"You see. What you did wrong was not only give someone time to get away, but you committed the cardinal sin of a sniper ambush. You stopped to think. You must never stop to think, but must have your shots planned in advance. That way all you have to do is aim."
It had worked well. It worked in Russia, then the Ukraine, then Poland, and then back to the borders of Germany. It worked his last day in Waffen S.S. uniform before he changed to the uniform of the regular Army and took a new name, which had lasted until that morning in his shop.
But now it was not working. There were his two targets, the Oriental in back and the American in front. All right, pop one off at the Oriental. But he was beginning to move off the path. He was retreating. No. He was advancing. What the hell was that little yellow man doing? Now there was no more American. Where was the American? He wasn't on the path. To hell with it. Get the Oriental and then hunt the American. The old, cold feeling of competence returned to Oskar Gruenwald. The mechanical competence of the professional killer.
He was just squeezing off a shot at the center of the kimono, when he realized this would be impossible to do. One needed a trigger finger for that sort of thing and Oskar Gruenwald now had only a bloody stump. No pain. Just no finger.
"Hi there, fella," Remo said. "I'd shake but you can't. This yours?" he said and offered the shocked sniper his finger back.
"Aaaargh," said former S.S. Captain Oskar Gruenwald, suddenly feeling the delayed pain where his finger used to join his hand.
"All right, if you don't want me to dismember you piece by piece, tell me who sent you," said Remo.
The sniper looked at his right index finger-in his left palm.
"C'mon," Remo said. "I don't have all day."
"A girl. She was a foolish girl. Do not blame her."
"Her name?"
"There has been enough death and you will kill her, I know."
"Her name?" said Remo, and it was not really a question.
Gruenwald lunged for the rifle with his left hand, but then his left hand no longer worked. He did not even see the American move, the stroke was so swift.
"The girl?"
"Her name was Joan Hacker," said Oskar Gruenwald. "But please don't kill her."
"I don't kill if I don't have to," said Remo.
"When one kills that becomes all he does".
"It's only you amateurs who are menaces," said Remo.
Oskar Gruenwald snarled back. "I was not an amateur, sir. Waffen S.S. Captain."
"And I'm sure you were a very good Waffen whatever-it-is," said Remo consolingly, putting him away with a head shot.
Chiun glided past Remo with a casual glance at the fat corpse sinking into the damp soil. The head stroke must have been, perfect, thought Remo, or there would have been comment.
"First fat. Then thin," said Chiun. "Then the dead animals and then all my work for nothing, because of your impatience."
"Now I understand," said Remo sarcastically. "First fat, then thin, then the dead animals, and then all your work for nothing. Why didn't you say so instead of talking in riddles?"
"Even the morning sun is a riddle to a fool," said Chiun. "Now comes thin."
"Of course, thin," said Remo. "What else comes after fat? I mean I could have told you that even before my training. Now thin."
CHAPTER NINE
"You don't think I'm too thin?" said Rodney Pintwhistle.
Joan Hacker did not think Rodney was too thin at all. She thought he was aesthetic. Joan didn't go for all those muscles bulging around. She went for a man who was lean and lithe.
"Really?" said Rodney Pintwhistle, a blush coming up behind a face of acne. He patted his almost empty sweater. "I mean, you really don't think I'm too thin?"
"I'll show you how thin I think you are," said Joan Hacker. "Come on up to my room and I'll show you."
Rodney Pintwhistle, whose main sexual activity was stroking himself while imagining co-eds like Joan Hacker inviting him up to her room, coughed up his strawberry milkshake onto the formica table top. People in the student union looked around. A waiter patted Rodney on the back.
"C'mon, Rodney, let's get out of here," said Joan, flaunting her full and bouncing breasts as she rose.
"Maybe I'd better have another milkshake."
"Maybe you'd better come with me," said Joan, grabbing him by the wrist. She jerked. Rodney came.
On the path to the dormitory, Rodney suggested that they get to know each other better.
"This is the best way," said Joan, tugging his wrist.
Maybe they should stop and talk more?
"Talking is better after," said Joan.
Rodney suddenly remembered he had a class.
"Cut it," said Joan.
Rodney couldn't. You see he already had two cuts and if he got a third cut, he might get below a B and then he wouldn't make the dean's list.
"You never made dean's list, Rodney," she said.
But this year Rodney had a chance. Really he did. He was taking easier courses and this year he really had a chance and if there was one thing he really wanted to do more than anything else in college, it was to make dean's list one year, at least one year. That's what he really wanted to do.
"You're full of crap, Rodney," said Joan Hacker, for if there was anything that raised her anger, it was weakness in someone else. It brought out the tiger in her, that tiger which seemed to disappear when someone else assumed command.
She tugged Rodney into the dormitory and then pushed him up the two flights of steps to her floor and then into her room. Her roommate sat on the bed, legs tucked under her bare bottom, a sweat shirt covering the raised knee tops.
"Out," said Joan Hacker, in a rare display of authority.
The roommate blinked, and never having seen the tiger in Joan before, dutifully got up, apologized for being there, and left the room. Joan locked the door. Rodney giggled.
"The nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat," said Joan, repeating a phrase she had heard in high school and resented years later as being oppressive and exploitative.
Rodney backed against the window. Joan advanced. Rodney covered his groin. Joan yanked his hand away and stroked. Rodney brushed her hand away. Joan kissed him on his scrawny neck. Rodney said that tickled.
Joan grabbed his neck and brought his head down forcefully to hers. She invaded his mouth. She manipulated one hand behind his neck and the other in front of his trousers. She manipulated, she worked, and when she had him ready, she eased him to the bed. Ploing. It was all over. She fell on him.
"You're magnificent, Rodney," gasped Joan.
Rodney averred that he hardly did anything at all He was just a natural, he guessed.
"You must have hundreds of women, Rodney."
No, not really. Could Joan believe that she was the first woman he had had at Patton College?
"No. I couldn't believe that. You're so magnificent. But you don't love me."
Rodney felt no passionate warmth toward this attractive co-ed who had transformed his fantasies into reality, but having been accused of not loving her, his reaction was instinctive and immediate.
"That's not true. I love you."
"No, you don't."
"Yes, I do. I really do. I think you're . . . you're swell," said Rodney, and this was not like his fantasies at all.