"Men who journey into space are more renowned than any. Their names will be sung down through the ages."
"As will mine. I expect to be known as Chiun the Great to my descendants, and those who follow. Perhaps Chiun the Great Teacher."
All eyes went to the oblivious round-eyed foreign evil who had accompanied the Master of Sinanju to Bejing, and it was agreed that the honorific "Great Teacher" was certainly warranted.
"Greater renown than even yours will befall the first Korean in space. You would not wish this to be a South Korean."
"South Koreans are lazy and stupid."
"All know northerners are more hardy and brave in the extreme."
"I work for gold not glory," said Chiun.
"Some gold can be yours."
Chiun touched his wispy beard. "How much?"
And an amount was mentioned. Delicately. It was so Chinese. The words might have been apricot blossoms falling onto grass. They caressed the senses.
"That much gold and the opportunity to be the first Korean to venture alive into the Great Void is acceptable," said Chiun.
"The rocket ship awaits."
"Hold. Do not think you can trick me. Our bargain is not yet struck."
The Chinese dignitaries sat unmoving. An expression of perplexity touched their still foreheads.
"You offer payment before service. That is not the way of the Han."
"The rocket ship is ready to depart. It will go with a Chinese celestial pilot if you do not go today. Consider this the down payment. The gold will come later."
Chiun made a thoughtful face, deepening his wrinkles. In a corner of the room, Remo yawned broadly.
"I have encountered enemies of late who cannot afford Sinanju and would do without if only Sinanju might be snuffed like a candle," Chiun remarked slowly.
The Chinese expressed astonishment at such perfidy existing in the modern world.
"I will be transported into the Great Void?" Chiun asked next.
"Yes," they agreed.
"And returned?"
"Absolutely," they promised.
And so the bargain was struck in the Great Hall of the People.
Standing up, Chiun strode over to Remo. "I must go now, but I will return."
Remo stood up. "Where are you going?"
"On a short journey."
"To where?"
"Where only a Reigning Master may venture. You cannot follow. I am sorry. Await me here."
"You're not leaving me here with these guys, arc you?"
"You may beg and you may grovel, but you cannot accompany me into the pure air of the realm I am about to plumb."
"Give me a hint."
"No, await me here."
"Okay," said Remo. But as soon as Chiun left, he slipped out an unguarded window.
People's police tried to stop him. Remo broke their rifles and handed them back. Then they tried to tackle him. Remo broke a few wrists and ankles by way of discouragement.
Then they tried to run him down with a long black official car.
Remo stopped perfectly still and let them.
At the last possible second, with the grille bearing down on him, Remo executed a standing backflip and landed in a tiger's crouch on the strong steel car roof.
The car circled and screeched and, when there was no sign of a flat dead American, it straightened out and raced after the line of official limousines bearing the Master of Sinanju.
Atop the car Remo smiled tightly. Maybe he'd get to go with Chiun after all.
Chapter Forty
Her name was unknown, but in Suwon Province she was known as the Wart Woman. When she answered the door to her crumbling hovel, her face was aboil with warts through which she smiled toothless and foolish.
"Enter," she cackled. She wore a faded cinnabar hanbok dress. A cataract clouded one eye. Her black hat rose to a scarlet peak.
Inside, the room was filled with hanging costumes, arcane musical instruments and the dang shrine where she entreated the spirits of the dead.
After they placed four hundred won into the mouth of a boar's head, she asked, "Which spirit general would you consult with? The Fire General? The Lightning Bolt General? General White Horse? Or—"
The president of South Korea hesitated. It was a difficult choice. The choice of spirit general would have a very great impact upon the value of the wisdom dispensed.
He consulted with his advisers in hushed tones.
"The Fire General," urged the unification minister.
"No, the White Horse General," the CIA director insisted.