"I didn't know there were any left."
"There is tentative agreement that French will be more widely taught in US. secondary schools and universities."
"That's an awfully big concession. Think of all those poor kids repeating French I over and over again."
"In return, France has lifted all restrictions on English-speaking visitors to their country. Provided Euro Beasley is defanged and renamed Beasleyland Paris."
"Sounds like our side caved in-again."
"That is not important. All that matters is that the crisis is over, and with Uncle Sam Beasley dead, we can only hope the Beasley Corporation goes back to being nothing more than an entertainment industry."
"Any news from that quarter?"
"There are rumors of an internal shake-up. CEO Mickey Weisinger has been demoted, and Beasley nephew Bob has assumed operational control in actuality, if not title."
"Just so long as Sam Beasley remains dead."
There was a long pause on the line.
"You have no ill feelings over having liquidated him?"
"I didn't do it. Chiun decapitated him."
From across the room, a squeaky voice called out, "You broke his heart. Therefore, you dispatched the beloved Uncle Sam."
"He wasn't dead when you lopped off his head, so you killed him."
Chiun's head snapped around, his hazel eyes hot. "That is slander!"
"It's the truth, and you know it."
Chiun shook his goose-feather quill in the air, spattering the walls with black droplets of ink. "The truth is what is written in the true histories of the House of Sinanju, not what actually happened."
"You'd better not be hanging Beasley's death on me in your freaking scrolls," Remo warned.
"I am the victor. The victor writes the histories. Therefore, I will write as I wish."
"Yeah? Well, I'm thinking of starting my own set of scrolls."
"It does not matter what you write," Chiun sniffed.
"We'll see about that."
"Because you will write junk in junk American," cackled the Master of Sinanju. "And no descendant of yours or mine will be able to read such drivel."
"Why not?"
"Because in only a mere two or three thousand more years, yours will be a dead language."
"Did you hear that, Smith?" Remo called into the telephone.
But Harold W Smith had already hung up.
So Remo hung up and walked over to the Master of Sinanju, determined that history tell his side of the story.
EPILOGUE
History recorded that the Franco-American Conflict of 1995 lasted but three days and both began and ended with the bombing by French warplanes of Euro Beasley.
The combatants, as combatants always did, patched up their differences at the cessation of hostilities, signed meaningless treaties, awarded chestfuls of medals to the deserving and undeserving alike, promised future cooperation and exchanged hostages.
No history book, however, recorded the fate of the instigator of the conflict. No history book ever knew his name.
Mickey Weisinger knew his name.
He walked into his office the morning after the last day of the conflict and noticed a workman scratching his name off the office door.
"What the hell's going on?"
"You're now the second-highest-paid ex-CEO in America," said an affable voice he knew only too well.
It was coming from inside his office. Mickey entered.
Bob Beasley was seated comfortably at his desk.
"Who gave you authority to take over?" Mickey shouted.
"Uncle Sam gave me the authority. I speak for Uncle Sam. Always have, always will."
"Uncle Sam! Isn't he dead? I wean, nothing's official, but I was monitoring the transmissions from France. And you came back alone."
"Not alone," drawled Bob Beasley, laying a hand on an insulated box resting on his desk-formerly Mickey Weisinger's desk. There was a small pressurized tank attached, and on it stenciled a word Mickey didn't normally associate with tanks: LOX.
"He's not dead?"
"Well, let's say he's not anything right at the moment."
"Say what?"
"Our medical people tell me I dipped him in liquid oxygen in time to prevent brain death. All we need is a suitable body to hook him up to, and the Sam Beasley Corporation will be back to business as usual."
And Bob Beasley turned the insulated box around, exposing a clear window on the other side. The window through which stared the frozen one-eyed head of Uncle Sam Beasley.
Behind him Mickey Weisinger heard the office door shut with a flat finality that meant no escape. None at all...