He turned to meet Smith's gaze with his own.
"Emperor Smith, I crave a boon, as ungrateful as it may sound."
"Yes?"
"Dispatch Remo and me to Africa to seek those who are lost."
"Oh no!" Remo said harshly. "I'd rather stay here than go to Africa. I've been there. It's hot and it stinks."
"I will go alone, then," Chiun said coldly.
"Why?" asked Smith.
Chiun made a face. "I cannot tell you, but granting this boon may mean that the House of Sinanju will continue to serve America far into the next century."
Smith looked to Remo. Remo shrugged. Smith cleared his throat. "Well, since these people are American citizens, I suppose you could go. So long as you are discreet."
Like smoke rising, the Master of Sinanju came to his feet. He bowed once. Then, padding over to the TV, he did something that made Remo's mouth hang open in surprise.
He switched off the set just as Cheeta Ching was starting to speak.
"Remo, you and I will look into the Shortsleeve question while Master Chiun is away," Smith offered.
"Nothing doing," said Remo, finding his voice. "I don't know what's got into Chiun, but if it is big enough to make him turn off Cheeta Ching in midyap, I want to be along for the ride."
They ran the rental van back to the airport, dropped Smith off at the departure terminal, and drove on to international departures.
Remo bought two round-trip tickets to Port Chuma, using a credit card that identified him as Remo Burton, with the Department of Health and Human Services. He had a matching passport.
"Proof of shots?" asked the ticket agent.
"Would someone from the Department of Health and Human Services be going to Africa if he didn't have his shots?" Remo asked in a firm voice.
The agent thought not, and the tickets were surrendered.
Over the Atlantic, they sat in a silence that was not broken until they reached London, where they had to change planes.
At Heathrow, Remo decided to break the ice.
"Care to tell a fellow traveler why he's traveling?"
"No."
"Toss a hint in my direction, then?"
"Reflect upon the lesson of Master Yong."
Remo reflected. In the early days of his training in Sinanju, Chiun used to drum into his head the exploits of past Masters. Each Master, it seemed, was remembered for one special reason. Wang because he discovered the sun source. Yeng because he was too greedy. Yokang because he consorted with Japanese women and caught certain diseases from them. Remo had learned about every Master--or so he thought. In recent years, there had been fewer legends. Remo had assumed it was because Chiun had run out of Masters, but was forced to conclude that the true reason was that in Chiun's eyes, Remo had grown to full Masterhood, the penultimate step toward Reigning Master status, which Remo could only achieve upon Chiun's death or retirement.
Master Yong, Remo could not remember.
He wracked his brain as the British 747 winged its way to Africa.
"Yong, Yong, Yong," he muttered aloud. "Not Bong. He discovered India. Can't be Nonga. He was deaf and dumb."
"Render it in English," Chiun said thinly.
Over his twenty-year association with the Master of Sinanju, Remo had picked up a little Korean here and there until one day he found himself, to his infinite surprise, considering that he had flunked French I three years running in school, fluent in the language.
"Dragon!" he said snapping his fingers. "Yong means dragon."
"Some Masters are remembered for their true names, others-those held in contempt-are remembered by false names so as not to shame their ancestors. It is so with Yong."
"Yeah? What'd he do?"
The Master of Sinanju made a face. He touched his thin beard as if debating the wisdom of answering the question.
"I will tell you if you promise not to reveal what I am about to divulge to Emperor Smith."
"Family secret, huh?"
"A deep shame is attached to Yong the Gluttonous."
"Gluttonous? Are we off to Africa to make the world safe for hamburger companies?"
"Silence! If your ears would hear, your mouth must be still. Preferably closed."
Remo folded his bare arms. It was cool in the big jet and his arm hairs were lifting in response. He willed them to lay flat and they did. It was a minor example of the nearly total control he exercised over every cell in his superbly trained body.
Chiun began speaking.
"The story I am about to tell you transpired in the Year of the Peacock."
"Give me a number."
"I do not know the American year and I do not care," Chiun retorted. "In these days we served the Middle Kingdom, Cathay, a land of barbarians who ate their rice with their fingers."
"Don't rub it in."
"Master Yong-not his real name of course-was summoned to the throne of Cathay. For a great dragon was devouring rice farmers and other subjects of the Chinese emperor. This being how dragons typically passed their days.
"Now the days of which I speak are the old days of Sinanju, before Wang, who discovered the sun source. This was when Masters performed many functions, and not merely practicing the assassin's art. Masters in those days would perform executions for the proper price. For this task, a previous Master had had forged a tremendous sword, known as the Sword of Sinanju. Later, as you know, Remo, the thieving Chinese stole this great trophy, and kept it."
"Until we got it back," said Remo.
"Until Chiun the Great recovered it, aided by a white lackey who may or may not be recorded in the Book of Sinanju under his true name," Chiun said frostily.