"At that moment a silvery carp swam by, not suspecting that Kim's immobile legs belonged to one that sought its cold meat. With a flourish Kim dipped his bamboo hat into the cold water and lifted it high. As the water drained through the hat's coarse weave, the fish gasped and flopped and so trapped, it surrendered its life without Kim resorting to the cruelty of a hook.
"Carrying his meal in his hat, Bamboo-hatted Kim returned to his home and ate well that day."
"Good for him."
"The next day, Remo, he repeated this feat and was successful. Each day the villagers noticed that Bamboo-hatted Kim walked out in the cold water without hook or line and returned bearing a fish in his hat. And being the lazybones that they were in those days, they fell upon Bamboo-hatted Kim to return to the frigid water and bring them fish, too."
"Sounds like the Sinanju gene pool hasn't improved much in the last five thousand years."
Chiun let the comment pass.
"At first Kim was naturally reluctant. But the villagers plied him with honeyed words and promises of adoration. To these Kim was at first deaf. But one cunning wench with apple cheeks prevailed upon him in the end."
"It wouldn't be the first time someone traded a little nookie for food," said Remo.
"I have never heard of nookie. Is it an ocean fish or a river fish?"
"It's kinda like tuna," said Remo with a straight face.
"I will add it to the list under purple smoothie, another fish unknown in those days," Chiun said somberly.
"You do that," said Remo. "So that was the story of Bamboo-hatted Kim."
"No, that was the story of how Bamboo-hatted Kim earned his nickname. The lesson of Bamboo-hatted Kim is as follows-all that winter Kim went out into the frigid water to gather up the unsuspecting fish because the apple-cheeked wench had whispered a notion that appealed to Kim's lazy instincts. If he walked the three ri every day and brought back fish, he no longer needed to walk the hundreds of ri to Cathay or Egypt or Japan to ply his true trade. For in the those early days, it was the first duty of the Master of Sinanju to feed the village, who depended upon his fish-earning skills."
"Kim took a shortcut, huh?"
Chiun nodded. "An unfortunate one, for as time went on, he softened and grew indolent. Kim allowed himself to be reduced to a fisherman."
"Sounds like a reasonable approach to me."
Chiun eyed Remo critically. "No doubt some of Kim's indolent blood flows through your susceptible veins. We will work on this."
"So what happened?" asked Remo.
"Time passed. Weeks and months followed one another, and Kim found he had to wade farther and farther out because the intelligent fish soon learned to swim farther away, for they noticed that their numbers were dwindling. In time Kim was walking twelve ri. Then twenty. Then thirty. Eventually he reached the point where the water was over his head and his bamboo hat found no fish.
"When after three consecutive days Bamboohatted Kim returned to the village forlorn of countenance, wearing his empty hat instead of carrying it before him laden with carp and corbina, he was jeered by the lazy ones, including the apple-cheeked wench. And his heart was heavy. For there were no more carp or corbina to be scooped up. What had not been eaten, had fled, Remo. The villagers had waxed fat through the bounty Kim had brought back. But instead of living off their fat, as they did some winters, they hooted and jeered and spit upon Empty-headed Kim."
"You mean Bamboo-hatted Kim."
"He was both. For he was soon forced to walk the hundreds of ri to foreign thrones to ply his proper trade. By that time he had grown thick of waist and flabby of muscle."
"He die?"
"Not all at once. He fulfilled a contract with a minor Siamese prince and brought back sufficient gold to purchase sufficient dried yellow corbina from another village to carry Sinanju through the winter. That winter Kim began training his successor in earnest. When the next Master of Sinanju was well on his way to Masterhood, Bamboo-hatted Kim burned his unlucky hat-although nothing could consume his poor reputation."
They walked past several markets and shops, disdaining them all. Quincy had a growing Asian population, but Chiun ignored Chinese- and Vietnamese-owned establishments, too.
"You are very quiet," Chiun prompted.
"Okay, catching too many fish is an old problem. But that was just the West Korea Bay. It's a big planet, and most of it's water. That's a lot of fish."
"How many hungry billions are there now?"
"Seven."
"That is a lot of billions."
"There's still more fish."
"Not if the fish live short lives and the billions enjoy long ones."
"I see your point," said Remo.
They turned a corner of Hancock Street onto a side street. Two blocks down they came to the Squantum Fish Market and they went in.
Ignoring the lobsters in aereated tanks, they went to the glass cases where assorted iced fish lay in halves and fillets.
"What is good today?" asked Chiun of the proprietor.
"We have fresh mudfish."
Chiun's hazel eyes went to the trio of dull black fish that might have been made out of old rubber. "I do not like their eyes."
"The cusk is fresh, too."
"I have had cusk. It is a very tough fish."
"You have shark?" asked Remo.
"Sure. One shark steak?"
"Make it two."
While the shark was being weighed, Chiun eyed Remo and asked, "You eat gross fish. Always with you it is heavy slabs of shark and swordfish and tuna. You eat fish like it is beef steak."
"I'm a big eater."
"Carp is a nice fish."
"You can't get it around here. You know that."
"Soon we will have carp in profusion."
"Could be a long wait," Remo reminded him.