Warren Murphy - Line of Succession

"Knock it off," said Remo, settling back onto the mat. The Master of Sinanju walked over to the window. He came back to Remo's side, executed a deep bow, and offered an upraised palm.

"What's this?" Remo asked sourly.

"The object of your desire. O disappointed one," Chiun said blandly. In his wrinkled palm the fly lay immobile.

"Forget it," Remo said dejectedly. "I don't want it anymore. It's dead."

"It is not," said Chiun. "It is merely stunned. I do not kill flies."

"Unless you're paid," Remo said.

"In advance," Chiun agreed with a smile. "You will not accept this humble present?"

"No," said Remo.

"A minute ago you were most anxious to capture this insect."

"I wanted to do it myself," Remo said testily.

"Then do it yourself," said Chiun, throwing the fly into the air. It took wing and, somewhat unsteadily, orbited the room. "See if I care."

"Okay," Remo said, coming to life. "Just sit quietly and let me handle this."

"While you are handling it, as you say, talk to me, my son. "

"About what?" asked Remo out of the side of his mouth. He had returned to his lotus position and sat still as a stone. "I have invested countless years of my life training a white man in the magnificent art of Sinanju, and I walk into this room to find my pupil engaged in nonsense."

"It's not nonsense. It's a test of skill, catching a fly with chopsticks. The idea is not to hurt him, you know."

"Do tell," Chiun said in a mock-American accent.

"I got the idea from a film I rented."

"What film?" asked the Master of Sinanju, genuinely curious.

"This one," mumbled Remo, surreptitiously touching a remote control unit beside his leg. Across the room, the TV set winked on. Remo pressed another switch and the video recorder on top of the set started to play.

Frowning, the Master of Sinanju watched a scene from the middle of a film. It showed a sweaty teenage boy waxing a car.

"Smith told me about it," Remo said. "He said it reminded him of you and me."

"How so?" asked Chiun.

"It's about an Italian kid from Newark who meets this old Japanese guy. The old guy teaches him karate."

Chiun spit on the floor. "Karate was stolen from us. It is not Sinanju."

"I didn't say it was. But count the similarities. I'm from Newark."

"Your mother's fault, whoever she was."

"Remo is an Italian name. I might be Italian like the kid in the picture."

"Your last name is Williams. That is not Italian."

"No, but Remo is. I don't know who my parents were, but having an Italian first name must mean something."

"It means that your parents could not think of an appropriate name for you," said Chiun.

Remo frowned. "I wish you wouldn't insult my parents so much," he said. "They might be good people. We don't know."

"Better not to know. The disappointment is less painful. "

"Can I finish telling you the story? Now this kid moves to California, where he meets the old Japanese guy, who's a lot like you."

"Show me this old man," demanded Chiun.

Remo, seeing that the fly had returned to the window, came out of his immobile pose and lifted the remote control. He fast-forwarded the tape until a famous Oriental actor appeared on the screen.

"See?" he said, pointing. "There he is. I told you he kinda looks like you."

When Chiun looked at Remo disdainfully, Remo added, "A little. Around the eyes."

"His eyes look Japanese," Chiun sniffed. "If my eyes resembled his eyes I would pluck them out of my head and crush them beneath my feet."

Remo sighed. "Anyway, he teaches this kid karate and the kid goes on to win a big karate tournament."

"How is that like us? We do not play games. We are assassins. I have trained you in the art of Sinanju, from which all the lesser fighting arts have been stolen, to be an assassin. I have turned your body into one of the finest instruments of human power imaginable. Normally I would have done as much for your mind, but you are white and my time on earth is not without limit."

"Thanks a lot," said Remo.

"You are quite welcome. I am glad now that I made the decision not to concentrate on your mind, for it is obviously confused. I ask you to explain your bizarre behavior and you have told me a lame story about this film. I am still waiting for a proper explanation."

"I was getting there."

"I am over eighty years along in life. Do not take too long."

"One of the things he tried to teach the kid to do is catch a fly with chopsticks. It's supposed to be the mark of a great karate master. The Japanese guy can't do it, even though he's been trying all his life, but the kid does it after a few lessons."

"Goody for him."

"I thought I'd try it," said Remo.

"It is as I thought," said the Master of Sinanju sadly.

"What is?"

"You are regressing."

"I am not."

"Denial is the first symptom of regression," Chiun pronounced seriously. "Let me explain this to you, Remo."

"Whisper it," Remo said, suddenly lifting the chopsticks like antennae. "Here comes the fly again."

"The thieves who stole karate from the House of Sinanju were Korean. From the lazy south, of course. They copied the movements, the little kicks and chopping blows of the hand. They were like children pretending to be adults. But because they copied magnificence, as inept as they were, they achieved a certain mediocrity. They could fight, break boards with their hands, and because they were all mediocre and knew it, they insisted on wearing belts of different colors so that some could pretend to be less mediocre than others of their ilk. In truth, they were all inferior to Sinanju. And they knew that, as well."

"I know that story," Remo said, watching the fly. "Then you should know that catching flies with chopsticks goes back to the early days of karate."

"That I didn't know."

"Of course not. If you had, you would not now be shaming me by copying the mediocre karate dancers. "

"I think it's a pretty fair test of skill. I just want to see if I can do it. What's your problem?"

"The karate dancers tried to copy Sinanju in other ways too," Chiun went on as the stubborn fly lingered over the wooden bowl. "They, too, attempted to hire themselves out to kings and emperors as bodyguards. Many karate dancers found that breaking sticks was not the same thing as breaking bones. In their folly, the karate dancers almost became extinct."

"Shhh!" said Remo.

The fly suddenly veered from the bowl toward Remo.

Remo's hand shot out. The chopsticks closed. This time they did not click.

Remo looked. Between the tongs, the fly struggled, its tiny legs working.

"Look," Remo said, grinning.

"Go ahead," said Chiun blandly.

"Go ahead and what?"

"The next step. Surely the film revealed the next step."

"They must have cut that part out," said Remo.

"I will help you," said Chiun happily, edging closer to Remo. "Lift the fly to your face. Keep your eyes carefully upon it so that it does not get away."

Remo did as he was told. The fly buzzed its wings just inches in front of his high-cheekboned face.

"Are you ready?" asked Chiun.

"Yes," said Remo.

"Now open your mouth. Wide."

Remo opened his mouth. His brows knit in perplexity. Chiun took Remo's hand in his and guided the chopsticks closer. As he did so, he continued his story. "The karate dancers who survived gave up trying to be assassins and repaired to their villages, where they searched for other methods of sustaining themselves. But alas, they were poor fishermen and indifferent farmers."

"You mean . . . ?" Remo asked. Chiun nodded happily.

Remo shut his mouth abruptly.

Chiun grinned. "Why do you think they used chopsticks? It saved them so much time."

A pained expression on his face, Remo released the fly and let the chopsticks clatter into his bowl. He pushed the bowl away in disgust.