Warren Murphy: Brain Drain

"It is simple," said Chiun. "It comes from inside. When one knows what he is inside, then everyplace he goes is his place and he belongs there. And thus no town is new because no town belongs to someone else. All towns belong to him. He is not controlled. He controls. It is the same with your little dance."

"Dance?" said Rad Rex.

"Yes. The karate hopping that so many of you people do."

"Greatest killing technique ever devised."

"From my son I could not stand such an incorrect statement," said Chiun. "But from you, because you are unskilled and know no better…" He shrugged.

"You saw what I did with that pool cue," Rex said.

Chiun nodded and rose slowly, his black-and-red robe seeming to rise with a will of its own.

"Yes. Karate is not all bad. It teaches you to focus your pressure on just one point, and that is good. Karate is a rifle shot instead of a shotgun. For that it is good."

"Then what's bad about it?"

"What is bad about it," said Chiun, "is that it does nothing but direct your strength. Nothing but focus your energy. So it is an exercise. An art is creative. An art creates energy where none existed before."

"And what is an art? Kung fu?"

Chiun laughed.

"Atemiwaza?"

Chiun laughed again. "How well you know the names," he said. "Game players always do. No, there is only one art. It is called Sinanju. All else is just a copy of a piece of a fragment of a thought. But the thought itself is Sinanju."

"I've never heard of Sinanju," said Rad Rex.

"Because you are a special man and you may need someday to defend yourself properly against the evil nurse, I will show it to you," said Chiun. "This is a gift not bestowed lightly. Most to whom Sinanju is shown never have a chance to remember it or to talk of it."

He lifted up the heavy end of the pool cue which Rex had cracked with the side of his hand. Chiun hefted it carefully before handing it to the actor, who held it out in front of him like a billy club.

"You remember how hard you swung your arm to crack the stick?" said Chiun. "That was the focus of your power. But the power did not come from karate. It came from you. You were as the sun and karate merely a lens that focused your power into a bright dot to shatter that stick. The art of Sinanju creates its own power."

"I'd like to see this Sinanju," said Rad Rex. It did not occur to him to doubt Chiun. Like most Westerners, he assumed anyone with slanted eyes was a martial arts expert, just as all Orientals assumed all Americans could build and fly rockets.

"You shall," said Chiun. He arranged the thick half of the pool cue in Rad Rex's hands. When he was done, the stick was vertical, its shattered end pointed toward the floor, the rubber bumper on its fat end pointed toward the ceiling. It was held lightly by Rad Rex at about the middle of the shaft, between the fingertips of the left hand and right hand, like a young baby holding a training glass of milk.

"Remember how hard you swung to shatter the stick. That was karate. A dance," said Chiun. "And this is Sinanju."

Slowly he raised his right arm over his head. Even more slowly he brought his hand down. The side of his hand hit lightly into the rubber ring that cushioned the end of the cue stick.

And then, by God, the hand was through the rubber ring and moving downward and… Jesus Christ… the hand was moving slowly through the almost-petrified wood of the cue, cutting through almost like a rip saw, and Rad Rex felt the old man's hand pass between his fingertips holding the stick and there was a strange buzzing feeling, almost as if the actor were being electrically shocked. Then the buzz was gone, and the old man's hand continued moving slowly through the wood and then it was out, at the splintered bottom of the shaft.

Chiun looked up and smiled at Rad Rex, who looked down at his hands, then separated them, and each hand held half of the cue stick, sawed through along its length. Rad Rex looked at the stick, then gulped and looked at Chiun. His face was puzzled and fearful.

"That is Sinanju," said Chiun. "But having seen it, you must now forget that you have seen it."

"I'd like to learn it."

"Someday," Chiun smiled. "When you retire from all else, perhaps. When you have years to spend, perhaps. But for now you do not have the time. Consider the demonstration a gift from me. In return for the gift you once gave me. The picture with your own name on it and an inscription to me."

Chiun had just reminded Rad Rex of something. He had wanted all day to ask the old man how he had gotten the Mafia to muscle Rad Rex into signing that photograph. He looked now at the bisected cue stuck in his hands and decided there was no point in asking.

He knew. He knew.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was a sleepy frontier saloon. Several bottles of rotgut whiskey stood on the bar. Four round tables with chairs around them were poised, empty, as if awaiting the arrival of men after the spring roundup. Swinging doors led, not to the street, but to a large photograph of a street that was posted on a board outside the swinging door.

"Why am I here?" asked Chiun.

"I was told to bring you here," said Rad Rex.

"I do not even like Westerns," said Chiun.

"I don't know why you're here. I was told to bring you here."

"By whom?"

"By one of Wanda's assistants, one of those nameless, faceless zombies she's got working for her."

"Would you say mechanical?" asked Chiun.

"You bet," said Rad Rex and then was propelled toward the door of the empty set by Chiun.

"Quick," said Chiun, "you must go."

"But why? Why should…"

"Go," said Chiun. "It may not go well for you here and I would not deprive the world of the genius of 'As the Planet Revolves.' "

Rad Rex looked at Chiun again, then shrugged and walked out into the bright sunlight of the Global Studios lot. So the old man was a little nuts. Who wouldn't be from watching soap operas all day long?

Inside, on the set, Chiun pulled a chair away from a table and sat on it lightly.

"You may come out now, tin man," he called aloud. "You gain nothing by waiting."

There was silence, then the swinging doors at the entrance to the saloon opened wide and in walked Mr. Gordons. He wore a black cowboy outfit and a black hat. Silver-studded black boots adorned his feet, matched by the silver-studded black hat he wore. He had on two guns, white-handled revolvers slung low at his side.

"Here I am, gook," he said, looking at Chiun.

Chiun rose slowly to his feet. "You are going to shoot me?" he said.

"Reckon so," said Gordons. "Part of my new strategy. Separate you from the one called Remo and pick you off one at a time."

"You put such faith in your guns?"

"Fastest draw in the world," said Gordons.

"How like you?" said Chiun. "A being made of junk relying upon junk to do a man's work."

"Smile when you say that, pardner," said Gordons, "Do you like my new way of speaking? It is very authentic."

"It could not help but be an improvement," said Chiun.

"Reach for your guns, mister," said Gordons.

"I have no guns," said Chiun.

"That's your tough luck, old timer," said Gordons, and with hands that moved in a blur, he flashed two guns from their holsters and fired at Chiun, who stood still across nine feet of floor, facing him.

The cab let Remo off in front of the driveway to Global Studios, and the first thing Remo saw was Guard Joe Gallagher in the watchbooth. The second thing he saw was a golf cart, used by messengers for deliveries on the lot, parked next to a car at the curb while a young messenger placed something into the trunk of the parked car.

Remo hopped aboard the golf cart, stepped on the gas, and it lurched forward past Gallagher's watch booth.

"Hi," Remo called, driving by.