Remo saw Jethro in the large entrance hallway. Drapes hid what was obviously a sign. Perhaps those drapes would unveil the driver's emblem, or worse, the emblem of the new superunion.
Jethro greeted people as they arrived with the usual 'howarya," and 'goodtoseeya." Remo walked up to within a spit. He saw Jethro notice him, saw the faint flicker of fear in the blue eyes, then the phony smile.
"Howarya fella, good to see ya," said the president of the International Brotherhood of Drivers.
"Glad to be here, Gene. A great day. A great day," said the recording secretary. They embraced warmly, the drivers lined up watching union solidarity at work.
"Let's go downstairs. I want to talk to you. Union business."
"Good idea," said Remo.
Friendly, the two union leaders made their way to the elevator. Friendly, they got into the elevator. Friendly, they spoke until the doors closed and Jethro had pressed the combination button.
"You lying sonuvabitch," said Jethro. "You said you had pined us."
"You're hurt that I lied," laughed Remo. "When were you born?"
"Who do you work for?" said Jethro.
"I don't work for Nuihc," said Remo. "Where is he?"
"None of your business," said Jethro.
"Am I going to meet him?"
"Sure," said Jethro, a cold smile crossing his face.
Remo hummed. He hummed as they entered the large basement. He hummed as he saw the auto-length sign for the union that would destroy a nation and the union movement with it. He hummed as Jethro worked the combination lock on a door to a room that seemed the center of a whole waterpipe network.
He hummed when the door shut behind him.
Jethro went behind a barren iron desk. Remo spotted the nozzles on the ceiling, shower nozzles.
Jethro reached under the desk.
"I have a switch here that will unleash something that will kill you painfully. Now I can make it hard on you, or I can kill you with my hands."
Remo shouldn't have done it. It was highly unprofessional. But the laugh was out before he thought of controlling it.
"Sorry," said Remo. "I just thought of a joke."
"All right. Have it your way," said Jethro. "I can stop this process when it becomes very painful and then you'll beg me to let you talk."
"Right," said Remo fighting back an instant guffaw. "Beg. Right. Beg you." But it was no use. He laughed, and then let the laughter roar out full and pleasing.
He stopped laughing when a fine spray began forming from the nozzles. Jethro donned a mask. Obviously the substance was to be breathed in. Let your blood stream carry the poison, and perhaps, if it followed an old, simple mechanism of Sinanju discarded in the twelfth century, perhaps Remo would begin to dissolve.
The masters of Sinanju discarded this mechanism because someone accidentally discovered a simple defence to it. Don't breathe. Practically any swimmer could overcome it, and everyone who had body discipline thought it a joke. Besides, the whole machinery was cumbersome and the children liked to play with it, so, as Chiun had said, it went the way of the bow and arrow.
Remo watched Jethro stare at him sardonically through the eyes of the oxygen mask. Remo suddenly noticed one danger. Laughter. He turned his eyes away from Jethro and tried to think of something sad. He couldn't. So he thought of Dr. Smith and all the discomforting things of his life. In a few moments, the fog began to disappear into an exhaust system. Jethro ripped off his oxygen mask. A look of triumphant hate was on his face.
"Die," he said. "Die painfully because you now cannot move your hands or your mouth or your eyes. You can barely hear me now. So let me tell you before the hearing goes, you are going to dissolve into a puddle. A puddle like people step into. A puddle that will flush along with the rest of the scum into the sewer system."
Too much. Dr. Smith and every sad thing in his life could not overcome this.
"Yahhhh," said Remo curling over and grabbing his sides in hysterical laughter. The roaring, guffawing laughter made him stagger to a wall for balance. He looked back at Jethro. There was shock. The shocked face of Jethro. It was hysterical. Why didn't Jethro stop doing those hysterical things? Perhaps Jethro thought it was the mist that was affecting him. Remo regained control.
"Sorry," said Remo. "Sorry to laugh at you. Where's Nuihc."
"Uh," said Jethro.
"Nuihc," said Remo.
"First door to your right. Knock three times."
Jethro's mouth hung open. Beads of sweat formed on his head. He rubbed his hands on his bell bottom suit. Then anger. He assumed his stance. Remo peered around the desk at the toes. They were pressed too far in. A beginner's mistake.
"The toes," said Remo. "Too far in."
"Come and get it," said Jethro.
Remo reached a hand around the desk and felt for the socket, Jethro tried to crack the hand with a downstroke. Remo merely removed Jethro's hand. At the wrist.
When he saw the mist coming from the nozzle, Remo ripped the mask and the tubing from its desk connection.
Jethro's one hand gripped the bloody stump of his other hand. Remo took a large green Garby Bag from a shelf. Obviously the mist did not affect plastic. He slipped the bag under Jethro and sat him down on the desk. Like putting pants on a baby, Remo slipped the bag up to Jehhro's armpits. Jethro's eyes widened in terror. His face reddened from trying not to breathe. Remo got a little metal twister that came with the Garby's and poked it into Jethro's solar plexus to help him breathe. He did. Exhale, then, full inhale.
"Don't lose the twist," said Remo. "Some of these bags can open by themselves if you don't have the twist."
Then, he walked out, shutting the door behind him and breathing clean full basement air. Which was not the best of air in the world, but it would not kill him.
The first door on the right. Remo saw it immediately. He had one edge, which he had never mentioned to Chiun. Having been trained in Sinanju, Nuihc would be vulnerable to this edge. Chiun had grown to expect certain levels of performance from Remo. But Nuihc would not expect white hands to move that fast. Not expect a white body to respond that well. Not expect Remo to be what he was. Nuihc would be vulnerable to the constant danger to which every student arid master of Sinanju was vulnerable. The constant danger they were taught to avoid from birth. Overconfidence. They were taught this constantly precisely because they were vulnerable.
Remo knocked three times.
"Come in, Remo," sounded a thin voice.
Remo opened the door into a room that was a garden. There, sitting beside a pool, was Nuihc, his face that of a young Chiun, smooth and alive, and just a mite deadlier than Chiun.
Remo pretended not to see the body in its surroundings, pretended he did not have the eyes that could see things meant to be hidden.
"Over here. By the pool," said Nuihc.
"I don't see you. Oh, yeah. There you are," said Remo.
"Yes. Over here. Where you saw me the first time, Remo. Anyone who can work the Scarlet Ribbon, can see a man sitting peacefully."
Remo closed the door behind him.
"Come. Sit by me."
Remo stood still. He would have more room to analyze the attack with some distance between them.
Nuihc smiled. "Very bright. Good. I like that. Did you kill Jethro? Of course you did. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't. You probably think me foolish in giving you the knowledge that I knew you saw me. As our mutual teacher has often taught, we should give nothing. But I give you something because I want something in return. Chiun has obviously done a remarkable job." Remo picked up a note of condescension in the voice. Nuihc had just given too much.
"Yeah," said Remo. "I'm pretty good." Maybe Nuihc would take just a mite more. Accept the boast as a sign of weakness and stupidity.
"Come, come, Remo. Let us not indulge in such silliness. Let us indulge in what you are and what you want. What do you want?"