Chiun watched the screen as he spoke. "Knowing that this man was Chinese," he continued, "I knew that if he were abducted, it would have been by another Chinese-for who else would place any value in such a person? And if he had become lost, I knew that, even lost in a strange land, he would go there to be among his kind. And being Chinese, he would seek out a Chinese gambling den."
"How'd you figure that?"
"Everyone knows the Chinese are notorious gamblers."
"Well, I don't."
"I do. It is in their nature, along with laziness."
"That's the worst load of crap I ever heard. So you didn't find him and you gave up, and the assignment is unfinished, is that it?"
The door to Remo's bedroom opened and a frightened Asian face poked out uncertainly. He looked at Remo.
"Master Chiun, who this person?"
"What's he doing in my room!" Remo demanded.
"Master Chiun, who is this lofan?"
"What did he call me?" Remo demanded of Chiun.
"He called you a white man," Chiun explained. "Do not be insulted. He is new to these shores."
"I'm not insulted."
"I would be," Chiun said aridly.
The Chinese man repeated his question. "Master Chiun, who is this lofan?"
"This is Remo," Chiun answered, adding, "my valet."
"My ass!" Remo exploded. "You get out of my room! Right now!"
The Chinese man hastily slammed the door shut.
"You have frightened my houseguest," Chiun complained. "Guest! You brought him here? What about security? What about-"
"Smith knows. It was his suggestion."
"Now Smith is giving away my bedroom to any old vagabond who strays into trouble," Remo complained.
"That is not any person," Chiun countered. ""That is Zhang Zingzong. He is very famous, even if he is Chinese."
"Never heard of him."
"That does not mean he is not famous. May I finish watching my program now?"
"You know," Remo said, putting his hands back on his hips, "of all people, I thought you'd be the last one to let a Chinese guy stay under his roof."
"One makes certain exceptions for the privileged."
Remo growled. "Are you by any chance charging him rent?"
"Of course not," Chiun said in an offended tone.
"Good."
"I am charging him room and board," Chiun added. "It is not the same. There is no lease, for example."
Remo threw up his hands. "This is ridiculous. Look, we gotta talk. I just came from that safe house."
"It is improbably named."
"Tell me about it. The FBI guard is dead."
"They are paid to fall in the line of duty. Soldiers love their glory. Who are we to criticize them if they wish to throw away their lives will-nilly?"
"He was taken out by a larynx stroke. Clean, too."
"Many have copied the larynx stroke of Sinanju," Chiun intoned, video-screen light washing his attentive face. "It is regrettable that we do not get royalties."
"Yeah, well, the guy who did it did it almost as good as me."
"Have I not always said your bent elbow would bring you to ruin?"
"Almost as good as you," Remo added.
The Master of Sinanju wrinkled his offended nose. "I will not be- insulted."
"I speak the truth, Little Father," Remo said with quiet earnestness.
And hearing the suddenly respectful tone of his pupil's voice, the Master of Sinanju lifted a long-nailed finger. The remote control clicked. The VCR ceased its quiet whirring, the picture frozen in distortion.
Chiun rose to his feet.
"The larynx was crushed throughout?" he inquired.
"Like a sponge. There was a small bruise. But it was very small."
"A fortunate amateur," Chiun pronounced sagely. "He has no doubt squandered his entire life practicing that one blow. It is all he knows. In other situations, against a worthy opponent, he would stand helpless."
"I tangled with the guy-at least, I think he's the guy."
"And?"
"I musta had an off day," Remo admitted, quiet-voiced. "He ran me ragged."