Remo laughed to himself to think that Sinanju had pioneered the concept of welfare. But so it seemed to him. He couldn't imagine living in Sinanju permanently, or taking one of the flat-faced, broad-hipped Sinanju women for a wife.
He wondered if he had a choice anymore.
"Remo, to me," Chiun called suddenly. Breakfast was over.
Remo walked through the squatting villagers. No one bothered to move aside for him.
"Remo, my son," Chiun whispered in English. "Help an old man to stand. But do not be obvious about it."
"Yes, Little Father," Remo said respectfully. He took Chiun by the arm and carefully helped him to his feet, making it look like Remo simply moved the throne aside in a gesture of courtesy. Chiun seemed smaller, slower, and Remo fought back a wave of emotion.
"Stand by my side now," Chum said.
Remo stood. A sea of Korean faces looked up at him. They were as blank and expressionless as apple dumplings.
The Master of Sinanju shook his arms free of his flowing black sleeves, and raised them to draw attention to himself.
"My children," he intoned, "great is my joy, for I have at last come home. But deep is my sorrow, for my days as your Master are drawing to a close."
And at that a low hush fell upon the crowd. Remo saw tears appear on some faces. He wondered if they were for Chiun or because their meal ticket was fading before their eyes.
"Despair not, my children," Chiun continued, his voice lifting. "For I have not returned empty-handed. I have brought gold. I have increased our treasure manyfold. Lo, richer than ever is the House of Sinanju-thanks to Chiun."
And a cheer came up from the crowd. Some villagers, dressed in ornamental costumes, danced in joy. There, Remo saw a leaping heron, here a furry bear, representing Tangun, progenitor of the Korean race. Out from the rocks a man dressed as a dragon came running clumsily. He, too, joined in the dance, although his movements were awkward and less fluid than those of the others.
"Know that the Master of Sinanju suffered greatly in the land of the round-eyed whites," proclaimed Chiun, and Remo thought his voice, as he waxed flowery, also grew more vital. "In America, I served not the emperor, for America has no emperor, no king, not even a lowly prince."
The villagers gasped. It was an unbelievable thing. "These Americans have, instead of a king or proper ruler, a thing called a president, who is not of royal blood. No, this ruler is chosen by lottery, as is his co-ruler, a thing called a Vice-President, who is well-named for he rules over a land of vice and license. Truly, this land has fallen into decline since the days when it was a colony of the good King George."
"You're laying it on too thick, Chiun," cautioned Remo.
"But I did not serve this President of America," continued Chiun. "No. I served a pretender, a physician known as Dr. Harold Smith, who claimed to be one of the most powerful men in America. Yet when the Master of Sinanju offered to dispose of the President of America and seat the pretender Smith on the throne of America, Smith would have none of it. Instead, this lunatic preferred to run an asylum for the mad, called by the meaningless name of Folcroft, while sending the Master of Sinanju hither and yon slaying the enemies of America."
"Is it true so, O Master?" asked a villager.
Chiun nodded solemnly. "It is truly so. Ask my adopted son, Remo, who is an American."
No one spoke up. It was as if Remo weren't there. In Korean, Remo tried to explain.
"In America, we elect a new President every four years. It is our way. We are a nation of laws. But some evil people in America have bent the laws of my country to their own ends. Something had to be done. So a President years ago created a thing called CURE and put Dr. Smith in charge. It was Smith's job to fight the bad elements in America, and the enemies of my country throughout the world. He didn't want to rule America, just to protect it."
The women giggled.
"Tell about the Constitution, Remo," Chiun said in English. "They will find that amusing."
"It's not funny," Remo growled. But he continued speaking to the crowd. "In America, each man's rights are protected by a shield. It is called ..." Remo turned to Chiun, and in English, asked, "How do you say 'Constitution' in Korean, Little Father?"
"Drivel," said Chiun placidly.
"It is called the Protector of Rights," said Remo, improvising in Korean.
Here the villagers leaned forward, for they understood shields.
"This shield was a document, on which all the rights of men were written. It says that all men are created equal and-"
Remo's words were drowned by gales of laughter. "All men are created equal," the villagers chortled. "Not all Koreans are equal, but even the lowest are more equal than pale Americans."
"How can a paper shield protect a man? Does it not wear out being passed from man to man?" the caretaker, Pullyang, demanded.
"Because Americans believe in this shield," Remo answered.
"Americans must believe all shields are equal too," Pullyang said smugly. And the villagers howled. Chiun silenced his people with his palms held out.
"That's better," Remo growled. "Years ago, a President of the United States saw that evil men were abusing the Constitution to make mischief. But the President could not fight these men without offending the Constitution."
"Why did he not tear it up?" asked a young boy.
"The Constitution is sacred to Americans," Remo shot back. "The same way the legends of Sinanju are sacred to all of you."
And that the villagers understood. They fell silent again.
"So this President created a secret organization called CURE to work around the Constitution, so it would not perish."
"He spat on the shield of his country?" asked someone.
"No, he didn't spit on it," Remo barked. "He worked around it."
"He pretended it did not exist?"
"No, he violated its laws so that he would not break faith with the American people."
"Why not make his own Constitution? Was he not the ruler?"
"He did not have the power. He was the protector of the Constitution, like ... like a shepherd."
"America must be a land of sheep, then," scoffed Pullyang. "Their rulers are powerless and their people unthinking."
"No, that's not it!" Remo was getting angry. Why didn't these people try to understand?
Chiun touched Remo's shoulder. "I will finish your explanation," he said. "But it was a good try."
Remo frowned, stepping aside.
"Now, it is not the way of America to recognize an assassin," Chiun intoned. "They do not believe in assassins, but they needed one. So a functionary from America was sent to me. He would not hire an assassin, he said stubbornly. But he wished the services of Sinanju in training an assassin of their own. A Master of Sinanju would not do, this functionary, who was named MacCleary, insisted. This assassin must be white, because he would work in secret. He must be able to walk among whites unseen.
"And I said to this MacCleary that a Master of Sinanju is of more value standing beside a throne. When your enemies know you have employed the House of Sinanju, they will shrink from wickedness. Secrecy is for thieves. But this MacCleary would not, or could not, understand. How could he? He was white and from a land that had never employed a Master of Sinanju, for America was only two hundred years old. The white MacCleary insisted upon secrecy, and I told him that the color of an assassin is not what guarantees secrecy, but his skill. Still this MacCleary insisted. He said that the assassin they wished me to train would be charged with finding his own victims."