"American Indians?"
"They, too. But I refer to the Indians of the East, the true Indians, the Hindus. Their Lord Buddha wore this symbol tattooed to his body as a sign of his goodness."
"Really?"
"Yes, the Zingh was a lucky sign in olden days. Although not so lucky for some."
"I detect a legend coming on," Remo said.
"Once, a Master of Sinanju was in service to a caliph of India," Chiun recited. "This particular caliph was having problems with the priests of his province. They objected to his taxes or something. I do not remember because their offense is not the point of this story. And so the caliph sent the Master, whose name was Kik, to slay the priests."
"For not paying their taxes. Just like that?"
"Merely because priests wrap themselves in holy words, that does not make them holy. Or even less mortal. The priests, hearing of the Master of Sinanju coming to their temple, were beside themselves with trepidation. They knew they were powerless against the Master of Sinanju. They could not fight him. They could not defend their soft bodies from his blows. They could not reason with him, for they spoke not his language. In their fear, they sought a charm to ward off the Master's attack."
"The Zingh," asked Remo.
"The very same. They knew that their Lord Buddha anointed his largeness with this very symbol, and so with pigments they anointed their bodies with this emblem of luck and goodness, trusting that the Master Kik would perceive their good intentions and spare them."
"You make the Zingh sound like the old peace symbol hippies used to wear."
"No, that is the Urg. Another thing altogether. The Zingh is more like that funny yellow circle people wear with the dots for eyes and the insipid smirk."
Remo looked puzzled. "A smile button? The swastika was the Hindu version of a smile button?"
"The Zingh. Exactly," said Chiun. "And so when the Master of Sinanju stood outside the gate of this temple, he called the priests out to face his wrath. And the priests came, stripped to their loincloths, their bodies anointed with the Zingh, and their fat bellies quaking in fear, and the Master of Sinanju flew upon them, chop, chop, chop, and in a twinkling they fell dead."
"The Master of Sinanju did not recognize the Zingh, huh?"
"Oh, he recognized it," Chiun replied cheerfully, "but he did not know it as the Zingh, but as the Korean Buk, the symbol of storm and lightning and combat. You see, to a Hindu it meant 'Have a nice day,' but to a Korean it meant 'I challenge you to fight to the death.' And so the fat-bellied priests died."
"And the lesson?"
"There is none."
"Really," said Remo, "no lesson? I don't think I've ever heard a Sinanju legend that didn't come with a lesson attached to it."
"That is because this is not a lesson legend, but a humorous legend. Masters of equal ranks use them to pass the hours. Now that you are a full Master, I may tell you other such legends. But remember, these are not stories to tell the villagers or others. These are between Masters, to be appreciated by Masters only. To tell such lessons to villagers is to diminish the solemnity and dignity of the Sinanju histories."
"That last part sounds like a lesson to me."
"That is because you are new to full Masterhood," said Chiun, chuckling.
When Remo did not chuckle back, Chiun asked what was wrong. They were approaching the long ramp that led to the main building's entrance.
"This place is wrong, Little Father."
"It is ugly, yes, I will agree to that."
"It shouldn't exist. Not here in America, not ever."
"Soldiers are as numerous as ants. You step on one anthill and they build another elsewhere. What can you do?"
"These people aren't soldiers," said Remo. "They're racists."
"No!" said Chiun, shocked. He had heard the word spoken in very disapproving tones by white newscasters many times on television. "Racist?"
Remo nodded grimly. "This place is a racist paradise."
"Racism is despicable. It is a plague among the inferior races, especially sub-Koreans. Why do Americans not stamp out these foul racists?"
"Because these people are Americans too. They claim the same rights as other Americans, and they use those rights to preach hatred against other Americans."
"If thev are Americans as you say, then why do they fly the Zingh flag of Germany?" asked Chiun. They had come to the door of the main building.
"They think Nazi Germany had the right idea about some things. Or maybe they just like the losing side. Most of these people also think the fall of the Confederacy was the end of civilization. I don't know, Little Father. None of it makes any sense to me either."
Remo found the double doors locked. Because he wanted to continue his discussion with Chiun, he knocked instead of breaking the lock with his hands.
Chiun asked, "Then why do they not live in Germany?"
"It's hard to explain," said Remo, waiting patiently. "They think they are the only true Americans, and that everyone else is inferior."
"Everyone else?"
"Mostly blacks and Jews and members of other religions they don't like."
"Koreans too? That is hard to believe. I have lately found Americans to be very enlightened people."
"You could ask him," said Remo as the door opened and a square-faced wan with a beet-red complexion and brushcut hair glared at them.
"You are both out of uniform," he said. And then, noticing Chiun, he asked Remo, "What's he doing here?"
"We're taking a poll," said Remo. "It's a word-association poll. We'll say a word and you say the first thing that comes into your pointy head. Ready? Start. Chinese."
"Scum."
"See," said Remo. "You try, Little Father."
"Japanese," said Chiun.
"Sneaky."
"Vietnamese."
"Sneakier. "