"Never," said Chiun. "Thy radiant wisdom is a success the moment it leaves your magnificent lips."
"Things don't work sometimes," said Smith.
"Smitty, stop reasoning with him. You're not in the right century for that. The operation failed. What do we do now?" asked Remo.
"We stop blaming our gracious emperor," said Chiun. "We stop right now. How can we blame our emperor when we are not at correctness?"
"What do we do now, Smitty?"
"Why don't you take a look at the people who got off. Find out how they're doing it. Who are they paying? And try not to leave bodies, all right? We're not a revenge outfit."
"Right, Smitty."
"No revenge?" said Chiun.
"No. No. We're not here for revenge."
"You have another plan?"
"We have many plans, Chiun, but revenge is never one of them."
"Begging your gracious pardon, why?" asked Chiun.
"We don't believe in it."
Chiun was silent. Remo glanced into the other room, where Chiun was holding the telephone, dumbfounded. Remo got the information and then hung up. Chiun stood stunned, clutching the receiver in his hands. Remo hung it up for him. Chiun did not move.
"Did I hear correctly? Did Emperor Smith say he did not believe in revenge?"
"That's what he said. He's not here for revenge."
"An emperor known not to seek revenge is one who is dead by the morning. Revenge, known public revenge, is what keeps civilization from chaos."
"Well, he's doing something else."
"It is a disgrace to work for an emperor who will not use revenge. How can he employ the premier house of assassins of all time and not use revenge? Would you buy a car and not drive it? Marry a woman and not make love to her? Walk through a rose garden and not breathe? How can he say he will not use revenge when the House of Sinanju stands ready to glorify him?"
"Good questions, little father," said Remo.
"That means you're not going to answer me," said Chiun.
"You're catching on," said Remo.
William Hawlings Jameson celebrated the court's verdict of innocence in grain-market manipulation with a party so lavish it consumed almost ten percent of his illegal profits from those manipulations. At the party he was beaming. Everyone could understand that. He had just escaped ten to fifteen years in the federal penitentiary. But his wife said he had been feeling that way for weeks before the trial. She told this to a very attractive dark-eyed man with high cheekbones. He was very interested in Bill. No, he didn't work for Bill, but he wanted to speak to her husband.
"He is so high on life, I don't think he could speak to one person alone. It would be a downer to him-like having only one bank account. Wasn't that court decision wonderful? Isn't it miraculous?"
Mrs. Jameson was one of those women of advanced middle age whose wrinkles could be formed into something attractive only with the massive amount of cosmetic talent that lots of money could buy. She smiled a lot to keep the wrinkles up. Remo estimated she had had two face lifts already. Her teeth, of course, gave her away. Teeth aged in almost everyone, everyone he knew except Chiun. And now, of course, himself. He did not know why this was so about him and Chiun, but he did know that the greater truths, the more basic reasons for things, were just as much a mystery as the far side of the universe.
"Is there something caught in my teeth?" Mrs. Jameson asked.
"You're sixty-two, right?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Maybe sixty-three."
"That's rude," said Mrs. Jameson.
"I'm right, then," said Remo.
"Young man, that was uncalled for."
"You're right," said Remo. "I'm really in a foul mood."
"Well, you certainly know how to ruin a party," she said.
"You ain't seen nothing yet, sweetheart," said Remo. Somehow that made him feel a little bit better. Mrs. Jameson called the butler. He would politely ask the gentleman to leave, and if he did not leave, the butler should use whatever force was required.
"Whatever force," she repeated.
She did not see her butler again that evening, but she did see the rude young man. He seemed enraptured with Bill's explanation of his new religion.
"Yes, I know there's a lot of stories about cult hustles and Poweressence, but the proof of anything for me is in the pudding," said Bill Jameson, a portly man with the sharp executive face of success. He didn't have to wear a tuxedo and a gold Rolex to show he had money and power. Wealth was reflected in his eyes and the sure set of his head. His smile was the smile of a man who gave approval and didn't need it for himself.
"Bill, isn't Poweressence that thing founded by a science-fiction writer? If it's so successful, how come he and his wife were just convicted of attempted murder? They also have three counts of mail fraud and conspiracy to extort. This doesn't sound like Billy Graham or the pope to me," a guest said.
"You've got to understand Poweressence. A force so good has to attract evil. The evil the Dolomos attract keeps it away from the followers. They are really suffering for us, so to speak. That's the way it was explained to me, and damnit if it didn't work out that way."
"Maybe you had a good lawyer."
"I had the best, but he couldn't shake my secretary's testimony. They had me. I was gonzo. And then I believed."
"What did it cost you?"
"He who has, does," said Jameson with a knowing smile.
"A half-million?"
Jameson laughed again. "That's the initiation fee. But look, they said they would give it back if my life didn't improve. If I weren't found innocent. You don't knock success."
"I do," said the young man in his early thirties with dark eyes and high cheekbones. "I knock it a lot."
"Who are you?"
"The success knocker, Jameson. I want to talk to you," said Remo.