"No. War is their only industry. They are always fighting because they have nothing else, no art, no culture, no talents. They can barely grow rice."
"We could have won," Remo said stubbornly.
"No, you could never have won. You might have beat the Vietnamese of the North on your own, but you were handicapped."
"Yeah, by the brass hats who wouldn't go all the way."
"No, by your allies, the Vietnamese of the South. You expected them to fight with you. You expected them to defend themselves. Instead, they hid behind the uniforms of this country and let the bullets intended for them bury themselves in American bodies. Instead of defending the South, you should have taken the South Vietnamese and dropped them into the North by airplane with instructions to murder and rape at will. The war would have been over in a month, the Americans could have gone home, and the ruling Vietnamese could have found themselves other victims to kill. But because you expected the South Vietnamese to fight like soldiers, you lost. It is not in their nature."
Remo grunted. "We used to have this joke. The only way to end the war would be to put the friendly Vietnamese on boats and bomb the whole country flat. Then torpedo the boats."
"It would have been a waste of good boats," Chiun said.
Remo stood up. "I don't agree with you, Chiun. Not all Vietnamese were like that. I knew some I respected. I knew some brave ones. And there was Phong."
"You did not know him."
"I know the kind of man he was. He risked his life to come to America to tell the truth about American MIA's."
Chiun spat on the floor. "He only wanted to come to America. Everyone wants to come to America."
"He didn't have to go on TV. He knew he was being stalked. He wanted to help his friends, my friends."
"Enough," said Chiun, slapping his hands. "We can discuss this later. First, we train."
Remo stopped to pick up the crumpled ball of paper. "You really zapped me with this old trick?"
"Your mind was not on your center. It is my job to realign your essence with the universe."
"How can you do that when I feel the world spinning under me?"
"That is a temporary backflash."
"You know," Remo said dreamily, "I haven't felt right since Mah-Li died. Everything seems to have fallen apart. The woman I almost married died. I find out I have a daughter I didn't even know about, but because of the work I do, her mother is raising her alone. I don't even know where they are. All my life I've been looking forward to turning the corner to a normal existence. But now I feel like all the good days are in the past. Like the key to my happiness lies in the past. "
"It does," Chiun said. "It lies in your early training, which I will now attempt to duplicate, although I am not as young as I once was."
Remo smiled bitterly. "Can we start with bulletdodging?"
"If you wish. Why?"
"Because I think it's been my turn for about fifteen years. "
Chapter 9
It was the end of a long day and Harold Smith was weary. He left his office feeling his age. Smith was about to enter his car when he noticed that the Folcroft gymnasium lights were still on. It'd been a week since Remo Williams had been brought back for retraining, and Smith was still worried about him. He shut the car door and, even though he intended to be gone only a minute or two, took along his ever-present briefcase. He walked up the flagstone path to the gymnasium door.
Smith found Remo and the Master of Sinanju in the spacious exercise area. Remo was standing at one end of the long court, one leg slightly ahead of the other, his body strained forward like a sprinter about to go. Chiun stood off to one side, his hands bristling with ornamental daggers.
At the sound of Smith's approach, Chiun turned. He beamed happily.
"Greetings, Emperor Smith. You are just in time to see Remo ascend the dragon."
"I'm not familiar with that maneuver," Smith admitted.
"Oh, it is quite simple. Remo will run from one end of the room to the other while I throw these daggers at him as accurately as possible."
"Those are rubber daggers, I trust."
"Of course not. If they were rubber, Remo would know they were rubber and not even try to avoid them. They are real."
"Can Remo handle this so soon?" Smith wondered.
"We will find out. He has progressed reasonably."
"I guess this won't be too difficult for a man who can sidestep bullets."
"Ah, but the dagger-avoiding is not the true test."
"No?" Smith shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other. It never occurred to him to set it down.
"Remo must return to his starting place without his feet touching the floor," Chiun explained.
"I don't understand."
"Watch," Chiun raised his voice. "Remo, show Smith your recovering prowess."
Remo flashed along the varnished pinewood floor. He was a blur whose legs floated as they moved. The backwash as he passed disturbed Smith's sparse white hair and sent his Dartmouth tie fluttering. Smith grabbed the tie to keep it from slapping his face.
"Any word on the AIM's?" Chiun asked. He made no move to throw the daggers.
"MIA's. No. In fact, there has been a minor setback. The Vietnamese have toughened their position. They want some economic sanctions lifted as a good-faith gesture before the hard bargaining begins. It's starting to become a replay of the Paris peace talks. It could drag on into next year."
"No need to tell Remo. "
"I agree. Aren't you going to throw those knives?"
"Soon, soon," said Chiun, glancing at Remo's hurtling form.
"And shouldn't Remo slow down? He's going to hit that wall."
Remo did hit the wall. And kept on going. His feet flashed ahead of him, and suddenly he was running up the wall, carried by sheer momentum. He was literally running against gravity.
"How high can he go?" Smith asked.
"To the moon, if you had such a wall," Chiun said blandly.