Warren Murphy - The End of the Game

She talked like one of those young women Chiun had seen wearing pompoms. Lots of enthusiasm. There probably had not been so much enthusiasm since Genghis Khan went through his first Western army in less than an hour and thought all Europe was his.

There was even an editor who had cried at the end when she read about the ingratitude of the first white ever to learn Sinanju and how forgiving Chiun was and how much Chiun had endured.

"I have told few," Chiun said in quiet righteousness, content that lo, now after these many years, the full story of the injustices imposed on him by Remo would be shown to the world, so the whole world could see how Chiun would properly forgive Remo. The difficulty in forgiving Remo in the past had always been that Remo so often failed to realize that he had done anything wrong.

Now he would have to know. The history of Sinanju and Chiun's reign would be in print.

The senior editor, her little fists punching in the air, couldn't get over how much she loved this wonderful book. She could hardly go to sleep, she loved it so much. It was wonderful and she had just a few wonderful suggestions.

"Sub Rights has this wonderful idea to increase sales," she said. "Could we make the assassins crazed killers let loose on the world? That would be even more wonderful."

Slowly, Chiun explained that the House of Sinanju had survived precisely because the Masters were not crazed killers.

"Golly," sounded the editor, again punching the air like a cheerleader. "You've got more than fifty assassins and every one of them is nice. There have got to be some bad assassins. Some real rotters. Someone the reader can hate. Do you see?"

"Why?" asked Chiun.

"Because you have too many nice guys. Too many. We don't need all these assassins. Let's have one. One single focus. One assassin and he is crazed. Let's make him a Nazi."

A red pencil flew through the manuscript.

"Now that we have the Nazi murderer, we've got to have the good guy chase him. Let's make him a British detective. Let's have a single focus of place too. What about Great Britain? Let's have something hang in the balance. World War II. Got a Nazi, got to have World War II." The red pencil flew again. "Golly, this is wonderful."

"But Great Britain is not Sinanju," Chiun said.

"We'll call it Sinanju. A sleepy little English village called Sinanju. We're just making the book work better. You can't have more than fifty assassins from generation to generation. Give us a break, Mr. Chiun. I don't want to force my views on you. You can do what you want. It's your book. And it's wonderful."

"Will there be that part about the ingratitude of the white?" Chiun asked.

"Of course. I loved it. We all loved it. Speaking of which, let's get to some love interest. Bipsey Boopenberg in Binding had some problems because there was no strong woman character. So we have Nazi for Sub Rights and we have a woman for Binding. A strong woman. Let's say she's on an island. Along with her crippled husband. And she's not getting along with him. And the Nazi murderer falls in love with her and she realizes she has got to stop him from getting his information to, let's say, Hitler. Why not Hitler? It was the Second World War, right? Gosh, this is wonderful."

"You will leave in the part about the white ingratitude?"

"Absolutely. Now Dudley Sturdley in Accounting had some problems too. He really loved the book. But he didn't like the opening about this Korean fishing village that couldn't support itself so the best capable man went out to hire himself out as an assassin-- a tradition there ever since the dawn of history. Let's keep in line with our modern approach. Let's have the Nazi being discovered by a British housewife and then he kills her and that starts the whole book."

"I liked the dawn of history," said Chiun.

"So do I. It's poetic as hell." The fist again punched at the air. "But Accounting said it just doesn't grab. This isn't a poetry book. This is a history of a house of assassins."

"And you will leave in that part about the ingratitude of whites?"

"Absolutely," said the senior editor. "Loved it."

"All right," said Chiun with a sigh.

"And let's have a new title. The History of Sinanju certainly isn't a grabber. What about something to do with death?"

"Never. We are not killers. We are assassins."

"Well, you've got Sinanju running through the whole book. Do we have to put it on the cover too? Don't you want the book to sell?"

Chiun thought for a moment.

"All right," he said.

"Do you have a good title?" she asked.

"If it is not Sinanju, I don't care," Chiun said.

"I like something mysterious," the senior editor said. "What about The Needle's Eye?"

"Wasn't there a white book by that name?"

"Something like that," she said, "and it sold beautifully. You can't beat success. We've been copying success for years now."

She did not mention that when her company had a chance to buy Eye of the Needle, it had turned it down because it wasn't Gone with the Wind. It had turned down Gone with the Wind because it wasn't Huckleberry Finn. It had turned down Huckleberry Finn because it wasn't Ben Hur.

It had published none of those books, but it had copied them all instantly.

Bingham Publishing produced more books every year that did not make money than any other house in the publishing business. When the annual report came in showing it had lost money, they tried to make up for the deficits by increasing the number of books. This increased the deficits. Someone suggested they publish fewer books. That person was instantly fired for stupidity. Everyone knew the way to show a profit was to publish more and more books, even if they all lost money.

Bingham had once published a fifteen-year-old New York City telephone directory because the phone company had called it the most well-distributed book of all time.

Bingham put a swastika on the cover, called it Stranger's Lust Nest, because sex sold, put four million copies in the stores, and were honestly amazed when 3,999,999 were returned unbought.

"I understand this business," the senior editor told Chiun. "We've got a wonderful book here. All we have to do is make these few wonderful changes."

"And you will leave in white ingratitude for the teachings of Sinanju?" asked Chiun.

"Of course. If it fits."

"If?" said Chiun.

"Well, you know you just can't throw in an Oriental in a Nazi book."

"You have had success with Nazi books?" Chiun asked.

"Actually, no. We haven't. But others have. A lot of success. Wonderful success."

"If you have no success with them, why don't you publish something that is not a Nazi book?" Chiun asked.

"And go against success?" the editor said, shaking her head in amazement. Her red pencil poised over the paper.

Chiun reached a long-nailed hand across the desk and removed, with grace, his manuscript.

"The House of Sinanju is not for sale," he said. And then, with the nails working in vibrating rhythms, he removed the red marks of the white woman.

"Wait a second. We can go along with a few of your ideas if you feel strongly about them."

But Chiun was already on his feet. He knew he already had made too many compromises with this manuscript, the greatest being that it was not written in Hu, the Korean dialect of Ung poetry. No more compromises.

He tucked the manuscript under his arm and was escorted out through the main entrance by a younger woman who told him of her ambition to become a senior editor also. She had one obstacle she had to overcome, however. She kept suggesting that Bingham Publishing buy books that she enjoyed reading.

"And?" asked Chiun.

"They told me to ignore that feeling. If it would bore drying paint and not be believed by anyone over four and treat every sex act like the pivotal point of universal history, then we should buy it. Otherwise, no."