"The question is how do you know, white man," said Chiun.
"It is my nature. By nature, I react."
"The gun and the fire were not reactions," said Chiun.
"A bit of my new creativity," said Mr. Gordons. "It is something I need more of."
"Thank you," said the Master of Sinanju and disappeared back into the thick growth covering the hill rising above Magen's Bay. Neither he nor Remo would have to wait for a later generation of the Masters of Sinanju. Mr. Gordons had given himself away.
CHAPTER SIX
"We attack," said Chiun, and Remo shrugged in confusion for he saw no enemy, as he had seen no enemy when they had left St. Thomas and Chiun had said "We attack," as he had seen no enemy in the NASA Space Center in Houston when Chiun had said "We attack," as he had seen no enemy when the office of public relations at NASA had said:
"The research on the creativity component has pretty well been given up because of cutbacks in the program. It's now non-operative."
"Aha," Chiun had said.
"Does that mean it's closed down?" Remo asked.
"Pretty much," said the public relations man.
"We understood you the first time," Chiun said.
"Horsefeathers," said Remo. According to a brochure on unmanned space flight that they got from the public relations man, the component they sought had been developed in Cheyenne, Wyoming, and by the time their plane had landed, both Remo and Chiun were exhausted from the pressures of flight upon systems more finely tuned and more sensitive than the average person's.
The Wilkins Laboratory, as it was called, was a three-story building, rising from a flat grassy plain, as though someone had stuck an isolated box on a bare floor. It was dusk when Remo and Chiun arrived: all three floors of the laboratory were lit.
"Doesn't look like there's been any cutback here," said Remo.
"We attack," said Chiun.
"What the hell do we attack? First you want to run, then after Mr. Gordons comes after us, you want to attack and I don't see what we're attacking."
"His weakness. He gave us his weakness."
"I already saw his weakness. He moves funny. If I hadn't thought that was him in the water in Magen's Bay, I could have gotten him back in St. Thomas. He decoyed me."
"Wrong," said Chiun. "He bracketed us. To find out what is, he found out what wasn't. Neither metal, nor fire, nor water worked against us. He found this out without risk to himself. But in his arrogance, he told us that he would not leave us alone, so we must attack."
"But you said a future generation, and only when they knew Mr. Gordons's flaws."
"We are that generation. He told me on the cliffs. He lacks creativity. Now this is a place that designs machines for creativity. Mr. Gordons knew about it. That is why he wanted that thingamajig you gave him at the airport in that dirty city. Now we are here. And we attack. You will, of course, take care of the details."
"Well, how are we going to get an attack out of creativity?"
"I do not know machines," said Chiun. "I am not Japanese or white. That's your job. All whites know machines."
"All Orientals don't know Sinanju; why should all whites know machines? I don't know anything about machines."
"Then ask someone. You will learn it quickly."
"I can maybe change a sparkplug, Little Father."
"See. I told you. You know machines. All whites know machines. You fixed the machine with the offensive drama."
"That was just threading a movie projector reel."
"And it will be just figuring out an attack that uses a machines that makes creativity."
"These are space-age computers, Chiun. Not movie projectors."
"We attack," said Chiun, advancing on the building.
"How do we know we'll ever see Gordons again?" asked Remo.
"Aha," said Chiun, clutching a lump of lead that he wore on a thong around his neck. "We know. Inside here is the secret," but he would say no more because while he knew Remo would be good with machines, because all whites were, he was still afraid that Remo might somehow find a way to break the metal spur by which Gordons could track them down. Chiun would keep it wrapped in lead until it was time to call Gordons to join them.
When they reached the front door of the laboratory, a woman's voice, husky with too many cigarettes and dry martinis, asked, "Who's there?" Remo looked for the woman but did not see her.
"I said who's there?" The voice did not sound as if it came over a speaker but when the voice repeated the question, Chiun spotted the source. It was a speaker, apparently of incredible fidelity, without the ring or vibration of normal speakers.
"The Master of Sinanju and pupil," said Chiun.
"Put your hands on the door."
Chiun placed his long-nailed hands flat on the metal door. Remo followed, keeping alert to any possible attack from behind.
"All right, you perspire. You can come in."
The door slid to the right, revealing a lighted passageway. As they entered, Remo and Chiun cursorily checked above and alongside the door. No one.
The passageway smelled strangely like a bar.
The door closed behind them.
"All right. Talk. Who sent you?"
"We're here about a creativity program," said Remo.
"I thought so, you bastards. The rat doesn't dare come here himself. How much did he offer to pay you? I'll top it."
"In gold?" asked Chiun.
"Cash," said the voice.
"If it were gold, the House of Sinanju is at this moment seeking employ."