Warren Murphy: Dangerous Games

Mills was right. He needed a world champion. A Mark Spitz. A Bruce Tenner. Somebody worth something, so he could package Mm right into that great golden tomorrow of cornflakes and mustache wax and men's clothes and you-name-it, all at a mere ten percent, sign here, kid, you'll never regret it.

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He needed a world champion and hadn't been offered anything better than some middle-aged guy with chinos and an I-am-a-virgin t-shirt.

He would watch and see. They were all pieces of meat and maybe this piece of meat could run. If he finished in the top three and made the Olympic team, well, maybe, just maybe America was ready for a flake. What was the name of that guy who did the high jumping in the Donald Duck shirt? Everybody seemed to like him. Maybe this could be the same kind of find. Of course, he'd have to figure out a way to cut out Wally Mills and the chink, but if he waved enough promises under this Remo's nose, he shouldn't have any trouble getting him to come along.

To hell with it. The thing to do was to sit back and watch the race and see what happened.

Down on the field, Chiun was giving Remo his usual pre-race instructions.

"Remember, do not run too fast."

"I know, Chiun."

"Yes, I know you know, but it doesn't hurt to remind you. Last week, you almost set a world's record. That was dangerous. If I hadn't thrown that pebble at you to get your attention, who knows what foolishness you might have committed? Now, just run well enough to make the team. The Olympics. That is where world's records shall fall before us like grass before the honed blade."

"Yes, Little Father," Remo said. The truth was, and he didn't want to tell it to Chiun, that he was beginning to enjoy running fast. That was why he had gotten carried away the week before and almost run at high speed. It took a pebble thrown by Chiun, hitting Mm right behind the ear, to wake him up. But he had decided against telling Chiun that he was beginning to enjoy the competition because Chiun was suspicious of anything that Remo enjoyed doing.

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Better to let him think that Remo was still doing this only from a sense of duty.

"Hey. Old man."

Remo did not turn around. He looked down at his loafers to make sure the soles didn't have holes in them because no matter how much money he paid for his hand-made Italian shoes, they weren't designed for running. Maybe when he went to the Olympics, he would buy a pair of sneakers. Maybe he would buy them before he went to Moscow. In Moscow, he had heard the shoe factories spent one year making size eights and the next year size nines and so on. This might be their year for making a size that wasn't Remo's and he might not be able to get sneakers. He would buy them before going to Moscow.

"Hey, old man," the voice came again. "You with the loafers."

Remo turned around to see a tall twenty-year-old with muscular legs, blond hair, and a mocking smile staring at him.

"What are you dressed up for, Pops? A masquerade party?"

"Are you talking to me?" Remo asked.

"Who else?"

"I thought you were talking to him," Remo said, nodding toward Chiun.

"He said 'old man'," Chiun said. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Never mind," Remo said. He turned back to the blond. "Just what is it you want?"

"What I want is to know what you think you're doing here running with us? You looking for a coronary? And who is this guy?" He looked at Chiun. "Hey, Fu Manchu. What is it you do?"

The blond began to laugh uproariously at his own rhymed wit. He trotted up and down in place, to keep his muscles warm. Chiun stepped over to him

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and placed one of his slippered feet on the young man's right foot.

He stopped trotting. It felt as if his foot had been instantly and totally nailed to the ground.

"Hey," he yelled. "Cut that out."

"Young bassoon," Chiun said, "your spirit is about to be broken. Remember this. No matter how fast you run, Remo here will always be one step ahead of you. One step. You will never to be able to pass him, no matter how hard you try, no matter how fast you run. This is a promise the Master of Sinanju makes to you for your insolence."

Chiun stepped off the blond's foot and the man stared at him, confused, wondering how somebody so small could weigh so much when he stepped on a foot.

"Don't worry," the blond said. "Your guy's going to eat my dust."

"Always one step behind, loudmouth," Chiun reminded him, holding up one finger topped with a long curved nail.

When he stepped back to Remo, he was asked, "Why didn't you just smack him in the mouth, Chiun?"

"I would have," Chiun said, "but I don't know the stupid rules for this stupid race. Maybe if this clod doesn't run, there are not enough people or something and we would have to do this all over. I thought it better to do what I did."

"Well, I don't mind you making promises that I have to keep, Chiun, but I think you'd better hope for one thing."

"Which is?"

"That this blond lump runs at least fourth. 'Cause if you want me to stay just one step in front of him and he's at the back of the pack, I'm out of the Olympics. There goes all your endorsement money, not to mention Smitty getting sore."

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Chiun waved his hand airily. "You just make sure he doesn't run worse than fourth place. It will give you something to do. Now, get over there with the others because I don't think they will let you start the race from a sitting position here on the bench."

The seven other runners took their places in the starting block. Remo just stood up in lane five, his hands in his pockets, waiting for the gun. The blond was in lane three and Remo decided that as soon as the gun sounded, he would hook up with the guy and keep one step ahead of him all the way. He'd worry about the end of the race when he got to it.

The gun crackled in the thin Boston air and the runners sprinted off. Remo moved up alongside the blond, then moved one step ahead of him. They were running fifth and sixth, while one of the runners cut a blistering pace in first place. The race was two laps around the track and a little extra, and halfway through the first lap, the blond grunted to Remo, "Let's see how good you are, Gramps." He increased his speed, intending to zip by Remo, but Remo kept one step ahead of him, running easily. He felt cinders off the track kick up against his chinoed legs and the breeze in his face was cool and sweet. He liked running, he decided.

As they finished the first lap, the pacesetter began to tire. Remo and his blond shadow moved up and were now running third and fourth. They held that position until they were halfway around the track in the final lap. The blond grunted again, "Time to let it all hang out. See you, Pops."

He went into a kick, lengthened his stride and stepped up the speed of his step. Remo responded by finally taking his hands out of his pockets, and the blond saw Remo, still there, still one step ahead of him. He pushed harder but he could not make up that one step. Two runners passed them. Remo could

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hear the blond's breath begin to come in short, sharp little bursts.

Now what would he do if this bumpkin quit cold on him? They were coming around the final turn now for the backstretch. Remo closed the few inches that separated them and clamped his right hand on the blond man's left wrist, then began to run faster, pulling the other man with him. They had faded to fifth and sixth and Remo, with the blond now hi tow, stepped up his speed. As they neared the finish line, he kicked in the afterburners, moving up into third place and towing the collapsing blond along into fourth. As they crossed the line, Remo let go of the younger man's wrist and the blond, who had not controlled his own forward motions for the last 100 yards, went sprawling forward on his face, tumbling forward, rolling over until he came to a stop. He lay there, unable to move, trying to catch his breath. His legs felt leaden; his lungs sucked acid and exhaled fire.