Like smoke rising, the Master of Sinanju came to his feet. He bowed once. Then, padding over to the TV, he did something that made Remo's mouth hang open in surprise.
He switched off the set just as Cheeta Ching was starting to speak.
"Remo, you and I will look into the Shortsleeve question while Master Chiun is away," Smith offered.
"Nothing doing," said Remo, finding his voice. "I don't know what's got into Chiun, but if it is big enough to make him turn off Cheeta Ching in midyap, I want to be along for the ride."
They ran the rental van back to the airport, dropped Smith off at the departure terminal, and drove on to international departures.
Remo bought two round-trip tickets to Port Chuma, using a credit card that identified him as Remo Burton, with the Department of Health and Human Services. He had a matching passport.
"Proof of shots?" asked the ticket agent.
"Would someone from the Department of Health and Human Services be going to Africa if he didn't have his shots?" Remo asked in a firm voice.
The agent thought not, and the tickets were surrendered.
Over the Atlantic, they sat in a silence that was not broken until they reached London, where they had to change planes.
At Heathrow, Remo decided to break the ice.
"Care to tell a fellow traveler why he's traveling?"
"No."
"Toss a hint in my direction, then?"
"Reflect upon the lesson of Master Yong."
Remo reflected. In the early days of his training in Sinanju, Chiun used to drum into his head the exploits of past Masters. Each Master, it seemed, was remembered for one special reason. Wang because he discovered the sun source. Yeng because he was too greedy. Yokang because he consorted with Japanese women and caught certain diseases from them. Remo had learned about every Master--or so he thought. In recent years, there had been fewer legends. Remo had assumed it was because Chiun had run out of Masters, but was forced to conclude that the true reason was that in Chiun's eyes, Remo had grown to full Masterhood, the penultimate step toward Reigning Master status, which Remo could only achieve upon Chiun's death or retirement.
Master Yong, Remo could not remember.
He wracked his brain as the British 747 winged its way to Africa.
"Yong, Yong, Yong," he muttered aloud. "Not Bong. He discovered India. Can't be Nonga. He was deaf and dumb."
"Render it in English," Chiun said thinly.
Over his twenty-year association with the Master of Sinanju, Remo had picked up a little Korean here and there until one day he found himself, to his infinite surprise, considering that he had flunked French I three years running in school, fluent in the language.
"Dragon!" he said snapping his fingers. "Yong means dragon."
"Some Masters are remembered for their true names, others-those held in contempt-are remembered by false names so as not to shame their ancestors. It is so with Yong."
"Yeah? What'd he do?"
The Master of Sinanju made a face. He touched his thin beard as if debating the wisdom of answering the question.
"I will tell you if you promise not to reveal what I am about to divulge to Emperor Smith."
"Family secret, huh?"
"A deep shame is attached to Yong the Gluttonous."
"Gluttonous? Are we off to Africa to make the world safe for hamburger companies?"
"Silence! If your ears would hear, your mouth must be still. Preferably closed."
Remo folded his bare arms. It was cool in the big jet and his arm hairs were lifting in response. He willed them to lay flat and they did. It was a minor example of the nearly total control he exercised over every cell in his superbly trained body.
Chiun began speaking.
"The story I am about to tell you transpired in the Year of the Peacock."
"Give me a number."
"I do not know the American year and I do not care," Chiun retorted. "In these days we served the Middle Kingdom, Cathay, a land of barbarians who ate their rice with their fingers."
"Don't rub it in."
"Master Yong-not his real name of course-was summoned to the throne of Cathay. For a great dragon was devouring rice farmers and other subjects of the Chinese emperor. This being how dragons typically passed their days.
"Now the days of which I speak are the old days of Sinanju, before Wang, who discovered the sun source. This was when Masters performed many functions, and not merely practicing the assassin's art. Masters in those days would perform executions for the proper price. For this task, a previous Master had had forged a tremendous sword, known as the Sword of Sinanju. Later, as you know, Remo, the thieving Chinese stole this great trophy, and kept it."
"Until we got it back," said Remo.
"Until Chiun the Great recovered it, aided by a white lackey who may or may not be recorded in the Book of Sinanju under his true name," Chiun said frostily.
"I want to be remembered as Remo the Long-Suffering."
Face impassive, the Master of Sinanju resumed speaking, "When Yong appeared before the Chinese emperor, he had with him the great Sword of Sinanju because in those days one never knew what service Chinese emperors would demand. A courtesan might require beheading. Or the garbage might have to be taken out. To Yong's surprise, it was none of these things. He was asked to slay a dragon."
"Really?"
Chiun nodded. "In those days, dragons were more plentiful than they are now, but still rare. Yong had never before beheld a dragon, although he had heard tales of their fierceness and fury. This particular dragon was known as Wing Wang Wo."
Remo lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "The dragon had a name?"
"This dragon did. Yong agreed to slay the dragon, but not for the usual sum of gold. He asked the Chinese emperor for only one thing in return. The dragon's carcass."
"The Chinese emperor agreed to this. For like all of his line, he was penurious. That means cheap, Remo."
"I figured it out from the context," Remo grumbled.
"It does no harm to explain the difficult words when dealing with willful children," Chiun said. "Now Yong ventured out into the Chinese countryside. And soon he came upon a magnificent if cranky dragon, storming about, its iridescent green-and-gold scales ablaze in the harsh Chinese sun."
"Yong thought he saw a dragon?"
"Yong did see a dragon. And knowing that only the foolhardy attacks a foe without first studying him, Yong watched this dragon go about his business of devouring simple peasants."
"Yong didn't stop the dragon?"
Chiun shrugged. "Interrupting Wing Wang Wo's meals was not in Yong's contract. Now be silent, One-Whose-Tongue-Is-Never-Still.
"Soon, Yong devised a plan. First he caught the dragon's attention by bestowing upon him an insulting Chinese hand gesture."
"Flipped him the bird, huh?"
Chiun glared.
"Sorry." Remo fell silent.
"Naturally," Chiun resumed, "this enraged Wing Wang Wo, who blazed ineffectual flames at the ever-nimble Yong. Hurling cutting taunts, Yong lured the dragon to a cave he had explored earlier.
"Seeking to avenge his sullied honor, the dragon naturally followed. For-and you must always remember this, Remo-a dragon's breath is the only thing about them that can truly be called bright."
Remo winced.
"Once in the great cave, Yong hid behind a great stone. The dragon padded past him unsuspecting, the sulphur of its breath blocking its own nostrils. The great arrowlike tail dragged past, and Yong slipped back out of the cave to climb onto a ledge just above the cave mouth, where he had placed the Sword of Sinanju, which was seven feet in length and a mighty weapon."
Chiun lifted an imaginary sword in both thin-fingered hands. His voice shook in the telling.
"Sword held high, Yong waited patiently."