Chiun's almond eyes narrowed to slits. "Explain these white words I cannot fathoms."
"Smitty's been stalling. He promised months ago to track down my parents. So far, all I get are lame excuses. He needs motivation. So I'm striking until I get what I want."
"You will do no work?"
Remo folded his bare arms defiantly as the telephone continued to ring. He wore a white T-shirt and tan chinos. "I'm not budging."
"I must find out what Emperor Smith requires of us."
"Be my guest," said Remo, unfolding his arms and plugging his ears with his forefingers. "I just don't want to hear it."
"And you will not," said Chiun, reaching for the telephone. Suddenly he pivoted. A curved fingernail nearly as long as the finger backing it licked out, seeming to brush Remo's forehead slightly.
Remo got his ears unplugged before the paralyzing electricity of the Master of Sinanju's touch shut down his nervous system.
Remo stood frozen while Chiun answered the telephone, an expression of dull shock on his strong, highcheekboned face. His deep-set dark brown eyes seemed to say "I can't believe I fell for that."
Ignoring him, Chiun spoke into the receiver. "Hail, Emperor Smith, dispenser of gold and welcome assignments. The Master of Sinanju awaits your bidding."
"We have a problem, Master Chiun," said Dr. Harold W Smith in a voice that sounded the way lemon-scented dishwashing detergent smells.
"Speak, O understanding one."
"Something terrible is going on in Virginia," Smith said breathlessly. "A skirmish has broken out between Civil War reenactors"
"These reactionaries are doomed."
"Reenactors, not reactionaries."
Chiun wrinkled up his bald head. "I do not know this word."
"Reenactors are people who dress up in the costumes and uniforms of the American Civil War and recreate the major battles."
"They fight a war that has already been decided?"
"They don't use real bullets."
Chiun's forehead puckered. "Then what is the purpose of fighting? For without death, no war can ever be decided."
"It's purely ceremonial," said Smith. "Please listen carefully. It appears a Union regiment bushwhacked a Southern regiment, decimating the latter."
"If they were not dispensing death, why does this matter?"
"This time the Northern shots were real. The survivors in turn ambushed another Union regiment, annihilating them to the last man. When the Virginia National Guard was called in to put down the disturbance, they took the side of the Southern regiment and captured another Northern regiment."
"Then the rebellious ones have won?"
"Not yet. If we don't get to the bottom of this, we may have a second Civil War on our hands. Master Chiun, we must head off further violence."
Chiun shook his aged head. "It is too late."
"What do you mean?"
"Assassins head off wars before they start, not after. You have called us too late, Smith."
"I called as soon as word reached me. But Remo refused to accept my call."
Chiun made a dismissive hand motion that was lost on Smith. "It does not matter. It was too late even then. For once men in uniform begin to fight, they cannot be stopped until one army surrenders to the other. It is a soldier thing."
Smith's voice grew firm. "Master Chiun, I have reports of other reenactors mobilizing in other states. Volunteers are coming out of the woodwork and appear to be converging on a Civil War battlefield at Petersburg, Virginia. There is talk of the Rhode Island National Guard descending upon Virginia to avenge the dead reenactors, some of whom belonged to the Rhode Island National Guard unit."
"It is possible something can be done," Chiun mused, eyeing Remo dubiously.
"Yes?"
"If the general behind this calamity can be found and separated from his head, it may be his army will melt in fear before the swift hand of Sinanju."
"But we don't know that any general is behind this. These men are not true soldiers. They are ordinary citizens who perform on national holidays. It makes no sense."
"It is typically American," said Chiun vaguely. "Would you like to speak with Remo?"
"Er, he is not speaking to me."
"You have not approached him in the proper manner," said Chiun, lifting the receiver to one of Remo's unprotected ears. "You may speak freely now that my pupil's undivided attention is focused on your every syllable."
"Remo, I desperately need your help," Smith said.
Remo stood unmoving as Smith spoke.
"I have been diligently seeking answers to your questions, but you must realize it is difficult. You were orphaned as an infant. There is no backtrail to your parents except the name found on the note on the basket-Remo Williams. Williams, as I have told you a thousand times, is one of the most common surnames in the Western world. Without more to go on, I am at an impasse."
Remo said nothing.
"Remo, are you listening?"
"His wax-laden ears have absorbed your every word, Emperor," Chiun assured Smith.
"And what is his reaction?" Smith asked doubtfully.
"He makes no protest," Chiun said blandly.
"Does that mean what I think it means?" Smith ventured.
"Since you are emperor over this divided land, and your every word law, can your surmises fail to achieve equal perfection?" asked Chiun, and hung up.
Standing before his pupil, Chiun looked up. He was a full foot shorter than his pupil, who stood about six feet tall. The Master of Sinanju was a frail wraith of a man with a mummylike face resembling papyrus that might have soaked up the wrinkles of the passing centuries. He looked old, very old. But there was a wise humor in his eyes that belied the fact that he had been born near the end of the previous century and suggested an inner vitality that would carry him into the next. The years had robbed him of his hair, leaving only a tendril clinging to his tiny chin and a cloudy puff over each ear. The kimono sheathing his frailseeming body was black and trimmed in scarlet.