And because he thought it might annoy Chiun, who deserved all the annoyance he could get, Remo joined with Reva, tried to join her happily, in open gladness, and tried to revel in making love to her body, the old-fashioned way, the way he did before he had been
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trained, and he whispered in her ear, "You're going to introduce me to your friend."
And Reva said, "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes."
And later, while they rested, she said, "You really have no weaknesses, have you?"
"Nothing like if you cut my hair ot, I get weak or anything Hke that," Remo said.
**I want you to meet my friend," she said.
And Remo said, "I'm looking forward to it."
Sheik Fareem was sleeping. The death of the little Master had grieved him and so had his promise to the Master, before he was killed, not to take vengeance on the young American.
But his sleep was troubled. It was troubled with visions of the old Master and the young American battling. He dreamed that he saw the people of his tribe drowning in pools of oil, and the oil seemed to be not merely a liquid but a living, growing pool of evil that swallowed up all that it encountered.
In his sleep, he heard a voice. It spoke softly into his ear as if it were very close to him.
It said, "You are a good and wise ruler, but you are wrong."
Fareem groaned lightly in his sleep.
"Oil is not your enemy. Time is. Oil is not changing your people, but the onward march of time is. You can either teach your people to live with the oil, with the changes that time is bringing to their lives, or you can flee with them farther into the desert, to try to escape change. But there, you must know, that when you leave this world, there will be no one to teach them to Uve."
The sheik groaned again.
"You must use your wisdom to make your people wise," the voice said. "It is all a father can do, and you are the father of your people. You cannot give them of your wisdom; you must lead them to the edges of their own. For the world is changing and we ... you and I •. .'we must understand those changes."
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The sheik slowly felt himself lifting out of sleep, but from a distance, as if it did not belong to him, he heard a voice, his own voice, say, "Who are you?"
He tried to open his eyes, but it felt as if delicate fingertips were on them, holding them closed.
"I am the Master of Sinanju. I have been with you, and when you need me again, my house will be here to serve you."
"But, Master," the sheik heard himself say, "aren't you dead? Did you not fall in battle?"
And the voice answered, "The House of Sinanju never dies, never to those it has sworn to serve and protect. And now I go."
"Where do you go, Master?"
"I go to other places where I am needed. Remember, my friend—do not try to cloak your people in your wisdom because that powerful garment dies with you. Lead them to their own wisdom, and then they will be mighty and protected forever. Good-bye, my friend."
The sheik lay in the darkness for a while, then tried again to open his eyes. This time they opened easily; there was no longer any pressure on the lids.
He looked around. The tent wás empty, but the door flap was moving as if someone had just passed through it. It might have been the breeze, but it was a dry and windless night. He felt something on his chest. He reached his hand over and lifted the object. In the dim moonlight reflected from the sand into the tent, he looked at it. It was a gold medal, circular, and inside was a trapezoid with a metal slash bisecting it. He recognized it. It was the symbol of Sinanju. He had seen it on the contract he carried with him, signed by another Master of Sinanju so many years ago.
The sheik felt his eyes dampen.
The Master of Sinanju lived. He would live forever.
Remo and Chiun borrowed Reva Bleem's Rolls Royce to drive to Nehmad. He would have someone take it back to her in the morning.
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•r
"What did you tell the sheik back there?" Remo asked.
"To stop worrying about oil," Chiun said.
"Good," said Remo. "Reva thinks you're dead."
"And why shouldn't I be? I'm old. I carp. If it weren't for you, I'd probably have been dead years ago."
"Chiun, I had to tell her that."
"Remember that when I have to tell somebody something about you," Chiun said.
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Chapter Fourteen
"It's water?" Harold Smith's voice registered uncharacteristic surprise as he stared at Remo.
They were sitting in Secaucus, New Jersey, in an old luxury ferryboat that had been converted to a restaurant. Remo was looking out at the cold gray waters of the Hackensack River. Chiun was folding cocktail napkins into dragon shapes, trying not to look bored.
"Yeah. Water kills it," Remo said.
"Why then not on St. Maarten's? The island's surrounded by water."
"Chiun and I figured that out. It has to be pure water. Impurities probably act like food for the bacteria."
At the mention of his ñame, Chiun smiled at Smith.
"You did well, Emperor, to send us on this mission. I have learned a great deal about anaerobic. It justifies your wisdom in sending me."
"Oh?" Smith said. "What else can you tell me about it, Chiun?"
"You can't see it, and when you put it in water, it turns white like wax. If you don't put it in water, it eats oil. Would you like to see me hold my breath?"
"No, that won't be necessary," Smith said. He turned back to Remo, who was sipping a cup of tea. "This causes us a problem, you know."