"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"Because it seems that a town you support and that your family has supported for centuries ought to pay a little more attention to you," said Remo.
"I have suspended the attention-paying requirement," said Chiun. His manner, Remo noticed, was less official and sounded a little like an apology. "Because…"
"I know, because I'm an American."
"Right," said Chiun. "But remember, even if they do not come out, people are watching. I wish you would walk right and not embarrass me by seeming to be an old man, old before your time, older even than your western dissolution would seem to require."
"I will try, Little Father, not to embarrass you," said Remo and, by an effort of will, he forced himself to put some weight on his injured right leg, reducing the limp, and, even though each motion pained him, he forced himself to swing his arms from the shoulders almost normally as he walked.
"There is the ancestral palace," said Chiun, motioning ahead with a nod of his head.
Remo looked ahead. Into his mind flashed a building he had once seen in California. It had been created by its builder from junk, made of broken bottles and tin cans and styrofoam cups and old tires and broken pieces of boards.
Chiun's house reminded Remo of a house built by the same craftsman, but this time with access to more materials, for in a village of wooden shanties and huts, Chiun's home was made of stone and…
And… glass and steel and wood and rock and shell. It was a low, one-story building whose architecture seemed to be American ranch as seen through an LSD haze.
"It's… it's… it's… really something to see," said Remo.
"It has been in my family for centuries," said Chiun. "Of course, I had it remodeled many years ago. I put in a bathroom which I thought was a good idea you westerners had. And a kitchen with a stove. See, Remo, I am willing to take advice when it is good."
Remo was pleased to hear that, for he had some additional good advice for Chiun—tear it down and start all over. He decided to tether his tongue.
Chiun led Remo to the front door, apparently made of wood. Only apparently, because the door had been totally covered over with shells of clams, oysters, and mussels. The door looked like a section of Belmar Beach four hours after a New Jersey rip tide.
The door was heavy and Chiun pushed it open with seeming difficulty. He looked at Remo almost apologetically.
"I know," said Remo. "You have suspended the door opening requirement."
"How did you know?"
"Because I'm an American," said Remo.
While Remo had considered the building's exterior as ugly, not even that had prepared him for the inside. Every available inch of floor space seemed to have something on it. There were jugs and vases and plates, there were statues and swords, there were masks and baskets, there were piles of cushions in place of chairs, there were low tables of highly-polished wood, there were colored stones in glass jars.
Chiun spun around and indicated his domain with another sweep of his hand.
"Well, Remo, what do you think?"
"I am underwhelmed," said Remo.
"I knew you would be," said Chiun. "These are all the prizes of the Masters of Sinanju. Tribute paid us by rulers from all over the world. From the Sun King as you call him. From Ptolemy. From the shahs of those countless countries that make grease. From the emperors of China when they remembered to pay their bills. From tribes of India. From a once-great nation of black Africa."
"Who ripped you off giving you a jar of colored stones?" asked Remo, looking at a jar which stood in the corner of the room, a foot and a half high, filled with dull stones.
"How American you are," said Chiun.
"Well, I mean one of your ancestors got hustled."
"The jar was the agreed-upon price."
"A jar filled with rocks?"
"A jar filled with uncut diamonds."
Remo looked at the jar again. It was true. It was filled with uncut diamonds and the smallest was two inches across.
"But I would not expect you to understand that," said Chiun. "For you, for the western mind, all the world is divided into two categories: shiny and not shiny. For you, a piece of glass. But for a Master of Sinanju, diamonds. Because we can look under the dullness and see the value of the core."
"Like you did with me?" said Remo.
"Even Masters of Sinanju sometimes get fooled. Something that is supposed to be an uncut diamond may turn out to be just a rock."
"Chiun, I wanted to ask you something."
"Ask me anything."
"I wanted to know," and then Remo felt the strength draining from his limbs and he knew that his muscles had been extended beyond the point that they could be extended, and his right leg started to cave, and suddenly the effort of will ended, and his shoulders were blazing with pain. He opened his mouth to say something more, but he couldn't, and then he was falling toward the floor of the room.
He did not remember hitting the floor. He did not remember being lifted.
He only remembered waking up and looking around. He was in a small sunlit room, lying on a pile of cushions, naked, covered only with a thin silken sheet.
Chiun stood by his side and when Remo's eyes opened, he knelt. Carefully but quickly, his hands began to remove the bandages from Remo's shoulders.
"The doctor put those on," said Remo.
"The doctor is a fool. No muscle is helped by being strapped. Rest, yes. Imprisonment, no. We will make you well soon. We will…" but his voice trailed off as he saw Remo's right shoulder, as the last strand of bandage fell off.
"Oh, Remo," he said in a sad, pained voice. He said nothing further as he unwrapped the left shoulder and then he said it again, "Oh, Remo."
"The one who hit the leg was the best of all," Remo said. "Wait until you see it." He paused. "Chiun, how did you know I would come here?"
"What do you mean?"
"When you said goodbye to Smith, you said I would be here."
Chiun shrugged as he bent toward the bandage on Remo's right thigh. "It is written that you would."
"Written where?" asked Remo.
"On the men's room wall at Pittsburgh Airport." said Chiun nastily. "In the books of Sinanju," he said.
"And what does it say?" asked Remo.