"Anything you wish to say," said Chiun, his white wisps of hair trembling with joy.
"Why are you happy to see me, little father?" said Remo.
"I am always happy to see you."
"Not that happy. What's wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong."
"Is that the same scroll I left you with this morning?" said Remo. He glanced at the letter symbols of grace and power, an elegant writing. Not only hadn't Chiun advanced much since the morning, he was stuck on that same word.
Remo turned on the television to Channel 14 Dynamic News. There was a lot of active-authoritative music, then a graphic that faded into a shot of people sitting around talking. Then the people sitting around talking were shown talking to people who were not employed by Channel 14. These were politicians. There was a fire. Channel 14 people talked to firemen. At every change there was the music. Armies could have marched to that music. Channel 14 could have run excerpts from the fall of Berlin to that music.
Nathalie Watson was not there. An anchorman talked about it. He talked about the horror of assaults on newsmen attempting to keep America free. He talked about a reporter's word being the most trustworthy element in any story.
"Boldly and proudly we at Channel Fourteen Dynamic News declare forthrightly that concerning the situation in the lake district, we will not comment. And we might add that at Channel Fourteen, we lead the fight against drugs. Ms. Watson will return just as soon as surgeons extricate a Channel Fourteen Dynamic News microphone from her esophagus."
The martial music went on again.
Safe, thought Remo. He had gotten away with it. And he was feeling good. He looked to Chiun. Chiun was smiling. He was not even angry that Remo had turned to something else, not focusing immediately on what Chiun had brought up.
"What is it?" said Remo.
"Nothing," said Chiun. "I am looking for just the right word for the history that you will take over someday. I thought perhaps you might help with the word."
"What word do you want me to help with?"
"Perhaps you can write something about your not telling me your parentage and that your movements have always been Sinanju upon being shown them so well by, say, the Great Chiun."
"Do you want me to call you Great?"
"Do you want to call me Great?" said Chiun. "If you want to, that is your right. As you become a full Master of Sinanju when I am no longer here, I know you will want to remember me with accuracy and honor."
"I don't know what Great is. I don't know any other Masters."
"If you read the histories you would know what Great is."
"I read them. They're distorted. Ivan the Terrible is Ivan the Good because he paid on time. The whole world revolves around what is good for Sinanju and what is not. The histories are mostly nonsense. I know that now. I'm not a trainee anymore."
"Sacrilege," said Chiun. The head rose in righteous umbrage.
"Truth," said Remo. "They're fairy tales."
"The histories of Sinanju are what make you and me what we are. They are our past, and our future. They are our strength."
"Then if they are so accurate, why do you want me to lie?"
"Put in your own words, then, what you call truth." Remo glanced at the scroll.
"White. The word you want is 'white.' Do you want me to write it? My characters are not as fine as yours but I will write it. I'm white."
"That's so crude," said Chiun. "Perhaps you can say it with grace. Say, perhaps, that strangers would get a white impression from you but because of the way you have been taught to move and excel you are Korean in essence."
"I'm white," said Remo. "The character sign is 'white.' You know, the pale lake surrounded by the bleaching sticks. Do you want me to write it?"
"I wanted help," said Chiun, "and I got you." He cleaned the quill in pure vinegar and wax-sealed the special ink blended to last millennia for future Masters of Sinanju. He would write no more until the foulness of this betrayal left his spirits. "I can write no more for years. "
"You didn't want to say I was white," said Remo. "Your problem is you have never worked for a real emperor. "
The phone rang and a computer was talking to him.
Remo knew who was behind it. But Smitty, Harold W. Smith, head of the organization, hadn't reached out for him like that in years, partly because Remo had difficulty in working the codes, but also because assignments often required questions and answers. This was an old and cumbersome routine. Remo got the first code right in answering the computer. It was to hit the number one on the touch-tone phone continuously until what at first appeared to be a sales pitch from a computer turned into a responding voice, still not Smith. It instructed him to make sure no one was following him and to proceed to a phone booth in nearby Lansing, Michigan. The code to punch in that phone booth was a continuous two.
It was downtown Lansing and Remo arrived there at night. And after he put in his quarter and punched two continuously, he finally got Smith's voice.
"What's wrong? What's up?"
"You went running across water in front of a television camera today."
"Yes. I did," said Remo.
"Therefore, you threatened to compromise the entire organization."
"I saved a little girl."
"And we're trying to save a country, Remo."
"Right then," said Remo, "I felt the little girl was more important. And do you want to know something? I still do."
"Are you in the mood to help your civilization?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Uranium is being stolen continuously from factories and we cannot stop it. So far, enough uranium to make fourteen atomic bombs is missing. We don't know how they are doing it. All other intellligence agencies are helpless. We're down to you, Remo."
"I never thought I was down, Smitty," said Remo.
"We are a last resort," said Smith. "We have to get you into one of the factories."
"Smitty . . . "
"Yeah."
"If I had it to do over again, I would still save that girl."
"I know," said Smith.