"Ask him about Koreans," Remo said.
Chiun addressed the man. "Koreans."
"Worse than Japs. Stupider, too."
Chiun puffed out his cheeks in indignation.
"Racist," he said loudly. "Foul despicable round-eye racist. You are like all stupid whites. Ignorant."
The man suddenly pointed a handgun at the Master of Sinanju's angry face.
"I don't like being called names."
Chiun said to Remo, "He is truly ignorant, isn't he?"
"I don't think he knows who you are. Why don't you tell him?"
"I am the Master of Sinanju," Chiun said proudly. "Currently I am in disguise."
"What's that mean?"
"It means I am a Korean, possibly the most awesome and merciful creature you could ever imagine."
"You make yourself sound perfect." The man sneered, cocking his revolver. "Well, this gun makes me perfect."
"By what reasoning do you claim that?" asked Chiun.
"Because I can shoot off your gook head for what you called me."
"No, all that proves is that a gun, correctly aimed, can kill. Everyone knows that. It has nothing to do with your alleged perfection. It proves nothing."
"Good-bye, gook," said the man, pulling the trigger.
"Good-bye, racist," said Chiun, his open palm batting upward. It struck the muzzle of the pistol a precise quarter-second before the hammer fell, and because exactly a quarter-second after Chiun struck it the pistol was pointed up into the soft underside of the man's jaw, the bullet mushroomed against the man's tongue and the top of his head geysered a spray of blood and confused thoughts.
Remo and Chiun stepped past him.
"Let us find Ferris quickly so that we may he gone from this nest of inferior racists," said Chiun. He was unhappy because Remo had proven that there were Americans who were not as enlightened as Chiun had claimed.
Ilsa Gans ran the videotapes simultaneously on three monitors. The videos covered three angles, one head-high and the others from the ceiling. Each one told the same story, and the story was that the two spies who called themselves Remo and Chiun were invincible.
Ilsa watched them intently. The overhead films showed clearly why the five soldiers had been confused. First, the two men ran faster than the camera could record. Ilsa set the VCR for slow motion, but even then they were just slow-moving blurs. The blurs looked like they were running through a crossfire of water pistols. The bullets were real, though. Ilsa saw the walls behind them collect dusty bullet pocks.
The men were superhuman, both of them. They were more superhuman than Konrad Blutsturz, who Ilsa thought possessed superhuman will and drive. But the Fuhrer's superiority was that of a man painstakingly overcoming great odds. These men seemed to be routinely superhuman, as if it were as normal as walking or breathing.
Ilsa watched the tapes over and over with glowing eyes. The taller one's movements were strangely exciting, like a tiger slinking through the jungle, only this man slinked at high speed. The play of his lean muscles and the flash of his limbs, even from the overhead views, held Ilsa spellbound.
A quick glimpse of his face, handsome, even cruel in a slight way, made her heart skip a beat. It was as if the eyes could see her, even though his eyes were only a videotape image. Those eyes made Ilsa feel like she was prey. She shivered deliciously.
Ilsa forced herself to stop watching. She pulled the tapes and went running to the Fortress Purity auditorium, now being used as the operating amphitheater. Ilsa burst in breathlessly.
They were wheeling Konrad Blutsturz out on a hospital gurney.
"Oh no," she moaned.
"Ilsa, it is finished," Konrad Blutsturz said, his face a ghastly gray hue.
"But you're not walking. You're not walking. It didn't work?"
The head surgeon interjected himself.
"We won't know for several days. We were able to repair the nebulizer. All the parts are in place, but the surgical openings we made in Herr Fuhrer's stumps must heal first."
"We've got to get out of here before then," Ilsa pleaded.
"Out? Why, Ilsa?" asked the pitiful face of Konrad Blutsturz.
"Those new recruits. They didn't die at the rifle range. They killed our brave Aryan soldiers like they were children. They aren't human. Look at these tapes."
"Bring the tapes to my bedroom."
"Herr Fuhrer," the doctor began, "you must not exert yourself."
"Hush! Ilsa knows danger. Come. Ilsa."
In the bedroom, Konrad Blutsturz was laid on a specially reinforced iron bed. Six hulking soldiers handled him. He was covered by sheets. The sheets draped a complete human form.
It excited Ilsa to think that he was whole at last, but she quickly loaded the first tape and, after Konrad Blutsturz had dismissed the others, they watched it together.
After they had seen all three tapes, Konrad Blutsturz spoke.
"You are right, my Ilsa. They are a great danger. And I am too weak to face them just yet."
"I'll bring the van around."
"No. There still may be a way. Remember my plan to invite the Harold Smiths of America to Fortress Purity? I have just now thought of a way to test the feasibility of that plan and to rid ourselves of all of the people who stand in our way."
"Just tell me what you want me to do."
"Call a meeting in the auditorium immediately. Everyone must attend. Tell them I will make a great announcement. The doctors, too. We do not need them anymore."
"Okay. Are you sure you're up to it? You're supposed to rest."
"My fury will give me strength. Do this, Ilsa."
"Look at this, Little Father," said Remo. He pointed to a painting on the wall. They were in an office they had found. Two guards had attempted to stop them in the corridor but Chiun had taken their guns and, after learning that they knew nothing of Ferris D'Orr, spoke to them very quietly on the evils of racism. He held their hands to keep their attention. Sometimes he squeezed to emphasize key points.