"Now, knowing that the moon the Master Shang had visited was all ice and snow inhabited by white snow bears, I asked Mad Harold, King of America, if they had found rich cities on the moon to conquer, and he said no. I asked him if they had discovered mines of silver and gold, I asked him if there were slaves there, and he said no and he said no. I asked him if the meat of the white snow bears was the object of these expeditions, which I was told in confidence cost the ransom of a Japanese prince, and he said no."
By this point, the children sat round-mouthed. "These words of Mad Harold puzzled me greatly, for I could see no reason for these expeditions and I asked him what his brave sailors brought back from these perilous journeys that replenished the treasury the cost of undertaking them. And his answer was so strange that I immediately returned to my scrolls and entered what he told me in the histories of Sinanju.
"And do you know what these whites, these spendthrifts, brought back from the moon after their frightful journeys of many days?" Chiun asked.
"What, O Master?" the children of Sinanju chorused.
"Rocks," breathed the Master of Sinanju. "Common stones. I myself was allowed to hold one of these in my very hands. They were neither beautiful nor valuable. And seeing this, I returned to the castle of Mad King Harold and I said to him, 'I have seen with my wise old eyes the stones your moon expeditions have brought back on their arduous journeys and I am prepared to bring to you as many similar stones as you desire for half the money you squander on these moon voyages.' " Chiun paused dramatically. "And do you know what Mad King Harold said to me?"
"What?" a dirty-haired boy piped up.
"He declined my generous and intelligent offer; saying that only stones from the moon would do," Chiun said disdainfully.
At that, the children of Sinanju burst into giggling. "Have you ever been to the moon, Master Chiun?" the little girl who was the daughter of Poo asked.
"No," Chiun replied, "for soon after this, the whites stopped sending their sailors to the moon, which shows that even whites can learn if they repeat a stupid thing often enough."
The children smiled. Everyone knew that whites were dense. Why else did the Supreme Creator give them stupid round eyes which to behold the world, and exile them to live across the sea?
"When are you going back to America?" asked the daughter of Poo, who Chiun noted was cursed with her mother's incessant tongue.
"Why do you ask?" Chiun asked.
"Because my mother said that when you return to the village, you always bring misfortune. And you are stingy with your gold."
"Your mother said that?" Chiun asked quickly. His hazel eyes narrowed. The little girl nodded. She was chubby and in her round face Chiun could see a hint of the fat face of Poo. "Your mother is very free with her tongue," Chiun said quietly.
"She does yell a lot," the little girl said vaguely. An older boy raised his hand, and Chiun nodded in his direction.
"Will you tell us a story of the white man whom you had exalted to greatness by teaching him the art of Sinanju?"
"I have many tales of Remo," Chiun said proudly. "Let me think of a good one-"
"Where is he now?" another boy interrupted. "Why did you not bring him?"
Chiun hesitated. How could he tell them the shameful truth-that the one white in all the world who had been allowed to learn the art of the sun source now languished in a prison? Chiun bowed his old head. It was too shameful a story to tell to children. He searched his mind for a way to answer the question truthfully without bringing disgrace on his head.
Just then, the dinner gong reverberated over the sleepy village of Sinanju, saving the Master of Sinanju the trouble. He stood up and spanked the dust from his magnificent robes.
"Come," he said. "It is time to fill our bellies. I will tell you a story of Remo another time."
And the Master of Sinanju strode off, leading the children into the communal eating era. As he topped a hill, he saw the corpulent shape of Poo the Tart-tongued, and his face hardened and his gait picked up as he hurried in her direction.
Chapter 11
Remo lay awake the rest of the night thinking about the old Oriental. The dream had shaken him. There was something almost tangible about the images, particularly the old Oriental. Even hours later, his wizened face hovered clearly in Remo's mind's eye. Every wrinkle, every inflection in his voice. It was as if he had actually known the little man. But as Remo searched his memory, he couldn't recall ever having seen him in real life.
It was strange. In his dream, the little Asian had a name. Chiun. Remo couldn't remember ever having had a dream in which one of the figments of his imagination had a name. Remo even knew how to spell it. There was an I that wasn't pronounced.
It was a pretty sophisticated concept for his subconscious mind, Remo reflected. Why not Chang? He had heard the name Chang before. Many Chinese were named Chang. It was like the name Jones over here. He had never heard of a Chiun, however.
After a while Remo drifted off. The morning buzzer jolted him awake too soon. Slowly Remo got into his dungarees and apricot-colored T-shirt. He hated the T-shirt almost as much as the pink cell walls. He wished it was blue. Or the walls were blue. These pastels reminded him of a cheap department-store print.
Before breakfast was shoved through the slot, word raced down the row that Crusher McGurk had died during the night.
"What about Popcorn?" Remo asked urgently.
A voice replied with a gruff, "Don't no one know, man. But that boy, he got spunk. That how he got his name."
"How did he get his name?" Remo asked suddenly. "When the little dude came down the line first time, he was jokin' and jivin', tellin' the hacks that when his time come to set his ass on Sparky, he was bringing a thing of Jiffy Pop with him. Said it was for the row. After that, he was Popcorn."
Remo grunted. He wondered if Popcorn, wherever he was, had any of that spirit left in him. Remo told the guard, "Thanks, but no thanks," when he appeared with the tray. It was ham and beans. The C.O. shrugged and started away, but Remo called after him, "Hey, what's the word on Popcorn?"
"Does it matter? He's scheduled to go tomorrow."
"Yeah, hack," Rema growled. "It matters to me." He fell back into his bunk and suddenly remembered the pack of Camels in his dungaree pockets. He fished them out and lit one up.
The first puff sent him coughing. The second was a little less harsh. His lungs only burned like sulfur. Remo managed to smoke half of it before his head started aching. He snuffed the butt against the floor and carefully replaced the remaining half in the pack after the tip had cooled. No telling how long the pack would have to last him.
It was late afternoon when two guards escorted Popcorn to his cell. The little con walked in chains, with his head bowed low.
Remo waited until the guards were gone before he hissed out a greeting. "How's it going, kid?"
The sound that came back was mewing. Remo couldn't make it out. Somewhere down the line, a taunting voice said, "Hey, Popcorn, what's the matter? Pussycat got your tongue?"
And from Popcorn's cell came a protracted whimpering that turned Remo's blood cold. It went on for an hour. A picture of Popcorn, his face buried in his pillow, unable to speak, leapt into Remo's head.
Remo pulled out the half-cigarette and a single match, then pushed the pack out into the corridor. "Here. You need these more than I do," he said gently.
Remo watched through the bars as Popcorn's thin brown fingers groped for the pack. They disappeared with it and Remo lingered by the bars while Popcorn smoked in silence. For some reason, secondhand smoke seemed to suit him better these days.
The rest of the day was gray and interminable. Every head count was the same. Even Radar Dish, once night fell, did the same Star Trek monologue he had done earlier in the week.
After lights-out, the silence was eerie. There were no midnight howls, no night terror screams, no buzz of furtive conversation.
Everyone knew that tomorrow was Tuesday. The day Popcorn was scheduled to go to the chair. Remo wondered if the little guy would get any sleep, and then he wondered how he himself would sleep when his turn came.
He listened to Popcorn toss and turn all night and wondered if he should offer any words of comfort. Then he realized he had none. What do you tell a Dead Man as his final minutes tick by?
The morning buzzer was like a shank in the gut. The first visitors were a pair of C.O.'s and a priest. The exchange was inaudible and one-sided. The priest soon left, his face a shocked bone-white after he realized he could not hear the condemned man's confession because he had no tongue.
Next came the barber and the warden.
Warden McSorley spoke in flat, rote-like tones over the buzz of the clippers that were whittling Popcorn's high-top fade to microscopic stubble.
"Listen carefully, Mohammed," the warden was saying. "After the barber is done, you're going to step out of your shorts and we're going to prepare your body."