"And you, my friend, who sent you?"
"No one send us. We do it for fun."
"You mean you'd kill somebody and not get paid for it?"
"We just funning."
"Your funning interfered with my conversation. Do you know that?"
"Ah sorry."
"Sorry isn't enough. You don't go interfering with people's conversations in the middle of the street. It's not nice."
"Ah be nice."
"See that you do. Get your friends out of here."
"They dead."
"Well, bury them or something," said Remo, and he stepped over the charred head of the writhing body and joined Chiun on the sidewalk.
"Sloppy," said Chiun.
"I was in the street. I worked with what I had."
"Sloppy, careless, and messy."
"I just wanted to be sure they weren't part of the Divine Bliss Mission."
"Of course. Play in the streets. Visit holy houses. Anything but taking your benefactor to his home. Even your emperor orders it, but, no, you must play your games. And why, I asked myself, must someone to whom I have given so much, refuse me a simple visit to my birthplace. Why I asked myself. Why? Where have I gone wrong in his education? Is it possible that I am at fault?"
"I can't wait to hear the answer," said Remo. The door was heavy wood with a small glass circle in the center of it. Remo knocked.
"Was I at fault, I asked myself. And being scathingly honest, I came to the conclusion, that, no, everything I gave you was perfect and right. I had performed miracles with you. This I admitted to myself. Then why does my pupil still do improper things? Why does my pupil still deny me a simple little favor? In being harsh with myself, sparing no criticism, I was forced to the following conclusion. Remo, you are cruel. You have a cruel streak."
"You really know how to tear yourself down, Little Father," said Remo.
An eye appeared in the glass hole, and the door opened.
"Quickly, inside," said a young girl with a grace of freckles under her pink scarf. The scarf blended into a light, clear robe. A silver line was painted on her forehead. Chiun noted the silver line carefully, but said nothing.
"Quickly, the cyclists are out again."
"The guys in the jackets?" said Remo.
"Yes."
"You don't have to worry about them." Remo pointed to the last cyclist stacking his comrades against the curb.
"All praised be the Blissful Master. He has shown us the way. Come everyone, look at our deliverance." Faces crowded around the young girl, some with silver lines, some without. Chiun looked at every silver line.
"The Blissful Master will always show the way," the girl said. "Let the doubting hearts be stilled."
"The Blissful Master didn't do it. I did it," said Remo.
"You worked through his will. You were only the instrument. Praised be the Blissful Master. His truth is manifest. Oh, there were doubters when we bought this house. There were doubters who said this neighborhood was unsafe. But the Blissful Master said we should get an abode that fit our purse, mindless of where it was. And he was right. He was always right. He has always been right and will always be right."
"Can we come in?" asked Remo.
"Enter. You have been sent by the Blissful Master."
"I was thinking of joining you," said Remo. "I came to find what you're about. You have an arch-priest for this place, don't you?"
"I am the arch-priest of the San Diego Mission," came a voice from up a stairwell. "You are the men who made the street safe, correct?"
"Correct," said Remo.
"I will see you and make the way ready for you if you will but rise above your doubts."
"We will be starting an introductory lesson soon," said the girl.
"They will have a private introduction. They have earned it," said the voice.
"As you will it," said the girl, and she bowed.
Remo and Chiun climbed the stairs. A man whose face was a remnant of a losing fight against long-ago acne greeted them with a short bow. He too wore a pink robe. Remo could see his hair had been shaved from the front of his head. He wore sandals and smelled as if he had been dipped in incense.
"I am a priest. I have been to Patna, there to gaze with my own eyes upon perfection. There is perfection on earth, but the Western mind rebels against it. Your very act of coming here shows you recognize the rebellion within you. I ask a question: What happens in rebellion?"
Chiun did not answer; he was staring at the silver streak down the priest's forehead. Remo shrugged. "You got me," he said.
They followed the priest into a room that had a dome of pink plaster material. In the center of the dome hung a golden chain, and at the end of the chain was a four-sided picture of a fat-faced young Indian boy working on his first mustache.
Pillows were stacked against the corner. A deep-piled rug of intricate red and yellow designs covered the floor. The priest continued:
"What happens in rebellion is two parts, at least two parts set in opposition. They harm each other. Every person who does not believe he can be unified within himself, who fights against his passions, is in rebellion. Why do you think you have passions?"
"Because he is white like you," said Chiun. "Everyone knows whites can't control their passions and are invincibly cruel at heart, especially to their benefactors."
"All people have the same passions," said the pock-faced priest, sitting down beneath the picture of the fat-faced kid. "All men, but for one, are alike."
"River garbage," said Chiun. "White Western river garbage."
"Why do you come here, then?" asked the priest.
"I am here because I am here. That is the true unity before you now," said Chiun.