"You don't mean unsuccessful, Little Father. You mean unenjoyable."
"I do not mean unsuccessful?"
"No," Remo said.
"Then why is that machine falling?"
The black speck appeared to be growing larger. There was no sound.
"Maybe they turned the engines off," Remo offered. As the object tumbled downward, it began to take on a shape— angular, with projectiles, and two flat, triangular wings spinning in a corkscrew as the craft raced toward earth.
Another object, much smaller, popped out of the plummeting aircraft and continued its own descent parallel to the plane's.
"The pilot," Remo said. "He's bailing out." A thin stream of what looked like fluid snaked out of the pilot's back and streamed above him for long seconds as the man fell.
"Open it," Remo shouted. "Open the parachute!"
"He may have thought of that himself," Chiun said dryly.
"He's got a streamer," Remo whispered. Then, in a flash of light and sound, the plane exploded in midair, the shock waves sending the falling pilot hurtling through the sky, his suit in flames.
Remo ran instinctively with the man, following his crazy trajectory. The pilot was close enough to hear now. He had removed his helmet and was screaming. He was falling end over end, the flames lapping at his legs, his hands shielding his face from the fire he was unable to control.
"Find your center," Chiun said quietly, stepping aside. His criticism of Remo was for practice, for the endless exercises Remo was expected to perform. If he did them perfectly, Chiun still found something to criticize because perfection did not grow from praise. And perfection one time was not enough. Through the years of Remo's arduous training, the old man had made him repeat the exercises again and again, until they were perfect, after they were perfect, and after they had been perfect every time, because he knew that when it became necessary for Remo to use his skills, perfection was required. The first time.
Remo was balanced on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight as his eyes followed the falling body. Then, when the burning pilot was a hundred feet above ground, Remo closed his eyes.
Chiun had taught him that the way of Sinanju was to make one's body one with its surroundings, to feel the space around objects rather than see those objects. It was how the Masters of Sinanju had been able to move, silently, through the ages of man's civilization, without disturbing even the dry leaves beneath their feet, and how they controlled their senses and involuntary functions. They were their environment.
And now Remo, behind his eyes, became the air parting for the panicked figure that fell through it, became the fire on the man's clothes, became the man himself, with his jerking muscles and the terror that tore through him, making his balance erratic. Remo was all of these things, and so when he began his slow, crouching spin upward, preparing for the spring that would propel him off the ground and bring him back again, his eyes were closed, his muscles relaxed, his mind unthinking, fully concentrating, open yet filled. He sprang out of the coil in perfect balance, seeming to lift off the ground. Then, just before the pilot would have smashed to earth, Remo encircled him with both arms and carried him in the spin downward with him, breaking the momentum of the fall. He settled softly on the sandy ground, leaving only two circles where his feet had touched.
Chiun was with him at the moment when he set the pilot down, tearing off the man's burning clothes with one swift incision from the fingernail of his index finger. In less than a second the fire was out and the man lay on the ground. His skin was reddened but not charred, and no bones were broken.
"I— I can't believe it," the pilot said.
"Don't. You never saw us, okay? Let's get out of here," Remo said to Chiun.
"But you saved my life."
"Okay. So now you can save mine. Just keep quiet about this."
The pilot looked over the two strange men. One was an Oriental in full regalia. He was less than five feet tall and looked a hundred years old. The other was a good-looking young white man in a T-shirt. Nothing exceptional about him except for his wrists, which were unusually thick. "You two on the run from the law or something?"
Remo winked and made a show of picking his teeth.
The pilot smiled. "Well, I don't know what your secret is, but it's safe with me. Thanks a million. My wife's in the hospital having a kid today. I don't know what she would do if I bought the old farm now. She promised me a boy."
In the distance, they heard the approaching sirens of a rescue squad. "Good for you, champ," Remo said, patting the pilot gently on the shoulder. "Have a good life."
"Hey, wait..." The pilot pressed himself onto his elbows to see behind him. The old man and the guy with the thick wrists were already nearly out of sight.
* * *
"I suppose you know where you're going?" Chiun asked.
Remo nodded. "Following my nose."
"My nose senses nothing but the repugnant odor of chickens boiled in oil," Chiun said distastefully.
"Bingo. A fried chicken joint. That means a town. Motels are in towns. That's where we're going."
"We were progressing toward the jungle," Chiun said.
"I've been in a jungle. You know what they say about jungles. You see one, you seen 'em all. Besides, I've got to call Smitty. I haven't talked to him in four days."
"Surely the Emperor Smith understands that his assassins must practice their art."
"The Emperor Smith understands that I work for him. C'mon, Chiun. We could use a night in a motel. This Boy Scout stuff is getting old fast."
"It is you who are getting old. Old white flesh, as toneless as the underside of an octopus. This is the legacy of your race."
"You can have the vibrating bed."
The old man's almond eyes turned into shrewd little slits. "And cable television."
"You've got it."
"Also the bathtub. I will use the bathtub first."
Remo sighed. "All right."
"And room service. It is too much to ask one of my years to walk to his food."
"I thought you were planning to walk us both to the jungle."
"This is different. The stench of fried animals saps my strength."
"I don't think motels have room service."
Chiun stopped short. "I will not go unless I can have room service."
"All right, already," Remo said. "We'll get room service."
Twenty minutes later, Chiun was lying on the vibrating bed, chuckling and singing tuneless Korean songs as the television blared at full volume and the motel reservations clerk plopped down two paper containers of plain rice and two glasses of water, for which Remo had paid him fifty dollars.
"That it, mister?" the clerk said.