A spindly arm lifted, dropping a silken sleeve.
"Hush," a squeaky voice said. The figure of the Master of Sinanju occupied a floor space no greater than might a German shepherd.
Before a big-screen projection TV, he sat, his legs tucked under one another in the classic Asian lotus position. His kimono was like a monarch butterfly's wings replicated in silk-orange and black and iridescent.
Remo looked to the screen. He was surprised to see, not a British soap opera-Chiun's latest passion-but a documentary of some sort.
And because the Master of Sinanju was not watching a soap opera, Remo knew he could interrupt without risking a minor rebuke such as a compound leg fracture.
"Little Father, we need to talk," he said firmly.
"Remo!" the Master of Sinanju snapped. His wizened face glanced around, his clear hazel eyes annoyed. They were the only youthful aspect of the dusty lunar map of his features. "Not now!"
Remo folded his arms, his face a thundercloud of unhappiness. He thought about storming out, but he knew better than to escalate an argument he could never hope to win.
He wondered what Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju, found so interesting. As Remo watched, scratchy archival footage from another time flickered on the screen. A crisp narrator's voice was saying, "Amelia Earhart left New Guinea on her fateful voyage on July 1, 1937, and was never seen again. Many theories have been put forth since her plane was lost over the South Pacific, but the mystery has never been solved."
From the Master of Sinanju came a derisive snort and a butterfly fluttering of his exquisitely long fingernails.
The announcer's overfed face appeared on the screen, looking serious. "We at Ten-Thousand-Dollar Reward believe there is no mystery that cannot be solved," he continued. "Somewhere out there is someone who knows what befell the brave aviatrix on her flight into the unknown. The producers of this program have placed ten thousand dollars in a trust fund to be paid to the first person to provide a credible documented account of Amelia Earhart's fate. If you are that person, call the eight-hundred number on this screen. Now!"
Twin puffs of hair floating over the Master of Sinanju's tiny ears like volcanic steam quivered in anticipation.
Remo detected that tiny warning subliminally. He stepped back in time to escape the explosion of butterfly silk that was the Master of Sinanju coming to full boil.
"Quickly, Remo!" Chiun cried, whirling about. "Fetch the telephone device. We must call this number!"
Remo eyed the Master of Sinanju, his arms flung out like wings, his wispy beard barely visible under his anguished mouth.
And he did not move.
"Did you not hear me, deaf one?" Chiun squeaked. Even with his arms upraised, he looked tiny.
"I hear you fine," Remo said calmly. "Just as you heard me when I wanted to talk to you."
"But the reward!" Chiun cried, his squeaky voice twisting with imminent loss.
"You know where the phone is," Remo said casually.
"But I do not know how to work it properly!"
"Just press the buttons, like any lesser mortal," Remo offered, his hands sweeping to the telephone on a tiny table, the only bit of furniture in the bare room other than the big TV.
"Very well, I will," said the Master of Sinanju, lowering his sail-like arms. He shrank to his normal height, which was barely five-feet-five. He padded toward the telephone on white sandals. His feet made an audible sound only because the Master of Sinanju wished to make his unhappiness known to his pupil.
"But I will not share the reward with you," he warned as he lifted the receiver to his face. Remo noticed with a smile-suppressing tightening of his lips that Chiun placed the earpiece to his prim mouth.
"Don't tell me you actually think you can convince the TV people you know what happened to Amelia Earhart," Remo said.
"I do and I will," said Chiun, stabbing push buttons with a long-nailed forefinger. The nails kept getting in the way-the true reason Chiun did not like using telephones.
"They won't believe you," Remo warned.
"I know where the body is."
"You do?" Remo said, a perplexed frown eradicating his smug expression.
"She was not lost, as many believe," Chiun retorted, one eye on the treacherous, nail-snagging keypad. "No storm claimed her craft-unless the sweet wind that has blown through the centuries is a typhoon."
"Sweet wind? I don't think I like where this is going . . . .
Chiun stabbed the O-for-operator button. He pressed too hard, making three zeros and not two. When he finished dialing, a feminine but mechanical voice said, "The number you have called is not a working number."
"But it was just on the television!" Chiun screamed into the earpiece. "I demand that you connect me!"
The voice repeated the message and the Master of Sinanju hung up huffily.
"These devices are impossible!" he shrieked. He turned to Remo, pointing an accusing finger. "You! I must claim that reward! Name your price!"
"Half," Remo said.
"Too much!"
"Three-quarters!"
"You are going high when you should be going low!" Chiun cried in exasperation. He grabbed his decorative hair puffs as if to yank them out by the roots.
"The more you stall, the higher my price goes," Remo told him, enjoying the rare experience of having leverage over the other man to bring him to this sorry sexless state in life.
"Bandit!" Chiun accused.
"Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will cost you ten percent more," Remo sang out.
Chiun turned his back. "I will not be dragged into this insane negotiation," he said huffily.
"Suits me. You'll never see the reward anyway."
Chiun spun about like a fury. "I will so!"
"Prove it to me," Remo invited, folding his arms. "I'll be the judge."
The Master of Sinanju hesitated. His lifted chin dropped, making the wispy tendril of a beard jump out against his orange-and-black kimono. "How do I know you will not call these people when my back is turned, and claim the reward for yourself?"
"Good point," Remo said. "Why don't we just forget the whole thing?"
Chiun stamped one foot like a petulant child. "I will not! The reward is rightfully mine."