"Hope you washed recently," Remo said as the telephone finally fell silent.
Chiun made no rely. The phone started its discordant ringing anew. Remo switched hands, cupping his chin in the other hard and simultaneously stifling a yawn.
Chiun worked so swiftly the ordinary eye could never hope to follow it. It seemed as if the fish were caught in some troubled ivory web that peeled off long sheets of pale flesh as it thrashed to escape the invisible strands.
When it was over-and it was over in a twinkling-the sea bass lay in two separate piles, discarded internal matter and perfectly boneless fillets of fish.
Remo wondered if he should applaud.
"Why do you not applaud?" asked Chiun.
"I wasn't sure if that was what you wanted."
"And you are correct. Perfection does not require applause."
"Good. I made the right decision."
"Sincerity is the most flattering form of imitation, however."
"I think you have that filleted up."
"Perhaps. But I do not demonstrate the ancient Korean art of filleting fish with no tools other than the natural ones of the body without reason."
"Okay, I'll bite. Why the demonstration?"
"To instruct you in the error of your ways."
"Which are?"
"I am Reigning Master. You are next Reigning Master, currently Apprentice Reigning Master."
"Yep."
"You will follow in my sandals, taking up my kimono after I am gone or retired, whichever comes first."
"I'll have to think about the kimono."
"Kimonos are traditional."
"Kimonos are Eastern. I gotta operate in the West."
"Perhaps in the next century, by Western reckoning, you will operate in the East. Especially if the West falls into the ocean."
"That's not going to happen, Little Father."
"Wherever you operate, you must do so with sublime grace, skill and a perfection that approaches that of your teacher."
"Perfection is perfection. If I am perfect, I will be as perfect as you," said Remo.
"You cannot be as perfect as me, being but half-Korean. It is impossible. Unless you mend your ways, of course."
"Assuming I want to mend my ways, what are you driving at?"
And Chiun lifted his long-nailed fingers, admiring them. "Observe these, the ultimate tools of a Sinanju Master. Are they not graceful? Are they not perfection? No blade of steel or bone or wood can approach their deadliness. It is for this reason that Sinanju has long celebrated them as the Knives of Eternity, for even if broken they will unfailingly grow back to strike terror into the hearts of all enemies of Sinanju."
"They're striking terror into mine right now."
"Now look at your own pitiful nails."
Remo did. They were cut short Western style. The index nail of his right finger was slightly longer. Just enough to score glass or metal. It looked like an ordinary nail. But years of Sinanju diet, exercise and certain honing techniques had imbued it with a sharpness so fine it could slice open thick rhinoceros hide.
"Looks fine to me," he said.
"In Sinanju's eyes, they are maimed and disfigured. If my ancestors-who are your ancestors-"
"Half ancestors," Remo corrected.
"If our ancestors could see you with your sacred Knives of Eternity cut to the quick and discarded like mere lemon peels, they would tear out their hair, rend their kimonos and shriek against the whiteness that has tainted you."
"I met a few of them in the Void. Nobody mentioned my nails."
"They were too embarrassed. If you had an extra toe or a hideous scar, would you expect them to point it out?"
"You would."
"I am!" Chiun shrieked. "You embarrass me before your-our-ancestors by clinging to transient Western ways. How can you walk in my sandals when you cannot gouge out the eyes of the enemies of the House properly? How can you hold your head up when you blunt your fingers with crude steel implements? Next you will insert copper studs in your ears or brass rings in your nose as they do in the West."
"Cut it out, Chiun. We had this argument years and years ago. You lost. Get over it."
"I did not lose. I retreated. Now I am back, more determined than ever before that I will have my way."
"I just want my dinner," moaned Remo.
"When you can fillet your own fish, you may eat fish again. Not until then."
The phone was still ringing, and Remo, annoyed, jumped for it.
"What is it?" he barked into the mouthpiece.
"Remo, is something amiss?" It was Harold Smith.
"Oh, Chiun is just ragging me that my fingernails are longer than your fingernails. Nyah. Nyah. Nyah. Unquote."
Smith made a throat-clearing sound. "I need you in Mexico."
"What's in Mexico?"