Out in the hall, Remo saw what he was looking for. An empty laundry basket stood near the freight elevator. He looked around, made sure no one was in the corridor, and pulled the empty basket back to his room.
He closed the door behind him. Chiun smiled when he saw the wheeled cart.
"Very good. Now you can handle both of them."
"Chiun, you take advantage of my basic good nature. I'm tired of picking up after you."
"It is a nothing." Then Chiun was bent down, picking up the pieces of the tape cartridge, looking at them sadly. Then he spit contemptuously at the Korean.
"So much hatred," he said.
"We contribute our share," Remo said.
"I," Chiun said, his voice plumbing the depths of hurt. "Whom do I hate?"
"Every one but Koreans," Remo said. Glancing at the burly man, he said, "And some of them too."
"That is not true. I tolerate most people. But hatred? Never."
"And me, little father? Do you tolerate me too?"
"Not you, my son. You, I love. Because you are really a Korean at heart. The kind of sturdy, brave, noble, thoughtful Korean who would clean up the mess of these two baboons."
Remo cleaned up the mess.
He put the two bodies into the laundry cart and then stripped the sheets from the sofa bed. He tossed them on top of the bodies and pushed the cart into the hall.
At the end of the hallway was the laundry chute. When he tipped up the cart, the sheets and bodies tumbled into the chute and down the slide. He waited until he heard the dull thud, far below. If the Palazzo laundry was as efficient as its room service, the bodies wouldn't be discovered for a week. He pushed the cart into a broom closet and went back to his room, whistling. He felt good. The events of the last few minutes had seemed to perk Chiun up. And that was well worth the effort.
Chiun was waiting for him, back in the room. He motioned to Remo to sit on the couch, and then he sat on the floor before Remo, looking up at him.
"You have been worried about me?" he said.
"Yes, I have, little father," Remo said. There was no point in lying. Chiun would always know. "You have seemed to be… to be losing your zest for life."
"And you worried?"
"I worried. Yes."
"For causing you that worry, I apologize," Chiun said. "Remo. I have been the Master of Sinanju for fifty years."
"None could have been finer."
"That is true," Chiun said, nodding, placing his fingertips together. "Still, it is many years."
"It is many years," Remo agreed.
"I have thought in these past few weeks that perhaps it is time for the Master of Sinanju to retire his sword. To let a younger, better man take his place."
Remo started to speak, but Chiun silenced him with a pointed finger.
"I have thought of who would replace me. Who would labour so that my village would be supported? So that the poor of Sinanju would be fed and clothed and housed? I could think of no Korean who could do it, who would do it. I could think only of you."
"It is a great honour you pay me," Remo said, "just in speaking the words."
"Silence," Chiun commanded. "You are, after all, almost a Korean. If you could learn to control your appetite and your mouth, you would be a fine master."
"My pride knows no bounds," Remo said.
"So I have thought of this for many weeks. And I have told myself: Chiun, you are getting too old. There have been too many years and too many battles. Already, Remo is your equal. Silence! I have said, already Remo is your equal. And I have felt my strength waning as I thought these things, and I have said, no one needs Chiun any longer, no one needs him to be the Master of Sinanju, he is old and his meagre talents have vanished, and whatever he can do, Remo can do better. I have told myself all these things." His voice was sonorous and deep, now, as if delivering a sermon he had spent years mastering. What was he leading up to? Remo wondered.
"Yes," Chiun said, "I have thought all these things." Remo saw his eyes twinkle. He was enjoying it, the whole speech. The old fraud.
"And now I have reached my decision."
"I am sure it is wise and just," Remo said, cautiously, not trusting the old fox.
"The decision was forced upon me when you dispatched that baboon with your elbow."
"Yes?" Remo said, slowly.
"Do you realize your fist was a full eight inches away from your chest when you struck?"
"I did not know that, little father."
"No, of course, you did not. And in that instant, wisdom came to me."
"Yes?"
"Wisdom came to me," Chiun said, "and it said, how can you turn the welfare of Sinanju over to a man who does not even know to keep his fist against his chest when performing the back elbow thrust? I ask your answer to that question, Remo."
"In conscience, you could not entrust Sinanju to such a worthless one as me."
"That is true," Chiun said. "Watching your inept performance, suddenly I realized that Chiun was not so old and worthless after all. That it would be many years before you are ready to replace him."
"You speak only truth," Remo said.
"So we must resume our training to prepare you for that day. When it comes. Five or six years from now."
Chiun swirled onto his feet. "We must practice the back elbow thrust. You perform it as a child. You disgrace my training and my name. Your lack of talent is an insult to my ancestors. Your clumsiness is an insult to me."
Chiun was working himself up into a lather. Remo, who an hour before had despaired over Chiun's will to live, now realized how insufferable and overbearing he would be. An hour ago, he would have been overjoyed if Chiun would accompany him on his next job; now, he would make sure not to invite him.
Remo stood. "You are right, Chiun, that I need the training. But it must wait. I have an assignment."
"You will need my assistance. One who cannot even keep his fist next to his chest cannot be expected to perform creditably."