Warren Murphy: Sole Survivor

"If I am, I'm not the only one," Remo answered, looking back at the Capitol steps, where a mini-riot of pseudo-homeless people was ensuing.

The Master of Sinanju was waiting for him when Remo got back to the hotel room they shared in Georgetown.

"And how many homeless have we helped today?" Chiun asked as Remo slammed the door.

"I don't want to talk about it," Remo grumbled.

The Master of Sinanju sat on the couch watching television. Television watching was his chief leisure activity, and always had been during the days they worked in America. But Remo couldn't get used to seeing Chiun sitting up on the couch. He was old, over eighty, a wrinkled little wizard of a Korean with frail wisps of hair clinging to his chin and hovering above his ears. He belonged on a reed mat, in a saffron kimono. In the old days of their service to America, such a sight was a familiar one.

Now the Master of Sinanju was sitting on the stuffed couch, wearing an impeccable tailored suit. Or it would have been impeccable had Chiun not forced his tailor, under penalty of broken fingers, to make the jacket sleeves extra long and wide enough that he could tuck his long-nailed hands into them, as he did now.

"I told you there were no homeless in America," Chiun said, his hazel eyes bright. "America is too great, too generous a land to allow its people to live in boxes or to sleep in alleys."

"I said I didn't want to talk about it," Remo said shortly.

"You wanted to talk about it earlier," Chiun went on. "Earlier it was all you would talk about. You said you wanted to help the poor wretches of America who were without food for their mouths or roofs over their unhappy heads. I told you there were no such wretches to be found between Canada and Mexico. I assured you of this. But you would not listen. You insisted upon coming to this city to help these unfindable people with their nonexistent problem."

"You didn't have to come," said Remo.

"But I did. I came. I walked the streets with you. I saw no homeless. So I returned to this hotel to wait for you and your admission of same."

"What are you watching?" Remo said in an effort to change the subject. "More Three Stooges?"

Chiun wrinkled his features unhappily.

"No. I no longer watch them," he said disdainfully.

"No?" said Remo. "I thought you loved them. They represented all that was great about America. Isn't that what you said?"

"That was before."

"Before what?"

"Before the runovers."

"What runovers?"

"The runovers where they show the same stories again and again until the mind turns to porridge."

"True Americans call those reruns," Remo pointed out.

"Reruns. Runovers. What is the difference? Why would anyone want to watch the same thing twice? In the days when I watched my beautiful dramas, there were never any runovers."

"Soap operas don't do reruns." Remo smirked. "Probably because they know no one would watch them twice. Watching them once is like watching them twice. They take forever to tell stories."

"Attention to detail is important in storytelling," Chiun sniffed.

"So what are you watching, Little Father?" Remo asked, sinking into the sofa beside him. The cushion gave too much under his weight. He had grown to dislike chairs, feeling more and more at home on hardwood floors. He slipped down to the carpets, and instantly his spine realigned itself into a more centered configuration.

"I am watching Cheeta Ching," said Chiun.

"Oh, her," groaned Remo. The pancake-flat face of a well-known lady anchorperson filled the screen. Her voice, screeching like barbed wire going through a shredder, filled the room.

"She is seen in this city too," Chiun said happily.

"She's seen in most cities now. She's nationwide."

"It is good to see another Korean come to fame and fortune in America. Truly this is a land of opportunity."

"It must be if that barracuda can get airtime. What ax is she grinding tonight?"

"I do not know. I never listened to her words, only to the music of her voice."

"You can do that?"

Chiun shrugged. "It is necessary. They force her to read nonsense."

"I'm glad you admit that much at least." Remo smiled.

"I am not as blind to some of the little faults of America as you may think, my son," Chiun said loftily. "And I have been thinking. I am nearly done with my latest Ung poem. It is only 1,076 stanzas. If read in Yang cadence and if the television people agree to omit the unnecessary commercials, it would fit into the allotted time Cheeta Ching is given."

"I don't think the networks will agree to let Cheeta Ching read an Ung poem in place of the seven-o'clock news, Little Father."

"Of course not. Not even Cheeta Ching is that important."

"I'm glad you appreciate the harsh reality here."

"We will do a duet, Cheeta and I."

"Forget it."

Chiun's face fell. "I was hoping that Emperor Smith would agree to make the necessary arrangements."

"Smith can order the Army, Navy, and Air Force into a state of high alert," Remo said. "His computers can bring the American economy to a halt or fry an egg in Tuscaloosa. Any egg. But I doubt if even Smith could convince a network president to preempt the evening news. "

"I understand that these so-called news-story programs are currently suffering severe financial setbacks," the Master of Sinanju said hopefully.

"You and Cheeta Ching and Ung poetry are not the solution to the rating crunch. Trust me, Little Father. I know. "

"No, I know. I am the Master of Sinanju, not you. I know many things. It is true that you have progressed remarkably in the ways of Sinanju. You have achieved full Masterhood. You may become as able as I am one day. Yes, I admit it. As able as I. And why not? You had a wonderful teacher."

"No one could be as good as you, Little Father."

"I will accept that. Humbly, of course."

"Of course."

"But I am still reigning Master," Chiun said firmly. "Full in years and brimming with wisdom and experience that as yet you know not. Remember that power is not alone equal to all occasions, Remo. Wisdom is important too."

"I bow to your wisdom, Little Father. You know that."

Chiun shook an admonishing finger in Remo's face. "Not in all things. It has not been so of late. Of late you have belittled my desire to remain in America."

"I don't belittle that. It's just that we have outgrown America, you and I. We should return to Sinanju. You to your people and I to Mah-Li."

"Please do not change the subject, Remo. I think that because you have grown into full Masterhood, you think you no longer need me."

Remo started to object but Chiun raised a quelling palm.

"I hope that my impression is not true. Perhaps I am wrong. But it has been weeks since you sat at my feet thirsting for the wisdom that only one who has memorized the histories of Sinanju may impart. In the old days, it was different. In the old days, you hung on my every pronouncement."

Remo, who could remember no such thing, remained silent.

"I am not merely an old man," Chiun went on. "I am the Master of Sinanju. I am the last of my line. The last of the pure bloodline of Sinanju. When I am gone, there will be no pure link to the Masters who came before me. You should not squander the resource that is Chiun, last reigning Master of Sinanju, Remo. You should be imbibing my wisdom while there is time."

Remo spun on the floor to face the Master of Sinanju. He looked up into Chiun's pleasantly wrinkled features. "Okay."

"Good. Now ask me a question. Any question. Any trifling question that comes to mind. I have all the accumulated wisdom of the House of Sinanju at my command."

Remo thought. His brow furrowed. His mouth puckered. He struggled for a question, hoping to ease Chiun's fears of being unwanted-the true reason, as Remo saw it, that Chiun clung to America, where he and Remo had lived for so long together.