Chiun shook his aged head. "It is too late."
"What do you mean?"
"Assassins head off wars before they start, not after. You have called us too late, Smith."
"I called as soon as word reached me. But Remo refused to accept my call."
Chiun made a dismissive hand motion that was lost on Smith. "It does not matter. It was too late even then. For once men in uniform begin to fight, they cannot be stopped until one army surrenders to the other. It is a soldier thing."
Smith's voice grew firm. "Master Chiun, I have reports of other reenactors mobilizing in other states. Volunteers are coming out of the woodwork and appear to be converging on a Civil War battlefield at Petersburg, Virginia. There is talk of the Rhode Island National Guard descending upon Virginia to avenge the dead reenactors, some of whom belonged to the Rhode Island National Guard unit."
"It is possible something can be done," Chiun mused, eyeing Remo dubiously.
"Yes?"
"If the general behind this calamity can be found and separated from his head, it may be his army will melt in fear before the swift hand of Sinanju."
"But we don't know that any general is behind this. These men are not true soldiers. They are ordinary citizens who perform on national holidays. It makes no sense."
"It is typically American," said Chiun vaguely. "Would you like to speak with Remo?"
"Er, he is not speaking to me."
"You have not approached him in the proper manner," said Chiun, lifting the receiver to one of Remo's unprotected ears. "You may speak freely now that my pupil's undivided attention is focused on your every syllable."
"Remo, I desperately need your help," Smith said.
Remo stood unmoving as Smith spoke.
"I have been diligently seeking answers to your questions, but you must realize it is difficult. You were orphaned as an infant. There is no backtrail to your parents except the name found on the note on the basket-Remo Williams. Williams, as I have told you a thousand times, is one of the most common surnames in the Western world. Without more to go on, I am at an impasse."
Remo said nothing.
"Remo, are you listening?"
"His wax-laden ears have absorbed your every word, Emperor," Chiun assured Smith.
"And what is his reaction?" Smith asked doubtfully.
"He makes no protest," Chiun said blandly.
"Does that mean what I think it means?" Smith ventured.
"Since you are emperor over this divided land, and your every word law, can your surmises fail to achieve equal perfection?" asked Chiun, and hung up.
Standing before his pupil, Chiun looked up. He was a full foot shorter than his pupil, who stood about six feet tall. The Master of Sinanju was a frail wraith of a man with a mummylike face resembling papyrus that might have soaked up the wrinkles of the passing centuries. He looked old, very old. But there was a wise humor in his eyes that belied the fact that he had been born near the end of the previous century and suggested an inner vitality that would carry him into the next. The years had robbed him of his hair, leaving only a tendril clinging to his tiny chin and a cloudy puff over each ear. The kimono sheathing his frailseeming body was black and trimmed in scarlet.
"If you wish to continue on strike," he said pleasantly, "I will be happy to leave you in this stricken state."
Remo stood without reacting. A tendril of perspiration trickled out from under his scalp.
"Or," continued Chiun, "I can release you from this state, and you may be allowed to accompany me as my official translator and gofer."
Remo had no reaction.
"I will give you one opportunity to reply. If your reply is not to my liking, I will return you to this unfortunate state and be on my way."
The fingernail touched Remo in the exact center of his forehead, and he snapped alert once more.
"I am not doing any more assignments, Smitty!" Remo barked.
"It is too late," Chiun said lightly. "For I have hung up the telephone, and we are late for our flight to Virginland."
Remo hesitated, one eye on the fingernail hovering just before his chin. The other flicked to the open door, and he calculated his chances of getting out of the room before the Master of Sinanju, who had taught him everything he knew of value, could react. Remo decided his chances were about equal to his sprouting wings.
"I want proof of Smith's good faith before day's end," said Remo.
"And I wish to see evidence that the wisdom I have poured into your thick white head has not leaked out through some hitherto unsuspected hole. Never in the past would you have succumbed to my paralyzing stroke so easily, Remo. For shame. Your head is full of useless dreams and longings, and they have befogged your brain to the point of its former roundeyed denseness. Next you will be consuming burned cow patties once more. O, that I lived to see you sink to this low state," Chiun moaned, throwing back his head and resting the back of an ivory hand against his smooth forehead. He held that pose until Remo spoke again.
"Knock it off. This is important to me."
"Yes, of course. Your roots. You must find your, roots. O, that you had only been born a tree so that they would always be at your unmoving feet, where you could admire them. But you were born a man. You have no roots. You have feet." Chiun looked down at Remo's feet, which were encased in handmade Italian loafers. "Large, ugly, club knobs, but still recognizable as feet. You have no roots. Have I not told you so a thousand times?"
"Somebody gave birth to me," said Remo.
"Possibly," Chiun said thinly
"Someone else fathered me."
"This, too, is within the realm of the possible," admitted Chiun.
"I want to find out who they are and why they left me on that orphanage doorstep."
"Why do you need to know this trivia? Is is not enough to know that you were abandoned? If you had hitched a ride in an automobile and the driver abruptly stopped to leave you by the side of the road, would you dedicate your adult life to discovering this cretin's life story?"
"It's not the same thing."
"But it is. Those who brought you into the world cast you away like a broken toy. Is there not a more ungrateful and callous act imaginable?"
"I need to know why. Everything that's happened to me in life happened because of it. If I had not grown up in an orphanage, I probably wouldn't have ended up a cop or joined the Marines and gone to Nam. Without Nam, I wouldn't have met MacCleary, who fingered me so Smith could frame me for that killing. Because I was an orphan and had no family, Smith figured I was the perfect candidate for CURE. Think how my life would have gone if I'd never met Smith."
"You would never have met me." And because the bond between them was strong, the Master of Sinanju looked up into his pupil's angry face with expectant eyes.
Remo hesitated. "All I wanted was a normal life."
"Instead, you got an extraordinary life. No white person has ever been so blessed as you. Since the first Master emerged from the caves of mist, only my ancestors were considered worthy of learning the art of Sinanju, the sun source of all fighting arts, and only the best of them. Only Koreans, the most perfect creatures to tread the earth. No whites. Until you. And you are not happy."
"I never wanted to be an assassin."
In the act of pirouetting about the room, Chiun abruptly whirled to fix his pupil with triumphant eyes.
"And you are not!" he crowed. "You are a Sinanju assassin. The finest of this era or any other."
"I don't want to be an assassin anymore. I want to find myself."
"You do not need to find yourself, Remo Williams. Now that you have been discovered by Sinanju."
"You make it sound like I'm some new specimen."
"You are a white Sinanju Master. My ancestors would be proud to know that I have taken a lowly white and raised him up to near-Koreanhood." Chiun caught himself. "After they finished castigating me for squandering my talents on so pointless a task. But times were hard, there were no suitable clients in this modern world and I had to make do with the meager offers that came to me. I have taken a white foundling and made him a Master of Sinanju. O, wonderful me."