Warren Murphy - The End of the Beginning

Chiun was no longer in the same spot. Cotton chunks flew from the mats as the shots thunked into the wall beyond the spot where the Master of Sinanju had been.

Remo's belly turned to liquid.

It was impossible. This frail old man was somehow able to move faster than a bullet. But no one moved that fast.

Yet there was Chiun once more, skittering, twirling, closer still and moving fast.

Even through the shock, Remo was pulling the trigger. Another shot rang out in the gym.

Another miss.

Remo gave him a lead. Crack!

Still he kept coming. Fifty feet away. Wait for thirty. Now. Two shots reverberated through the gymnasium and the old Oriental was suddenly walking slowly.

No bullets left.

With an anger as visceral as the shock he had felt a moment before, Remo threw the pistol at Chiun's head. The old man seemed to pluck the gun from the air as if it were a butterfly. Remo didn't even see the hands move. Chiun stopped before Remo. There was a flurry of movement, and when the old man handed the pistol back to Remo, the barrel had somehow been twisted into a knot of black metal.

Remo's jaw dropped.

As Remo stared at the twisted gun barrel in his hands, Conrad MacCleary stepped forward. His smile was gone, replaced by an expression that was all business.

"What do you think, Chiun?" MacCleary asked.

"Pitiful," Chiun answered, stroking his thread of beard thoughtfully. "He actually wavered at the start. A shameful display of misplaced compassion. Still, I like him better than you, MacCleary. He came to his senses. That is better than nothing, I suppose." His expression made it clear that it wasn't much better than nothing at all.

"What the hell is this?" Remo asked, finally finding his voice. He offered the lump of a gun to MacCleary. He found himself ignored yet again.

"Furthermore, he reeks of beef and alcohol," Chiun persisted. "And he is fat. In his current dismal condition, this pudgy, wheezing thing could only bring disgrace to Emperor Smith's crown. If he is to be my student, the first thing I must do is put him on a diet."

"He doesn't look fat to me," MacCleary said. "But you're the boss."

Remo had had it with being ignored. He forced his way between MacCleary and the old Korean.

"Hey, Chan, I asked you a question," Remo snapped. He grabbed the little Oriental by the arm. Or at least he thought he did.

For Remo Williams, the world suddenly got very bright. His legs turned to rubber and he was falling to the floor, a terrible hollow feeling in his burning chest.

"Yeeowch!" Remo cried as air exploded from his lungs.

"And he is rude," Chiun clucked impatiently. "We are trying to have a conversation," he admonished Remo. He turned back to MacCleary. "Now, what were you saying?"

"Hnnnn~hhh," gasped Remo.

"Chiun, he's turning blue," MacCleary said worriedly.

The Master of Sinanju glanced at his would-be pupil. Remo's cheeks were puffed out, threatening to pop his plastic-surgery scars. His eyes bugged from their deep sockets. He clutched his belly, sucking for air that wouldn't come.

Chiun tipped his head as he studied Remo's complexion. "Yes, I agree with you, General MacCleary," he observed, nodding. "Blue is an improvement. If we wait long enough, maybe he will turn the right color."

Remo was on his knees gasping for breath. He seemed about to pass out.

"Chiun," MacCleary insisted.

The old Korean exhaled impatiently. "Oh, very well," he said. Slender fingers sought Remo's spine. "Hold your breath," he ordered. "Now bend."

Remo was in no position to argue. He stopped trying vainly to suck in air. He bent farther in on himself.

Deft fingers manipulated a knot of muscles on his back.

The air abruptly flooded back into his lungs. It was as if the old Oriental knew the location of some hidden switch between life and death.

Remo exhaled. The pain was gone. He looked up in amazement at the wrinkled parchment face. "How'd you do that?" Remo asked.

"What do they teach you people in school?" Chiun said, with growing exasperation. His fingers fled Remo's back. "All muscles, because they depend on blood, depend on oxygen. Since it is obvious your lungs have been inert for more than one score years, you will first learn to breathe. After you unlearn how to breathe."

Remo climbed to his feet, still trying to comprehend all that had just transpired.

"You'll be training with Chiun for a while," MacCleary said. "You've got limited access to the sanitarium. Stay out of the regular patients' wing and the executive offices. Chiun has said he'll need the grounds and maybe the sound for some training. And remember, if and when you encounter any Folcroft employees, not a word about us, Remo. Only a few of us here even know about CURE. Me, you and my boss. Chiun's aware of some stuff, but not all the details."

Remo shook his head, as if coming out of a trance. "What if I tell them what's really going on here? Send them to get the cavalry? Or better yet, the newspapers?"

"Chiun will prevent you from doing so. Don't doubt he can. And even if you managed to tell someone-doctor, nurse, groundskeeper, guard-we'd have to kill them. You'd be responsible for an innocent life. We don't exist, Remo. Not me, not you, not Chiun, not Folcroft. That's why it's especially important that you never make a friendship here."

Remo looked at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju stood at Remo's side, arms folded across his narrow chest. The brown slits remained impassive over stern hazel eyes.

"Trust me," Remo assured MacCleary. "No problem of that happening."

"Likewise," said Chiun with equal certainty.

"No one asked you, Chairman Mao."

And the next thing Remo knew, his lungs were on fire once again and the floor was flying back toward him. Somehow this time the white karate sash that he would never again be permitted to wear was wrapped tight around his neck.

Chapter 7

On the evening of their second day of training, Remo Williams began to practice breathing.

After his first meeting with his new pupil in the Folcroft gymnasium, Chiun not only assumed it wouldn't be easy, he was certain it would be impossible. This thing they'd given him to train was, after all, white. Not only that but he was a white who had seen more than twenty summers. Still, he had to start somewhere and so he started with breathing. Who knew? Maybe this white would be able to absorb something. He quickly found his first instinct was correct.

"I already know how to breathe," said the rude white thing whose name, ugly as it might be, was Remo. "Watch."

Remo inhaled and exhaled a few times.

"See? I get a gold star in breathing. Now, how 'bout we move along to breaking boards? I saw a guy do that once at the academy. It was pretty neat. You think I'll be able to do that one day?"

"No."

"Oh." Remo was disappointed.

"Since you are white and therefore graceless in form and act, I think you will be lucky if you do not accidentally dislocate your shoulders while tying your shoelaces."

"You're a real Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, you know that?" Remo said sourly. "I think those guys upstairs are paying you to boost my confidence a little, not knock the stuffing out of it. And by the way, why are you always harping about us whites? If white is so bad, why do the good guys always wear white hats? Huh? Riddle me that."

He let the question hang between them.

Although tempted, Chiun resisted the impulse to eliminate this imbecile would-be pupil. He drew on wells of patience that, for five thousand years of Sinanju Masters stretching back before the dawn of time, had remained hitherto untapped.

"Am I wearing a white hat?" Chiun asked thinly.

"No," Remo admitted, hastily adding, "But don't think that proves your point. In fact, I think it proves mine. You haven't exactly been nice to me since we met. What are you doing now?"