"Look," said the boatyard owner exasperatedly, "if you two could just get on the same frequency, I could help you, but-"
"There!" said Chiun suddenly, pointing past the salesman. The salesman turned. Remo looked. Even the princess followed the Master of Sinanju's quivering fingernail. Remo groaned even before Chiun spoke the next words. "There. That one. It is perfect," he cried.
"Not that!" groaned Remo. "Anything but that."
"The junk?" said the salesman.
"Good word for it," Remo piped up.
"It is authentic, of course?" asked Chiun.
"Yeah. Imported from Hong Kong. The previous owner lost his portfolio in the market crash. Couldn't afford the upkeep anymore. I took it on consignment, but I never expected to find a buyer."
"And you won't today," Remo growled.
"I must see it closer," Chiun breathed. The salesman waved Chiun ahead.
"No way," said Remo, running after them.
"It's really a five-man craft," the salesman was saying. "You couldn't manage it with less than a crew of five. And it's difficult to handle. All those lugsails. It's not like manning a sloop or a ketch. By the way, how much sailing experience have you people had?"
"None," said Remo.
"Enough," said Chiun.
"It takes a skilled hand to pilot a Chinese junk."
"Did you hear that, Chiun? He said it's Chinese. And we all know how you feel about Chinese stuff. You despise them. "
"Not as much as I despise American plastic," Chiun retorted. "Look at her, Remo, isn't she breathtaking?"
"Now that you mention it, there is an odor."
The junk wallowed in its slip like a three-story hovel with a keel. It had five masts, and the odd-shaped sails flapped like quilts in the wind. The junk creaked at every joint, like a haunted house. The name painted on its stern said Jonah Ark in green lettering.
"How much?" asked Chiun.
"The owner wants what he paid for it seventy thousand."
"Fifty," countered Chiun.
"Sixty," offered the salesman.
"Wait a minute," Remo began.
"Sold," said Chiun triumphantly. "Come, Remo. Let us board our proud vessel."
"You take credit cards?" Remo asked unhappily.
"We can work something out. But you know, you're going to need a lot of training before you can risk piloting that thing out of dock."
"Twenty bucks says Chiun has us on the high seas within an hour."
"He's crazy."
"He's also determined," Remo said, digging for his wallet.
"I'll take that action," said the salesman.
Twenty minutes later, Chiun had single-handedly lowered the batten-reinforced sails, and they caught a shore wind.
"What are you waiting for?" Chiun called from the broad high stern. The Low Moo stood beside him. She waved Remo aboard.
"Thanks," Remo said, taking the salesman's money. "And wish me luck."
"You can't sail that thing with a three-man crew. It's suicide."
"That's what I said. Wish me luck," Remo called back as he pelted down the deck and leapt onto the groaning deck.
"Prepare to cast off," Chiun cried. "We sail with the dawn tides."
"Let's hope we don't sink with the sun," mumbled Remo, throwing off the stern lines while Chiun handled the port side. The wind, filling the quiltlike sails, seemed to grow stronger and the junk lumbered out of its slip like a fat dowager squeezing through a too-narrow door.
A piece of hull modeling caught on the dock and tore loose with a rip-squeal of a sound.
Chiun hurried to the tiller. He threw it to starboard. The junk pivoted slowly.
"Remo, why were you not at the rudder?" Chiun demanded querulously.
"I was casting off. And what do I know about rudders? I'm a landlubber."
"How much damage?"
Remo peered over the rail. "We lost some gingerbread," he reported.
"When we are at sea, it will be your responsibility to repair it."
"Oh, wonderful," Remo said sarcastically. "Just what I've always wanted-to learn a new trade."
Chapter 8
Three days out of Malibu, Remo awoke in his bunk. The creaking of the Jonah Ark filled the hold like the sound of sick mice. Faint shards of morning sunlight came in through the chinks in the stained hull. The chattering of wind in the sails was noticeably absent.
Remo pulled on his salt-stiff pants and T-shirt, wishing that he had packed for the voyage. But he was too anxious to follow Chiun to the bare-breasted women to bother. He never stayed in one place long enough to acquire much of a wardrobe. With the many credit cards issued to him under a dozen cover identities by Harold Smith, it was more convenient to simply buy replacement clothes on the fly. He hadn't anticipated an ocean voyage.
During the early days of his work for CURE, when he was still bitter about the loss of his old life and identity, Remo bought a new pair of shoes every day, giving the old ones to people he met on the street. When Dr. Smith had complained about Remo's flagrant waste of taxpayer money, Remo had replied: