Warren Murphy - Assassins Play Off

"What is more important in your life, Remo?"

"Breathing correctly. Do you know I'm breathing the same today as yesterday?"

Smith cleared his throat and Remo knew it was the sound of unhappiness, that Smith had heard something he did not wish to deal with because he was afraid that further answers might confuse him more. He knew that Smith had recently given up trying to fathom him and was beginning to accept Remo like Chiun. An unknown quantity that served well. It was a major concession by a man who loathed anything he could not put in some order, well-labeled and perfectly filed. Mysteries were anathema to the head of the organization.

"On second thought," said Smith. "Send your Aunt Mildred a birthday greeting. She's fifty-five tomorrow."

"That means I'm supposed to meet you at O'Hare Airport information at three in the afternoon. Or is it three in the morning? Or is it Logan Airport?"

"Morning. O'Hare," said Smith dourly, and Remo heard the receiver go dead.

On the flight from Raleigh-Durham to Chicago's O'Hare Airport, Chiun suddenly marveled at the hidden skills of Americans. Chiun acknowledged that he should have known that there must be other areas of excellence.

"Any nation that could produce As the Planet Revolves or The Young and the Daring must have other isolated pockets of worth," said Chiun.

Remo knew that Chiun thought airplanes were very close to soundly designed flying objects, so he commented that America was the leader in aircraft and that he had never heard of a Korean-designed plane.

Chiun ignored that comment.

"What I am talking about," he said grandly, producing two torn pieces of white paper between his long graceful fingernails, "is here. This. And in America, too. What a pleasant surprise to find such an art so well performed in a place so far away as America."

Remo looked at the sheets. They were filled single space with sloppy typing.

"This, one can trust. I sent him my birthday and place and time of birth to the exact minute, and I sent him yours."

"You don't know for sure when I was born. Neither do I," said Remo. "The orphanage records weren't that exact."

With a flurry, Chiun's hands dismissed Remo's reservations as inconsequential.

"Even with an inexact date, such excellence of accuracy," said Chiun.

Remo looked closer. On the other side of the papers were circles with strange signs in them.

"What is it?" asked Remo.

"An astrology chart," said Chiun. "And in America, too. I am most pleasantly surprised that the great art, so poorly practiced by so many, is done well and in, of all places, America."

"I don't buy that stuff," said Remo.

"Of course, because in America little machines do everything in quantity. But you forget that men of brilliance and insight still exist. You do not believe in the forces of the universe because you have seen fools and charlatans represent them. But there is in America at least one true reader of the planets."

"Dippy dong," said Remo and winked at a passing stewardess, who almost dropped her tray in pleasant surprise. Remo knew he should not have done that because invariably the stewardess would be at him all trip for coffee, tea, milk, pillow for his head, magazines, and anything else that would get her close to him. At New York's Kennedy, two years before, a Pan-Am lassie had followed him from the plane crying that he had left a Kleenex in the seat.

"You may say that," said Chiun, "but let me read to you in your own language the keen insights of this reader of the forces of the universe."

And Chiun read in the manner of story-telling with his voice rising on the significant points and lowering at the serious ones.

"You," read Chiun, "are in tune with the gentleness and beauty of your world. Few realize your wisdom and kindness that is concealed by your desire for humility. You are troubled by the incessant badgering of those close to you who cannot publicly acknowledge your awesome magnificence."

"Pretty good," said Remo. "And what did he write about you?"

"That is me," said Chiun, and he read from the other paper: "You have a tendency to self-indulgence and are wont to function on whatever thought passes through your mind. You do not think things through, but run through days as if you have no tomorrow."

"That's me, I take it," said Remo glumly.

"To the letter," said Chiun. "Oh, does he know you. There is more. 'You do not appreciate the great gifts given you and squander them like duck droppings.'"

"Where?" said Remo. "Let me see where he said that. Where did he say 'duck droppings'?"

"He didn't say that exactly. But he would have if he knew you better."

"I see," said Remo, and asked for the two papers. True. All but the duck droppings was there. But Remo noticed something else. Chiun's chart started under the heading "positive" and then was torn off midpage. Remo's began under "negatives" and did not have a top of the page.

"You took my negatives and your positives," said Remo.

"I kept that which was correct. There is enough misinformation in the world. Let us be grateful that, in a country like this, we have found at least what is half correct."

"Who is this guy?"

"He is the Ke'Gan of the mountains. The mountains always have the best seers. A Ke'Gan. Here in America. That is why I first chose to write him, telling him of our birth signs." Remo looked at Chiun's chart which still had the astrology service's masthead.

"Ke'Gan?" he said. "The guy's name is Kegan. Brian Kegan. Pittsfield, Massachusetts."

"The Berkshire Mountains," said Chiun.

"Pittsfield. You've still got that post office box there, don't you? What are you doing with a post office box in Pittsfield, Massachusetts? What does a Master of Sinanju need that for?"

But Chiun folded his hands and was silent. The post office box had been rented long before, when Chiun had been ready to take up job offers, so that his assassin's profession could continue to support the aged and the weak and the poor, of his little village of Sinanju in North Korea. But the job crisis had ended and Chiun continued working for Dr. Smith, but he kept the post office box and refused to tell Remo what mail he received there.

The stewardess was back. No. Remo did not want coffee. He did not want tea. He did not want an alcoholic beverage or Time Magazine.

"Sir," said the stewardess. "I've never said this to a passenger before, but I bet you think you're something special. I bet you think every woman is just dying to fall in bed with you, doncha?"

Her pale cheeks flushed red and her blonde shortcut bobbed in anger. Remo could smell her delicate perfume. He shrugged.

"I wouldn't have you on a bet, buddy. Not on a bet."

"Oh," said Remo. She left with her pillow and magazines but was back momentarily. She wanted to apologize. She had never talked to a passenger like that before. She was sorry. Remo said it was all right.

"I'd like to make it up somehow."

"Forget it," said Remo.

"I dearly would. Is there any way I could? Just tell me and I'll do it. Whatever you say."

"Forget it," said Remo.

"Screw you," she said. And Chiun, seeing passengers stare, raised a graceful hand, the fingernails a symphony of delicacy.

"Precious blossom, do not belabor your gracious heart. One cannot expect the rodents of the field to appreciate the precious emerald. Do not offer your gracious gift to him who is unworthy."

"You're damned right," said the stewardess. "You got a lot of wisdom there, sir. You really do."

"What did I do?" said Remo, shrugging.

"Go back to your cheese, mouse," said the stewardess. She left with a triumphant smile.

"What came over her?" asked Remo.

"I have given the best years of my life to a fool," said Chiun.

"I didn't want to bang her. So?"