They came out of their huts then and up from the clam-flat beach. It was high tide, so the sandy end of the beach was completely covered.
Chiun stopped as the people of Sinanju began gathering around him. Their faces were flat and unreadable.
Out of the crowd came a bony old man with leathery skin whom Remo knew as Pullyang, Chiun's appointed caretaker in his absence.
Approaching, he got down on hands and knees in the full bow prescribed by long custom.
"Hail, Master of Sinanju, who sustains the village and keeps the code faithfully. Our hearts cry a thousand greetings of love and adoration. Joyous are we
upon the return of him who graciously throttles the universe."
This recitation was given with all the enthusiasm of children reciting the multiplication tables.
Chiun seemed not to notice. His eyes were closed, and his chest was puffed up with pouter pigeon pride.
"It is good to be among one's own people again," he said. "And I have brought my adopted son, Remo, whom you have not seen in some time."
Remo folded his arms and waited to be ignored. Instead, the villagers crowded around, searching his face with their narrow, suspicious eyes.
Pullyang turned to the Master of Sinanju. "He is still white."
"Examine his eyes closely."
The searching eyes returned. Remo frowned.
"Are they not more Korean than last time?" asked Chiun.
"They are not!" snapped Remo.
"Some," allowed Pullyang.
"Not likely," said Remo.
"Yes, the Koreanness is definitely coming out of him," Pullyang said. Other heads nodded in agreement.
"I have nearly beaten Christianity out of him," added Chiun.
The villagers brightened and a few applauded.
"A few more years under the Korean sun, and his skin will be as perfectly golden as yours or mine," he added.
"Bulldooky," said Remo. "Now, you may return to your duties," Chiun said, clapping his hands peremptorily. "Pullyang, stay."
Pullyang remained as the others scattered.
Chiun plucked at his servant's sleeve and drew Pull- yang's ear to his mouth. "Quickly! Has the gold still not arrived?"
"No, Master."
"There has been no word, no whispers, no signs?"
"No signs of gold. Only omens of your return."
"Omens?"
"Yes, Master. Last night thunder came from a clear sky. And today there were rainbows on the bay."
"Rainbows?"
"Yes. It is as if they knew of your return and, understanding their glory to be inferior to yours, threw themselves into the cold waters."
"Remo, did you hear? There were rainbows. Even the Great Wang, greatest of all Masters, never had rainbows foretelling his return."
"Truly you are to be known to future generations as Chiun the Great," said Pullyang.
"I want to see these rainbows," said Remo.
"They are gone. The Master has returned, so they are no longer necessary."
"Show me where they were."
Chiun snapped, "Remo. We have more important things to do than chase dead rainbows."
"I don't think they were rainbows, Little Father."
"If not rainbows, then what?"
"Oil," said Remo.
Chiun frowned. "Do not be ridiculous. Oil is not a favorable omen."
"It is if you're trying to find a lost submarine," said Remo, looking down toward the beach whose outer boundaries were marked by the twin rock formations known as the Horns of Welcome to the friends of Sinanju and the Horns of Warning to those who came to do the village harm.
Harold Smith did not fly home to Rye, New York, after leaving the Grand Cayman Trust in Georgetown.
Instead, he flew to Washington, D.C., rented a cheap room and purchased a laptop computer at a local Radio Shack, paying in cash both times so as not to leave a paper trail. He set the PC up in the room and plugged his modem wire into the phone jack.
Booting up the computer, Smith dialed up a free bulletin board called Lectronic LinkUp.
In the days before the information superhighway had been paved, Harold Smith could never have done this. Now a vast pool of useful information was accessible to him just as it was to any computer-literate American citizen through the on-line net.
Smith paged through the menu prompts and found an index to newspaper, magazine and even talk-show topics. He typed in the name XL SysCorp and asked for a list of articles.
Exactly 567 separate entries began scrolling before his eyes in the soothingly cool fluorescent green he preferred. Smith had made a special point to get a green monochromatic monitor—after making sure the system he had purchased was not a product of XL SysCorp offered under a chain trade name.