Rerno smiled. He knew why Chiun was staring implacably at the horizon. He did not wish even to honor this man by a look.
A delicate finger with the nail curving gracefully upward emerged from the kimono. Slowly, it signaled the gentleman to come closer.
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Down went the forehead, up went the finger, with such speed that only Remo saw it.
So fast and clean was the stroke that at first no blood emerged, just a thin line where the forehead had been cut. Not deep but deep enough.
By the time the British gentleman knew what had happened, the blood had formed in tiny specks on his forehead, reproducing the symbol on Chiun's robe. It was the symbol that meant "house," and that meant the House of Sinanju.
It was not necessary to say more.
"Better wash your forehead with the salt water," Remo said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You've been cut on the forehead."
"It just tickled."
"Not supposed to hurt," Remo said.
A gloved hand went up to the forehead and came back down with blood on it.
"What? Blood. Gracious. My blood."
"Wash it off. It's not deep," Remo said.
"Why did he do that?"
"You wanted the symbol to take back to your master, so now you've got it. It means greetings from the House of Sinanju."
"I can't believe Chiun would do that," said Terri, who had not seen the blow because the hand had moved too quickly.
"He did it," said Remo.
"You did it. And you are blaming it on him. Right? Right, Chiun? You wouldn't do something like that, would you?"
Chiun did not answer.
"I'm sorry," Terri said. "I interrupted your med-
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itation, but your partner has been slandering you again."
The Briton stumbled to the water's edge and splashed salt water on his forehead, groaning.
"It's only the salt that stings," Remo said.
"Poor man," said Terri.
Remo got up and went slowly toward the gentleman and reached into where he was favoring his body, just under an armpit. He brought out a very nasty little Cobra pistol.
He showed it to Terri.
"See? He is not just an innocent beach stroller."
"You palmed the gun to justify your vicious attack," she said.
Remo tossed the gun back to the man who put it in his neat little nylon shoulder holster. "I also planted the shoulder holster. Under his jacket," Remo said.
"Well, he wasn't firing it," said Terri.
"I've got to leave, Little Father," said Remo. "I'll be back soon."
"Don't hurry," Terri said.
Remo kicked sand in her face.
"Go lift weights," he said.
"Did you see what he did?" Terri said to Chiun, but the old Korean was not answering. He was looking at the skyline for a reason Terri or the British gentleman could never fathom.
Remo knew why.
Chiun was looking at the skyline because he liked the way it looked.
At Analogue Networking Inc., the technician explained to Remo the foolproof method of check-
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ing whether a transmission was received or sent and how the computer stored such information.
Remo did not understand the language the man used. There was a satisfied sort of chuckle in the man's voice as he went on about all the wonders of computers.
He explained that it was the weather's fault that the program was lost in transmission. Not the computer's. The computer did not make mistakes. It couldn't. No one had yet taught it how.
On that the man showed his molars.
Remo stood behind him as Smith's message came in from Folcroft in Rye, New York. It was beamed along the same situation in satellite figuration, the man explained to Remo.
There was even the storm.
Nothing appeared on the screen.