The room crackled with flames.
Outside, the entire fire department of Edgewood University-two men and a truck-had arrived to fight the blaze. They had battled for ten heroic minutes until St. Louis had sent in more equipment and trained firemen, whose technique in fighting fires was a little more sophisticated than pumping in enough water to launch Noah's Ark. The Edgewood firemen immediately began to drift off to talk to the Edgewood police about the terrible violence on campus.
Editorial staff members of the Edgewood Quill were at the fire scene, trying to sell copies of their mimeographed special edition on the violence, which reported that although Wooley and Woodward were dead, "there have been no reports thus far of student injuries. All's well that ends well."
The St. Louis Fire Department fought on for five more minutes, then the battalion chief in charge gave up on the house. He ordered his men to just keep it "wetted down" so that embers and sparks could not fly off and imperil any other nearby buildings.
"Let it burn out," he said.
"Suppose someone's in there," a fire captain asked.
"Nobody's alive in there," the battalion chief said and went over to buy a copy of the Edgewood Quill to look at until the photographers arrived at which time he would run back to the equipment and help his men haul hose.
Remo felt the heat blast at his body and the heavy hot air singe his lungs when he breathed.
He rolled onto his stomach to be closer to the floor and slowed his breathing to reject any smoke that might find its way into his lungs. He raised his body temperature so that he would not feel the heat so intensely.
He looked around. He was in the center of the room, surrounded by flames. The walls and ceiling were burning, and the carpeted floor and the wood underneath had caught fire and the flames were now marching inexorably across Norman Belliveau's tweed pile carpet, $7.95 a square yard including installation, toward him.
He looked for a break in the flames but there was none. He moved himself into a crouch and then did what he thought he would never do. He ran.
He ran into his own mind. He could feel the flames lapping at his legs, and then in his mind, he moved into a room and he closed the door behind him.
The heat that singed his legs no longer hurt. He could breathe.
He thought he heard Chiun's voice and he yelled, "Get me out of here."
"Who are you?" Chiun said.
"Get me out of here. Save your silly games for later."
"If you were a baby I would carry you out," Chiun's voice said in that secret room in Remo's mind. "But you are not a baby. Who are you?"
"I am Remo Williams," Remo said.
"Not good enough," Chiun said.
Remo didn't want this to be hard. He wanted to be human and simple.
Now he could see Chiun. The ancient Oriental stood in a ceremonial white robe across the room from Remo. "Who are you?" he repeated. His voice seemed to be filtered through a tunnel because it resounded with echoes.
"I'm Remo Williams. I'm a Master of Sinanju;" Remo yelled. He felt tears coming from his eyes. They sizzled and disappeared before dropping halfway down his cheeks.
Chiun's face grew cold, almost angry. Remo opened his eyes and Chiun's face vanished. All Remo could see was flames. He closed his eyes again and Chiun's face demanded, "Yes, but who are you?"
And, in his mind, Remo stood and said, "I am created Shiva, the Destroyer, death, the shatterer of worlds. The dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju."
"Then walk out," Chiun said.
Remo stood and was back in the burning house. The flames engulfed him. The building shuddered, the flames seemed to roar in triumph.
But it could not match the roar in Remo's mind, the roar of realization and rebirth.
He ran forward through the flames, strongly breathing out, willing the flames away from his face and his eyes. It took only a split second to pass through the flames to a window and then roll through the window out onto the grass. He gulped clean fresh air, barely tainted by the smoke from the inferno behind him.
A fireman saw him come through the window and dropped his hose.
Remo smiled and waved.
The fireman said dumbly, "Your back's on fire."
"Thanks, pal," Remo said, and he spun around, a dervish motion so fast that it created a partial vacuum of thin air around him and the flames on his clothing sucked out and died.
"Take your time," Remo told the fireman. "Everyone else in there is dead."
Before the fireman could speak, Remo was running off from the house, across the greensward toward Professor Wooley's home.
He saw Chiun sitting on the grass in front of Wooley's house, his feet and legs crossed in the lotus position, his eyes closed, his long-nailed fingers bridged in front of him.
He came up close to the old Korean and said softly, "Chiun."
Chiun's eyes opened as if the lids had been pulled apart by springs. When he saw Remo there was just a flicker of approval.
"Thank you," Remo said.
"You look like something the cat dragged in," Chiun said.
"Thank you," Remo said.
"And you smell bad," Chiun said.
"Thank you," Remo said.
"If I hadn't met a nice man, I would have missed The Gathering Clouds. But do you care?
"Thank you," Remo said.
"What is this silly prattling?" Chiun asked.
"Thank you," Remo said.
"Aaaaah," said Chiun in disgust. He rose smoothly to his feet and walked a few steps away. He stopped, his back still to Remo and said:
"You're welcome. But the next time you get out of fires by yourself."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN