"There really is nothing of danger now, no emergency. Why don't you just take a little rest?" said Smith.
"Why don't you mind your business?" Remo asked.
"You are my business," Smith said.
Remo let out a little whistle, something vaguely like a Walt Disney tune, picked up Smith in his chair and put the chair and Smith out in the hallway.
Smith looked back and said simply:
"Are you telling me you don't need a rest, Remo?"
Remo looked at Chiun, contentedly folding his arms into his kimono.
"Where do you suggest?"
"I don't want you in continental America. What about the Caribbean?" Smith said.
"St. Maarten?" Remo asked.
"No. Too close to our computer backup in Grand Case harbor. What about the Bahamas? There's a condo development in Little Exuma. Take a rest there. You've always wanted a home. Buy a condo," Smith said. "A cheap one."
"I wanted a home in an American town, on an American street, with an American family," Remo said bitterly.
"This is what we can give you for now, Remo. But you should know that what you're doing is helping other Americans have that dream."
"Maybe," said Remo. "I'm sorry about putting you in the hall. But I really am feeling fine."
"Sure," said Smith.
"I am," said Remo to Chiun. And even Chiun agreed, but no one believed him, not even himself anymore.
Chapter Three
A Korean had come to Little Exuma Island, to the new Del Ray condominiums. He was one of the first buyers of a condominium unit. A Korean, in Korean robes.
"All right, Dad," said Reginald Woburn III. "I'll get to it. I'll get to it."
"When? He's already there, right where the stone was uncovered. The forces of the cosmos are with us. Now is the time for revenge. Now is the time to strike at the one our ancestors were defenseless against."
"You mean a Korean coming to where our supposed ancestor buried the stone of the seventh way? Do you know how many Koreans there are in the world? Do you know the odds against that particular Korean being a descendant of that assassin, who should have been paid to begin with?"
"Reggie, no more excuses. It's your duty to the family."
"I don't believe this Korean is anyone special," Reginald said.
"Do you believe in getting your allowance?"
"Devoutly, Father."
"Then at least begin. Show the rest of the family you are doing something."
"What?"
"Something," his father said.
"You mean start taking potshots at every Korean who walks in the street?"
"What's bothering you?" his father said.
"I don't want to kill anyone. That's bothering me. I do not want to take a life."
"Have you ever killed anyone?" asked Reginald's father. He sat facing the young man on the spacious white veranda in the Palm Beach home. The young man didn't quite know what it was like to deal with the rest of the family.
"Of course not," Reginald answered.
"Then how do you know you wouldn't like it?"
"Really, Father. I will do it. I just need more time. It's like a game with proper moments for things and now isn't the proper time. I am the chosen one, according to the stone. I am supposed to be the most ferocious of all in my lust for blood. Now, Father, I know about lust. And I know you can't force it."
He swirled the remnants of his sweet iced drink and took the last sip. He hated these talks about the family because the servants were never allowed near enough to hear and that meant you could never get anything to drink if you needed it. It was good being part of the family, Reggie knew, because if one weren't, one might have an excellent chance of being poor or having to work, neither of which appealed to him. The bad thing was that the family tended to get a bit bonkers when it got onto itself. Like this stupid stone. Everything depended on the stars, which were the clocks of the universe. And at that right time, the family would produce its great blood-lust killer. And now it was supposed to be him. Ridiculous. As if all the family genes were bubbling away toward the purpose of a two-thousand-year-old revenge. Reggie had no use for revenge. You couldn't drink it, sniff it or make love to it. And you probably got overheated in the process. But Father appeared insistent. He just wasn't going to stop and Reggie knew he was not going to be able to wait him out.
"Try killing a small thing. See how you feel then. Just a small thing," his father said.
"I swatted a fly this morning. It did nothing for me, Father."
"Kill a little thing. Just so the family will see you are doing something."
"How little?"
"Warm-blooded," his father said.
"I'm not going to harm some defenseless puppy somewhere."
"Game. A game animal, Reggie."
"All right. We'll have to plan something."
"A safari," said his father.
"Excellent," said Reginald Woburn III, knowing that a good safari sometimes took a year to plan and in that time he might get himself injured in polo or the stone might blow up or something or that poor Korean might die of a heart attack or be hit by a car-anything to get this family-legend thing off his back. "A safari. Wonderful."
"Good," said his father. "The jet's engines are warming. It's been ready for takeoff all morning."
Fortunately, there was Dom Perignon on the private jet but unfortunately there was this whitehunter type talking about guns and kills and saying what good sport it was all going to be.
The first thing about Zaire, other than the stench of human waste in the capital city, was that it was extraordinarily hot, Reggie noticed. And worse, there was no way to hunt elephants from an air-conditioned van. It was considered unsporting. The second thing about Zaire was that the best trackers were Pygmies, little black Africans who were at an even lower social scale than the dirt-poor starving farmers.