"Winston!" he breathed.
Then Remo's and Chiun's hands flashed out in unison.
"No!" Smith cried.
It was too late.
Winston Smith saw his Uncle Harold the moment he entered the Folcroft office. He had rehearsed the speech all the way across the Atlantic, in the belly of the MAC C-130 he'd stowed aboard. He had it down pat by the time he'd slipped unseen from the cargo bay at MacGuire Air Force Base and grabbed a taxi.
But with his Uncle Harold blinking numbly at the muzzle of the BEM gun, his mind went blank and all the rage of rejection drained from him.
Then the gun in his fist began clicking like mad. It happened so fast it took Winston Smith's breath away. He hadn't so much as caressed the trigger.
When his eyes stopped blinking, Winston Smith saw that the Lucite spokes of his ammo clips had disappeared completely. He lifted the weapon to his face. The clear drum was gone, too. So was the banana clip in the heavy grip.
It was then he realized he was flanked by two men.
One was short and very, very old. An Asian. The other was tall and lean and looked vaguely familiar. Both were holding fistfuls of Lucite clips in their hands, their postures casual.
"Nice gun," said the tall one.
"Screw you," Winston growled, directing the big muzzle toward him. "There's still one in the chamber."
"We always give a freebie," the tall one said with a hard smile.
"Don't mess with me. I'm a trained SEAL."
"That so? Let's see you balance that toy on your nose while clapping your flippers."
"Your mother," Winston growled, squeezing the trigger.
The BEM convulsed. It was at point-blank range, and there was no way he could have missed. No way at all.
But as the gun sound stopped echoing, the tall guy with the dead-looking eyes and insolent smile stood his ground, unhurt. He should have gone down with a hot round in his thigh, but all he did was fold his arms smugly.
Winston Smith blinked. Was it his imagination, or was there a suggestion of a blur around the edges of the guy? As if he had stepped out of the path of the round and back again too fast to be seen?
"So much for your freebie," the guy said coolly.
"Your mother," repeated the kid in the camouflage outfit and tiger-striped face.
Remo looked more deeply into that face, blinked and said, "You do kinda look like my mother. Around the eyes."
Chiun abruptly seized the kid and spun him around.
"Who are you?" he demanded, searching the green-and-black planes of his face.
"Winston Smith. What's it to you, gook?"
"If you are Winston Smith, why do you wear Remo's face?"
"Who's Remo?"
"I am," said Remo, spinning the kid back again so he could get a better look at him. "He doesn't look like me at all."
"Look more closely, Remo," said the shaken voice of Harold Smith. "And you will see the resemblance."
"I don't see any such thing," Remo snapped. "This is your nephew, right? The one you had me mail the kiss-off letter to?"
"Damn right," said Winston Smith bitterly.
"Wrong," said Harold Smith.
"What?" said Winston Smith.
"He is the proof that I am your father, Remo," said Smith, coming out from behind the desk. "He is my grandson, your son."
"You told me you were my uncle," Winston Smith blurted.
Smith shook his gray head gravely. "A lie-told to conceal from you the truth of your parentage."
"I don't get this," said Remo and Winston in unison.
"Aiiieee! Remo has a son!" Chiun wailed.
Smith said, "I thought you always wanted a son for Remo, Master Chiun?"
"Yes. One to train in Sinanju. A suitable heir to the House. Look at him. He is even whiter than Remo. He smells of hamburger and alcohol and he thinks he is a sea lion."
"SEAL," corrected Winston Smith. "It means Sea Air Land-"
"And he carries a boom stick so ridiculous it is a wonder he has not shot himself dead," Chiun wailed in conclusion.
"Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind," said Winston, glaring at Harold Smith.
Remo, his mouth hanging slack, said, "This kid isn't my son. I never had a son."
"Correction. You never had a son that you knew about," said Smith.
"You're my son?" said Remo, his voice flat.
"If I am, I plan on shooting myself," growled Winston Smith.
"You might as well," moaned Chiun, throwing up his hands. "It is already too late. You have been ruined by uniforms and guns. You can never achieve Sinanju."
"What's this gook talking about?" Winston asked Remo.