He had first heard of Sinanju from his grandfather, when Huang was a very small boy. He had asked what would happen if one assassin from Sinanju should take up arms in opposition to another assassin from Sinanju. him grandfather had told him that one typhoon is silent when another passes.
Young Huang thought about that, then asked what would happen if the other typhoon was not silent.
"Then stay away from the dead animals for no mortal can survive that holocaust," his grandfather had said. And when Huang had complained that he did not understand the answer, his grandfather would only say: "Thus was it written."
Of course, him grandfather was an oppressor of the peasants and an enemy of the people and naturally he would have a vested interest in peddling reactionary myths.
But today, the masses had exploded all the reactionary myths. This was a new China and Colonel Huang was part of it. He would stay part of it. He would not repeat the silly reactionary fairy tale to the political officer he would meet in Canada.
But as he looked into the blue sky, Colonel Huang wondered just now much mystery remained beyond the ken of Chairman Mao's little red book.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Just look at this place, will you? Just look at this place."
The buxom redhead, wearing only a gray Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, was near tears, so Remo looked at the place. It was a mess. The small dormitory room was strewn with torn papers. Pages ripped from books littered the desk and the bed. Broken covers of books were everywhere.
"What happened?" Remo asked.
"That Joan did it," the girl said bitterly. "She comes back up here, as high and mighty as you please, and announces, mind you, announces, that she is joining the fucking revolutionary army, and leaving this fucking school, and I can go fuck myself, and then I went out of the room for a minute and when I came back, it looked like this and she Was fucking marching out"
"Where'd she go?" Remo asked.
"She told me she was ripping off the pig college's books so that they couldn't poison anyone else's mind with their Fascist lies," the redhead said, ignoring Remo. She stood in the middle of the floor, stamping her feet like an angry child, and as her bare feet hit the uncarpeted floor, her breasts jiggled.
"But where'd she go?"
"And it wouldn't be so bad if they were just her books, but they were mine too. And now I'm going to have to pay for them. The bitch."
"Oh, the bitch," Remo agreed.
"The dirty bitch."
"Oh, the dirty bitch," Remo agreed.
"She said she was going to New York City."
"Oh, the dirty bitch is going to New York City," Remo said. "But where in New York City?"
"I don't know and I don't care. Look what she did to my room. I hope that toothache of hers abscesses her whole fucking head."
"I'll help you straighten up," Remo said.
"Would you? Say, that's really nice of you. You wouldn't want to ball, would you? I've got body paints we can play with."
"No, thank you. I'm saving it until I get married," Remo said, as he began to scoop up large armfuls of papers and jam them into the plastic garbage pail in the corner of the room that served as a wastepaper basket.
"Will you marry me?" she asked.
"Not today," he said. "Today I've got to get a haircut. Anyway, I thought you girls didn't believe in marriage. No more nuclear families. Zero population growth. All that."
"See. There you go again. 'You girls.' Talking about us as a group. All women are to you are sex symbols. It's not right you know. You're as counterproductive as the bitch. You missed a piece under the bed." She sat back, bare-assed, on the desk, and lifted her feet out of Remo's way.
Remo leaned down and got the piece of paper out from the carpet of dust under the bed. "Where would the dirty, counterproductive bitch be in New York?"
"I don't know," the roommate said. "She said something stupid."
"What was that?"
"She said, watch out for the dead animals. And she was giggling. I think the bitch was on the nose candy again."
"Oh, the bitch."
"The dirty bitch."
"Oh, the dirty bitch," Remo agreed. "If I got my hands on her, I'd teach her a thing or two."
"You would?"
"You bet"
"Well, she belongs to this group. I bet you could find her there."
"What kind of group?"
"It's some kind of counterproductive revolutionary group. It would have to be counterproductive to have Joan Hackett in it."
"What's the name of it?" Remo asked.
"People United to Fight Fascism."
"Don't tell me," Remo said, "They call It PUFF."
"That's right."
"Where is it?"
"Someplace in the Village, but exactly where I don't know."
"What's your name?" Remo asked.
"Millicent Van Dervander,"
"Of the dog food Van Dervanders?"
"Yes."
"I'll never look at a dog biscuit again without thinking of you."
"You're too kind."
"It's my basic nature," Remo said. "Listen, if I get time after my hair cut, you still want to get married?"
"No. You already have the room clean. Why get married?"
"Why indeed?"
Back at their room in the Hotel Guild, Chiun sat watching the last of his television shows.
"Come on, Chiun, we're going back to New York."
"Why?" Chiun said. "This is a very nice town. A place where you and I could settle down. And the hotel has cable television and I get many more channels than we do in New York City."
"We'll come back when they pave Garden Street," Remo said. "Anyway, New York City is very near to Brooklyn."
"Brooklyn is not all that important now," Chiun said sadly. "There are other things."
"Such as?"
"Such as the dead animals."
"Of course," Remo said. "I forgot. The dead animals. But you forgot the PUFF."
"The PUFF?"
"Yes," Remo said, "didn't you know. That comes before the dead animals. First fat, then thin, then PUFF, then the dead animals." He turned away with a malicious grin.
Chiun sighed behind him. "Let us go to Brooklyn," he said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Back in New York, finding PUFF was not so easy as Remo had expected it to be. There was no reference to it in the files of the New York Times, no hand-printed sign on the main bulletin board of the New School for Social Research, not even a mention in the classified persons of the Village Voice, the Best Village Other or Screw Magazine.
Finally, Remo gave up. After wasting the better part of a day, he called the special number.
"Smith here, is that you, Remo?"
"If you'd wait a minute, I'd tell you who was calling. You feeling all right?"
"Yes, yes," said Smith impatiently. "What have you found out?"
"Nothing. But I need some information. Do you have anything in those damned computers on an organization called PUFF?"
"PUFF? Like in magic dragon?"
"Yes, PUFF. People United to Fight Fascism or Freedom or some damn thing or other."
"Hold on."
Through the open phone, Remo could bear Smith mumbling, and then moments later, the clattering whoosh as the computer printout on him desk was activated.
Then Smith was back on the line.
"PUFF," he read. "People United to Fight Fascism. A lunatic fringe revolutionary group. Only several dozen members, mostly student children of rich parents. No known officers, no regular meeting dates. Last meeting was held six weeks ago in empty room over The Bard, a cocktail lounge on Ninth Street in the Village." He stopped reading and asked, "Why do you want to know this?"
"I'm thinking of joining," Remo said. "I hear the dues are tax deductible." He hung up before Smith pressed the point; Remo did not want him blundering around with more men and getting in his way.
After Remo had hung up, Smith spun around and looked out at the Sound. Smart-ass Remo would never understand. The conference on antiterrorist accords was to be held in three more days. The pressure was mounting. Despite all Chiun's nonsense about typhoons, suppose the hijackers struck again? Suppose there were other terrorist acts? The President himself was on the telephone every day, needling Smith about the lack of action. The pressure was building, building, building. Well, Dr. Smith knew how to handle pressure. He had handled it all his life. PUFF, eh? Smith wheeled back to his desk and began to jot notes down on a pad, notes that would send CURE's far-flung apparatus into operation against this organization called PUFF. It must be dangerous. He would flood the field with men. It might be a link to the terrorists. Let Remo be a smart-ass. "I hear dues are tax deductible." Oh, yes. Let him be as smart as he wanted. When Dr. Smith resolved the whole problem through CURE'S other resources, then perhaps Mr. Remo Williams would see that he wasn't all that irreplaceable. And if he didn't see that, well, then, perhaps the point would have to be made more strongly.