"Okay, where's the rice steamer?"
"I am the Master of Sinanju, not a scullery maid."
"I'll find it."
"When you put on the rice, you will prepare a double portion for yourself."
"I'm not that hungry, Little Father. Thanks."
"Thank me after you have consumed a double portion of rice and the lurid taste of corn has left your tongue."
"My tongue is my business," said Remo, rummaging through the cabinets.
"I will not have you succumbing to corn craving, for you have a busy day before you."
"Doing what?" Remo inquired.
"You must prepare a list of rulers that I may consult when the mail begins to arrive from thrones the world over."
"Can I write it in English?"
"No. Hangul."
"As long as it's not that pig Chinese you use."
"That the early Masters adopted Chinese ideograms for their writing is no reflection upon them, but on the lazy Koreans who had not bothered to create writing of their own."
"Okay, I'll make a list."
"It must be done by ten o'clock."
"Why's that?"
"Because that is when the Federal Express makes its earliest deliveries, the laggards."
"Ten a.m. is considered pretty good for overnight mail."
"In the days of Belshazzar, a messenger would pelt all night barefoot through cold and snow in order to arrive before the dawning sun, for he knew he would be beheaded if he failed to better the appointed hour."
"Sometimes if he brought bad news, too."
Chiun sighed. "Those were—"
"Yeah. I know. The good old days," said Remo, who realized the stainless-steel domed thing beside the stove was not a trash can, but a restaurant-style rice steamer he'd never seen before. He realized this when his foot failed to find the lid-popping pedal and, once he threw the dome open by hand, there was a white plastic rice bowl inside.
Remo got busy steaming the rice. It was supposed to be foolproof. Put the correct amount of water in the base of the steamer, an equal mixture of rice grains and cold water in the bowl and place the bowl in the cylinder. Cap, set the timer and wait.
That last part Remo got right every time. The trick was, the correct mixture of water and rice was never the same. Different rice grains absorbed moisture at different rates. Japanese Koshinikari required more water. Thai jasmine less. And Basmati rice was sometimes adultered with less-absorbent Texmati grains.
Thirty-two minutes later Remo was setting a steaming bowl of fragrant jasmine rice before the Master of Sinanju, who hadn't arisen from the warm floor.
"I think it's ready."
"A true Korean would not think—he would know. But you come from a desert tribe where rice is unknown, so I will overlook your ignorance."
"Look, I'm trying to be cooperative here."
"Cooperate by eating every corn-nullifying grain."
Squatting, Remo went to work. He used silver chopsticks to shovel the steaming rice clumps into his mouth. It was just right—sticky and not too dry. He chewed each mouthful to a liquid before swallowing in the prescribed Sinanju way.
"Not bad," he said.
"Eat. I smell corn on your breath."
"Haven't touched the stuff."
"You tasted it in your dreams," Chiun accused.
"That doesn't count."
"Did the nuns who raised you not instruct you that the thought was equal to the deed?"
"Yeah, but I don't believe that stuff."
"Believe that to think of corn, to yearn for it in the carnal way you do, is a sin in the eyes of Sinanju," said Chiun, using his long curved fingernails in lieu of chopsticks.
"If you stopped talking about it, I could forget the stuff."
"Temptation is everywhere. When you think you are inured to the siren allure of maize, I will set a bowl of it before you and we will see."
Remo groaned. "Don't do that, Chiun. I don't think I'm ready yet."
"Eat. Eat. And do not forget to fill your lungs with the purifying fragrance of the one true grain, rice."
When the first Federal Express truck arrived, Remo signed for forty-two letters. Individually.
"Why do they call them letters when they're the size of file folders?" Remo asked the driver as he started on his second pen.
"Same reason they call it Federal Express when it has nothing do with the government."
"What's that?"
The driver grinned. "Because they can."
Remo handed the man back his pen and started carrying the letters up to the tower.