Warren Murphy: Encounter Group

Remo, who was not used to praise from his teacher, nevertheless accepted the words graciously. "You do me great honor, Little Father."

"Yes," said Chiun. "Your technique, especially on the burning roof, was exemplary. Your feet are not even singed."

"I lost my shoes," replied Remo, who was becoming suspicious.

"Shoes are shoes, but correct technique is art. It is beauty. It is perfection. And you only recently were given the gift of fire walking."

"Yeah, but the firebug managed to torch this place before I got to him," Remo pointed out.

Chiun shrugged. "It is unimportant in the face of your skill. Besides, this structure is ugly. Someone should burn them all."

"Yeah, right," said Remo vaguely. "Can we continue this back at the hotel? The fire department will be here any minute now."

"Very well, then," said Chiun, a smile multiplying the wrinkles of his old face. "Let us return home."

* * *

"We will have duck tonight," Chiun said when they had entered the suite of their Baltimore hotel, which was one of the best in the city even though it was only two blocks away from a peep show parlor. For some reason, although the city of Baltimore had a waterfront area in which its adult entertainment establishments were congregated, there were few sections of the city not blighted by massage parlors and adult bookstores.

"I think duck in apricot sauce would be appropriate," Chiun added, humming happily to himself as he disappeared into the kitchenette.

"I've gotta tell Smith the firebug was working on his own," Remo said, picking up the phone. Smith was Dr. Harold W. Smith, the director of CURE and Remo's employer, although Smith was ostensibly the director of Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, from which he and his batteries of computers secretly ran CURE. Because Smith was waiting in Rye for Remo's report, Remo called a number in North Quincy, Massachusetts, which instantly rerouted his call through Blue Ball, Pennsylvania, but which rang a secure phone on Smith's desk.

"Remo," Smith's lemony voice demanded before Remo could so much as say hi. "What happened? I have a report the target warehouse was torched."

"Do you have a report that a body was found next to the warehouse?" Remo asked, wondering how Smith's voice could sound as bitter as a lemon wedge and as dry as a graham cracker both at the same time.

"No," Smith said.

"Well, there was. And besides, the building was ugly. So get off my case," said Remo before he hung up.

When Chiun returned a few minutes later, he was still humming, so Remo decided to get to the bottom of that, too.

"Is there some reason for this celebration I should know about?" he asked suspiciously.

Before he answered, Chiun stepped over to his sleeping mat, which had been set in the middle of the floor, and settled onto it like a leaf falling from an autumn tree.

"Yes, my son," Chiun said, his long fingernails tapping together happily. "Come, sit at my feet. We must talk. This is a happy day."

"Why?" asked Remo, even as he sat on the floor.

"Because, my son, you have come far in Sinanju. Because you are about to take a major step forward in Sinanju, and I am pleased with you."

Remo thought a moment. "I thought I'd taken a major step about a year ago. Remember? The Dream of Death? You told me then I'd be in this phase for a long time."

"This is true, Remo," Chiun said, his voice solemn. "You are still young in the eyes of Sinanju and must walk the traditional path. But today you showed me that you are ready to move forward along that path more swiftly. To run ahead, but without straying from that path. Your work with the fire walking told me this."

"It is a good technique," Remo said. He was debating whether or not to add "taught by an excellent teacher" when Chiun said, "Yes, a good technique, and taught by an excellent teacher. But you know this. What you do not know, for I have not told you, is that fire walking is not usually taught to one as young as you. But in ten years you have absorbed better than any Korean what I have taught you of Sinanju. This gives me hope that certain other lessons can be taught ahead of their proper time. This is important, Remo, because the more you know, the safer is your life and mine, and it is upon our safety and skills that my poor village depends. You are their future, after me. And one day you will be the Master of Sinanju instead of me. Thus, you are ready for a new technique."

Remo had listened many times to the story of the poor village of Sinanju on the West Korean Bay, which lent out its best men as hired assassins to the great thrones of history so that starvation would not force the village to "send its babies home to the sea" because there was not food for them. The House of Sinanju developed the assassin's art of Sinanju— which was the source of all lesser martial arts— into a tradition that Remo and Chiun currently carried on in service to CURE. Remo just nodded and asked flatly, "Which technique, Little Father?"

Instead of answering, Chiun made as if to stand up and, legs poised under his kimono, sent his stiffened index finger flashing out and snipped off a lock of Remo's dark hair before Remo could react.

Before the lock fell to Remo's thigh, Chiun had seated himself again, arms folded.

Remo, his reflexes blindingly fast for a human being, caught himself in mid-strike. He had been too slow blocking Chiun's thrust, and the tips of his manicured fingers froze a centimeter in front of Chiun's parchment countenance.

"I am still reigning Master," said Chiun, amused that Remo's counterthrust had been initiated before Remo became conscious of the need to defend or strike. It was only Remo's brain catching up with his reflexes that stopped the death blow.

The lock of hair fell to Remo's crossed thigh as he dropped his arm.

"You know the art of the Killing Nail," said Chiun.

"Yeah. It's not restricted to Sinanju. Others have used it, too."

"And animals," added Chiun. "The fingernail is a natural tool. Before the club, there was the nail. But Sinanju, realizing the power of the nail properly used, cultivated the growing of the nail to a certain length, learned how to harden it through diet and exercise, and used the nail as it was meant to be used. To perform our art."

While he spoke, Chiun separated his hands and displayed them, palms inward, so that Remo could see the long, slightly curving knives that grew from Chiun's fingers and that Remo knew could open a man's jugular. Remo knew this because he had seen Chiun do that.

"Older Masters have traditionally taken to the use of the Killing Nail. It is the symbol of the ultimate assassin, the man whose weapons grow from his body and, if broken, will grow back. The Knives of Eternity, they are called."

"Little Father..." Remo began.

Chiun raised one delicate nail for silence. "Although you are young and a white, Remo, you are ready to take up the weapons of the eldest Masters. You are ready to let your nails grow. It is a happy day."

"Little Father, I cannot," Remo said quietly.

"Cannot? Cannot?" Chiun squeaked questioningly. "Do not be fearful of this honor, Remo. You need only trust me. I will guide you through the most difficult stages."

"Little Father, I am not ready for this."

"But you are ready, Remo. I know this," Chiun said firmly.

When Remo just sat there uncomfortably, Chiun was puzzled. "What troubles you, my son?"

"It is not my way to wear my fingernails long," Remo said quietly.

"Way?" snapped Chiun. "Way? Sinanju is your way. You are a Master of Sinanju. And the Killing Nail is the way of Sinanju. I do not understand you."

"In America," Remo explained, knowing that Chiun would not understand American customs, or else would dismiss them as unimportant if he did, "men clip their nails short. They do not wear their nails long. Only women do. It is considered unmanly to have long fingernails."