippers no longer counted percentages stolen, but percentages delivered. Remo carried a small Air France bag. He glanced at his watch.
"I didn't order you to come east, Remo," Smith said. "I tried to set up a meeting on the coast."
"I was on my way out of the country."
"This is no time for a vacation, Remo. This oil thing is serious. In a month or so, this country's going to be so short of oil the economy could close down." Remo looked out the window at the plane. "Now I just don't know, Remo. We haven't been able to come up with anything. It's just a hunch, but I think Baraka or one of our oil companies was behind those killings."
Remo watched the heat waves from the back of a jet distort the landscape behind the wide airstrip.
"Yes," Smith went on. "I wouldn't be surprised if Oxonoco Oil were behind this. Oxonoco. Have you heard of it?" He waited. "Remo, I'm asking you a question. Did you ever hear of Oxonoco Oil?"
"Do I ever drive a car?"
"Excellent. Now, as I say, I don't know whether it's Baraka or Oxonoco, but I just feel it's one of them."
"One of them what?" asked Remo, who had not been paying attention.
"One of them behind the oil scientists' killings."
"Oh, that," said Remo. "Don't worry about it," said Remo. "I know who's behind them."
Smith looked startled. "You do? Who?"
Remo shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." He watched another jet take off and asked, "You done now? I want to catch a plane."
"Damn it, Remo, what are you talking about? You've got a job to do."
Remo looked at Smith and said, "You've got a helluva nerve. Coming here and telling me maybe it's this guy and maybe it's that guy. Maybe these murder attempts are coming from the Martians."
"How do you figure that out?" asked Smith.
"Well, if we don't find new energy sources soon, well run out of fuel for rockets and have to stop polluting space. It could be the Martians. I start with the head Mars."
With that Remo was out of the car and headed toward the Air France Terminal. Smith followed him, but in the open area he was forced to speak obliquely. Remo really detected little difference. His mind was miles away, staring at the Rockies.
There he had learned. He worked for Smith and for Smith's organization not because of any moral superiority of one side over another, but because that was what he should do. Just as Chiun had many contracts in his life, Remo could have only one. It was what he had realized looking at the mountain. He was never going to become like the Master of Sinanju, because he was not Chiun. He was Remo and he was the only person who could be what he could be, just as Chiun was Chiun was Chiun. And Smith talked more silliness.
"Remo, this is a maximum priority situation that is crucial."
Remo hopped a curb. Smith puffed after him. A large group of dour-faced people, many in their early twenties and many more in their forties, trudged solemnly into the Air France building. A few girls wore smocks. The men wore rumpled slacks and sports shirts, or else overalls, almost as two sets of uniforms. Some carried signs. "Third World International Youth Conference." He wondered at the large numbers of forty-year-old youths, who seemed to be in the vanguard as the group pushed its way like a small army into the terminal.
"We can't talk here," yelled Smith.
"Good," said Remo, who didn't want to talk anyhow.
"Let's go back to the car and talk."
"Let's not."
They were in the terminal. Chiun was there, seated on a circular cushion, his fourteen lacquered trunks stacked neatly around him. Every so often someone who accidentally or carelessly brushed against one of the large brightly colored trunks would limp away with a little shriek, as if a bee had stung him behind the calf. Chiun sat in delicate innocent repose, his long hands moving so quickly passersby did not see them. The Master of Sinanju did not like strangers lingering near his possessions.
"Chiun, I'm glad you're here," said Smith. "I'm having difficulty reasoning with him." He nodded to Remo, who stood alongside them stolidly, watching the members of the Third World International Youth Conference.
"To reason with the unenlightened is like trying to make buildings by watering stones," said Chiun. He professed the loyalty of the House of Sinanju to Emperor Smith for eternity and a day. But when Smith explained that he wanted Chiun to convince Remo to stay in America for his assignment, Chiun apologized for his failure to understand English very well, but the one thing he could always do was to pronounce "Glory to Smith." Nor did his English improve on the way to the Boeing 747 with Air France blue on its massive white body.