They were passed by lines of tour buses on the way to the Great Wall of China.
The hilly terrain all around them resembled a bleak snow-swept lunar landscape. Here and there sections of apparently flexible stone battlements undulated into view.
The eyes of the Master of Sinanju grew bright as he recognized sinuous sections of the Great Wall of China.
"Faster!" he called to his driver.
The lazy Chinese drivers, of course, did not move faster, he noted. If anything, the obdurate ones slowed their lackadaisical pace.
The Master of Sinanju arranged his kimono skirts impatiently. Soon, he thought, soon.
The rickshaw pulled up to the tourist parking area in the lee of the Great Wall.
It towered twenty feet high, and was broad enough for horsemen to ride its stone-paved road-for the wall was as much are elevated road as it was a barrier--five horses abreast.
It dwarfed the people milling under it, as well as the many tourist buses.
The Master of Sinanju stood up in the rickshaw, his hands grasping the opposite wrists in the concealment of his joined kimono sleeves, and surveyed the Great Wall's lines.
This was the section that was open to tourists. The inner wall was despoiled by a modern brick parapet and handrail. Chiun wrinkled his nose. Was this what the Chinese had come to? Offering up their mightiest monument for the edification of big-nosed foreigners? Were US dollars so bright that they would allow even their supposed enemies to walk along its dragonlike spine?
Chiun cast his eyes east, where the wall had been desecrated by vandals. It lay in ruins. To the west, the wall was a vanishing small thing coiling through the Yanshan Mountains.
"Come," said the Master of Sinanju.
Zhang Zingzong dropped from his perch. Without waiting for word, he heaved the big trunk off the rickshaw seat and set it on the cold stone ground.
The Master of Sinanju bestowed a single dollar bill upon the eager Chinese drivers. He was astonished that they accepted the paper money without first holding out for gold.
Even their avariciousness had fallen on evil times.
"What will we do with this?" Zhang demanded, pointing to the trunk. The rickshaws were being turned around, their drivers seeking new customers.
The Master of Sinanju looked around.
"It will be safe on top of that bus." He was pointing to an empty tourist bus with an overhead wire luggage rack.
Zhang Zingzong laboriously carried the trunk over to the bus and clambered atop. He knew from recent experience what the Master of Sinanju would do next.
No sooner had he gotten to the top and leaned over than the old Korean reached down and took up the trunk by one brass handle. He jerked upward. Under this slight manipulation, the trunk seemed to become weightless. It rose floatingly, and Zhang had to scramble to grab the brass handle that was suddenly before his nose.
He wrestled the trunk onto the luggage rack and then clambered back to Chiun's side.
"What happen if bus goes away before we return?" he asked, looking around in case PLA soldiers had seen them.
The Master of Sinanju said nothing. He went to a rear tire and one sandal swept out. The tire expelled air with a firecracker report. The bus listed to one side. The Korean disappeared to the other side. Another report, and the bus settled further.
The Master of Sinanju returned, saying, "Show me the way, Chinese."
Zhang Zingzong started for the wall, going up the steep railed parapet to the top.
The tourists were a mixture of Chinese and foreign nationals. Chattering of Young Pioneers, wearing identical red kerchiefs, they strolled by under the watchful eyes of a woman with her hair pulled back into a tight bun.
They walked calmly, Chiun ignoring the looks he received from Chinese and foreigners alike. They stepped over a thin break in the wall to one of the unrestored sections.
"I think it was here," Zhang Zingzong told him, looking back with furtive glances. "This section is off-limits."
"Then you should not be attracting attention by looking about guiltily," Chiun told him firmly. "You must be as the quiet winds from the north."
"The winds from the north are cruel. They are Mongo winds."
"Mongol."
"That what I said. Mongo wind." His L never quite made it off his tongue.
The Master of Sinanju looked north to the steppes. These were the so-called Mongol Plains. The mountains stopped here. A winter haze obscured the far distance like a convocation of low-lying phantoms. Just under the Wall lay a sea of pagoda-style roofs.
Here on the northern side of the Wall, the stone facing had been carried off, exposing its earthen-and-rubble core.
"It was down there that I found the box," Zhang Zingzong said quietly. "I was being persuaded by PLA men. I ran down here, and like a fish burrowing into the mud of a pond, I burrowed into the dirt and rocks. I breathed through one nostril, which I left uncovered."
The Master of Sinanju began walking down the steep rubble-and-earth side. His feet held the ground like a fly's, his spine remaining perpendicular to the wall.
Zhang had to climb down using all four limbs. Even so, he stumbled once and rolled the rest of the way down.
He was astonished when he landed at the Master of Sinanju's feet. He thought he had passed him.
"Get up, lazy one," Chiun said coldly. "And show me the spot where you found the box of Temujin."
Zhang dusted himself off with his bare hands. He looked around the exposed Wall. Creeping forward, he came to a spot where two irregular stones abutted one another.
"It was here," he said, pointing.
Chiun looked at the joined stones and then north. His eyes narrowed.
"The box," he said, putting out one yellowed claw of a hand.
Zhang pulled the now-frayed knapsack off his back and set it on the ground. He knelt as he undid the straps and extracted the ornate teak box.
The Master of Sinanju accepted the box from the straightening Chinese student. His fingers sought the secret catch. It sprang. The lid exposed three of its edges.
Carefully the Master of Sinanju removed its contents, revealing a human skull. It gleamed from every point, for it had been preserved by a covering of beaten silver. Here and there, yellow-brown bone showed through the metal.
But the Master of Sinanju had no eyes for the skull's natural imperfections. He was looking at the flowing script hammered into the skull's silver brow.
He read silently, his papery lips thinning in thought.