Coin of the Realm

Destroyer 77: Coin of the Realm

By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

Prologue

The Master of Sinanju reined in his shaggy-footed pony on the beach of what would one day be called Shanghai. The sun shining off the sea which the barbarian Chinese called the Sea of Sudden Typhoons hurt the eyes. He turned to his night tigers.

"Dismount," he called.

Weary and hunger-wasted, the young night tigers of Sinanju climbed off their steeds. One, Sako, sat dazedly on his horse blanket. His eyes were squinched shut in pain. His face, dry in spite of the brutal heat, was the color of soiled ivory.

"Help him," Master Mangko said, holding his scabbard as he dismounted.

Two night tigers assisted Sako from his horse blanket. They laid him on the trackless white beach. The sound of the tide was a lap-lap-lap that would not change with the centuries to come.

The Master of Sinanju knelt beside his faithful warrior. He felt the man's ribs. Sako winced in pain at evry gentle touch, but he uttered no curse or word of protest.

At last the Master of Sinanju spoke quietly.

"I can offer you no hope, my faithful night tiger. No hope, but one boon. You have only to ask."

"Do it," whispered Sako, and he shut his eyes on the last sight of his life-the Master Mangko, tall and lean, his hair like a cap of dark horsehair over his penetratingly clear eyes.

The Master of Sinanju, kneeling, rested one hand on Sako's fevered brow and the other on his throat. He spoke soothing words until he felt Sako no longer shrink from the touch of death. Sako would not know which hand would strike the blow. Such was Master Mangko's mercy. The blow came swiftly. The Master of Sinanju lifted a hand and it hammered in Sako's forehead like an old egg. Sako shuddered and lay still.

They buried him in the sand, close to the sea, so that the Chinese bandits who had wounded him would not get the body. Then they set about to build boats of bamboo and rattan.

They toiled all through the night, with the Master of Sinanju pausing often to cast his gaze inland. The bandits would not be far behind, although they too had suffered casualties.

Night came and the sun on the water no longer burned their eyes. When the young red sun rose, three bamboo boats sat leaning on sands that were as white as crushed pearls.

The Master of Sinanju inspected the rattan lashings of each until he was satisfied with their seaworthiness.

Only then did he give his night tigers a short bow to signify that they had done a creditable job, and the order to push off. The ponies were stripped of their blankets and provisions and given their freedom.

The bandits appeared atop the near hills. They sat on their horses like sullen Buddhas.

"Quickly," urged the Master of Sinanju. The first boats pushed off.

"With me," Master Mangko ordered. Two night tigers sprang to his side. They understood that they must give the others time to make open water.

The Chinese bandits came off the hills like thunder, the hooves of their horses pounding and splitting on the rocks. Master Mankgo shook his head. The Chinese never learned to treat their horses properly.

There were four bandits. They charged like a breaking wave.

The Master of Sinanju stood resolute in his blue tunic and trousers, a black-clad night tiger on either side of him. "Remember," he intoned, "if we die, our village dies. We do not fight for our lives only, but for the lives of our fathers and mothers, our sons and our daughters and their offspring for generations to come. The lives of thousands yet unborn depend upon our skills this day."

The night tigers clenched their iron daggers in their hands. Master Mangko drew a long sword from a scabbard. They stepped away from each other to give themselves room to fight.

The bandits howled in ferocity as they bore down on their victims, certain that their great swords were better than the crude blades of the Koreans, and that their war cries had paralyzed the interlopers.

Closer came the horses. And when they were almost upon the three unmoving Koreans, the great swords of the Chinese swept back for the kill.

The Master of Sinanju let out a cry of defiance and he rolled between two converging horsemen. His sword snapped bones to the right of him and bones to the left of him. Shrill whinnying preceded the sounds of the horsemen crashing into the surf.

The Master of Sinanju leapt to his feet. He saw that his night tigers had also snapped the forelegs of their foemen's steeds.

The Chinese were carried into the waves by their terrified, stumbling mounts. They floundered in the water. One was pushed under by the maimed hooves of his mount. He did not return to the surface.

The Master of Sinanju strode into the water. His blade flashed left and his blade flashed right. Chinese heads leapt into the sky like ugly moons.

As a last gesture, the Master of Sinanju dispatched the horses so that they would not suffer. He felt bad about the horses. It was not their fault that they belonged to stupid Chinese bandits.

"You did well," Master Mangko told his night tigers, and together they pushed off in the third boat and joined the others.

Days passed. The water was calm. They fished with string and silver hooks. They ate cold balls of rice boiled the night before.

It was many days' journey later when the sky darkened. They pulled down the gaily colored sails of cotton, fearing a storm. But no storm smudged the sky. The boats were lashed together for safety.

The Master of Sinanju grew pensive of visage. All signs pointed to a storm. Further on they sailed into the darkening sky of clouds. Talk grew less frequent. The night tigers were quiet.

When he felt it safe, the Master of Sinanju ordered the sails raised. But there was little wind to fill them. The universe seemed terribly still. After a time, their hooks brought up no more fish and the night tigers began to mutter of fearsome things.

"Where is the storm these clouds promise?" one asked. "And why do our lines fail us? Are there no fish in this entire sea?"

And the Master of Sinanju was silent for a long time. At length he spoke.

"We have entered the storm," he announced. The night tigers looked puzzled.

"You do not see this storm because it is not a storm in the sky," Master Mangko went on coldly, "but one of the deepest ocean. This storm is not above us. It is below us."

At that, the night tigers demanded answers, but the Master of Sinanju only gave them his enigmatic back. And still they sailed on.

On the twelfth day, the ocean changed color. First it was a milky brown, as if the very sea bottom had been stirred by a great hand. And as they sailed onward, ever fearful, the sea color became green. Not the green of certain pools, but the green of sickness, of poison.

They sailed past a floating body but did not disturb it. There was no sign of land for miles in all directions. Later, other bodies appeared. Men. Women. Some children. As they watched the swells, a body here and a body there floated to the surface, bloated and white. No sharks disturbed these bodies.

"What does this mean?" asked the night tigers.

And for that the Master of Sinanju had no answer either. When they were twenty days out and still no sign of land, the Master of Sinanju looked up into the night sky. He read the multitudinous stars and consulted a scroll. After a long silence he announced in a sad voice, "We must turn back."

The night tigers were shocked.

"Back? What of our destination? Our hardships to get this far? How can you order us to give up? Our village depends upon the coin of this emperor."

"The coin sent as a guarantee will have to do," intoned the Master of Sinanju, his voice full of doom. "The stars over my head tell me that we have passed the emperor's realm."

"How? It is so big."

"We have passed it because it is no more," answered the Master of Sinanju. "Now, quickly, bring your vessels about before Sinanju is no more as well."

And the Master Mangko, third in the history of the House of Sinanju, settled at the tiller of his boat. Hard times lay ahead for his village. But a more terrible fate had befallen those who had summoned him.

The greatest client state in the history of Sinanju had been swept from the sea's frigid face. The Master of Sinanju would have wept, but he knew he would need all his tears for his own people....

Chapter 1

The sound of the morning newspaper hitting the flagstone walk awoke Shane Billiken.

His close-set black eyes snapped open instantly. Sunlight streamed in through the glass doors of his bedroom. The pounding of the surf was close. He reached for the nightstand, knocking over a copy of The Cornpleat Shirley MacLaine, and pulled a pair of oversize sunglasses to his eyes.

"It's here," he said hoarsely, sleep clogging his throat.

"Mummuph?" The sleepy girlish voice barely penetrated the silk covers.

"I said it's here," Shane Billiken repeated. He elbowed the sleeping figure.

"Owww!" Bedsheets were clawed off an angry blond head. "Did you have to hit me?"

"The paper. I heard it arrive."

"I'll bet you did. Every morning you hear it. Through twelve rooms and ten doors, you hear it."

''My senses are attuned to the physical universe," Shane Billiken said. "I hear the tread of ants and the whisper of a spider slipping down its web. Now, be a good girl, Glinda, and go fetch."

Glinda shook her blond hair into place. She eased over to the side of the bed. She had the body of a teenager, tanned and fit and unblemished.

"You know it's probably not going to be in there," she said.

"I made a positive affirmation last night. My stars are exceptional. Today will be the start of my new career."

"I want to know what's wrong with the old. You make enough. "

"Don't whine. It's negative. You know negativity affects my biorhythms. And don't forget I found you pushing drinks. If you don't like it, I can find another Princess Shastra. "

"Not after the Donahue show. We're famous now."

"Just get the paper, okay?"

Glinda pulled on a purple nightgown. She rummaged through a nightstand drawer.

"What are you waiting for?" Shane demanded.

"I gotta find my crystal pouch. You know what my horoscope said. You cast it yourself 'Don't go anywhere without your crystal.' "

"I meant trips. Not walking to the damned front door."

"You said anywhere. Getting the paper is anywhere. Ah, here it is."

Glinda tied a green Nepalese pouch around her neck with a rawhide thong. She fingered open the drawstring mouth to make sure the crystal was safely inside.

"Come on, come on. I can feel my positive energies fading. "

"The ink isn't going to vanish because you can't hold on to your biorhythms, you know."

"Just get it."

Glinda passed out of the room, her gown trailing like a cape. She hadn't bothered to close the front.

She returned a moment later, the pouch nestled between full breasts that bore the unmistakable rigidity of silicone implants.

"Here," she said, tossing a folded newspaper onto Shane Billiken's hairy exposed chest. Glinda folded her hands over her breasts, feeling their hardness, and tapped a bare foot while Shane Billiken rummaged for the obituary section. His fleshy face was a mask as he read.

"O'Brien ... Oliver ... Olney ... Ott. Damn! It's not here."

"Try page one. After all, he is famous."

"Good thought." Shane Billiken tore the scattered newsprint apart until he found page one. It wasn't on page one. Nor on page two. The entertainment section was no different.

"See?" Glinda said.

"Quiet, I am making a positive affirmation. Okay, the obit wasn't published today. That means he's going to die today. It'll be in tonight's paper. Tomorrow morning at the latest. I can feel it in my bones, Glinda."

"Sure, sure, Shane."

"Hey, how many times have I told you-"

" 'It's magic, and you don't fuck with magic.' I know, I know. I'll meditate on it in the shower, okay?"

"Take off the pouch first."

"No chance. I don't want to fall and crack my neck."

"It'll shrink in the shower."

"I'll take the crystal out and hold it between my legs. Do me a favor, Shane? Put some Kitaro on the CD player." As the sound of showering penetrated the bedroom, Shane Billiken rolled out of bed. He walked over to his bedroom mirror; examining his square face in the mirror. With a jade comb he straightened his bangs.

"Lookin' good," he murmured. Then he noticed a slight hollow effect when he moved his head from side to side. He would have to eat more ice cream or something. He mustn't lose that face. No one would ever accept him as his idol if the resemblance slipped.

As he walked into his private dressing room, he started to hum an old rock song.

"Only the lonely, dum dum dum dum dee dee dah." he sang.

In his dressing room, he flipped on the CD, grimaced as synthesizer music droned from ceiling speakers, and lifted the Pyrex cover of a cheese container. He broke off a handful of Brie and started nibbling on it. Pieces fell at his feet.

The shower sounds cut off and Glinda's voice penetrated the walls.

"You know, sometimes I think you don't love me."

"I love you," he said, putting on white linen pants. He selected a golden silk shirt, not bothering to button the top three turquoise buttons after he drew it on. He selected a mood charm in the shape of the astrological sign of Taurus and dropped it over his neck. When the charm touched his bare chest, the bull turned blue.

Shane Billiken smiled. Blue was a good augury.

"You didn't say it as if you meant it," Glinda complained.

"I'm a fully Evolved Being. I don't have to sound like I meant it. I exist in a state of perpetual sincerity."

"Say it again."

"I love you." Under his breath he added, "You nimnoid."

"Sometimes I think you just love me for my body."

"No," said Shane Billiken. And this time he really sounded sincere. "I love you for the money you make for me," he whispered.

"Or because I'm the psychic conduit through which Princess Shastra, High Priestess of Atlantis, has chosen to speak. "

"You're very special," Shane Billiken said, taking a hit of rhubarb wine from a green glass jug.

"You know, I was reading that Shirley MacLaine book last night, and it got me thinking."

"With what?" Shane Billiken asked his image in the mirror as he primped his hair.

"I mean, what if I'm channeling so good because, like, I really am the reincarnation of an Atlantean girl? I don't mean a priestess or princess, but I could have been a lady-in-waiting or something. Or maybe an Atlantean atomic scientist. Oh, yuk!"

"What?"

"I just found this really gnarly pimple on my tush." Shane Billiken rolled his eyes behind his impenetrable sunglasses. He would have preferred mirror shades, but Roy never wore mirror shades. Maybe he should send the guy an anonymous note suggesting that wearing mirror shades would be a boost for his image.

"Yeeowch!"

"What now?" Shane sighed.

"I squeezed the pimple and got blood. It's, like, all over my legs. What do I do?"

"Think coagulation," said Shane Billiken, opening the sliding glass doors and stepping onto the redwood sundeck. He closed the doors on that sissy mood music. That was the one drawback to this business, he thought. The music sucked.

The sunlight danced on the Pacific. Shane Billiken eased into a deck chair. He flipped through his appointment book. At two o'clock Mrs. Paris was due in for her monthly Aura Replenishment. Better make sure the ultraviolet lamps were working. At three the McBain twins were due to be Rolfed. Shane smiled. Rolfing them wasn't exactly what he had in mind. Maybe he could send Glinda off on an errand before they arrived. Then that yuppie stockbroker, what's-his-name, was coming in to talk about opening a major-city chain of biocrystal generating stations.

Not bad, thought Shane Billiken. By five o'clock he would have pocketed over seven thousand dollars, and that still left his evening free. He took another hit of rhubarb wine.

It was a long way from telling fortunes out of a house trailer at carnivals and psychic fairs all over the country, thought Shane Billiken. And really, he wasn't doing much different. Instead of servicing all comers, he saw only a select clientele of wealthy patrons. They paid fifty times for the same line of patter Shane had been dispensing in his curtained-off trailer cubicle. But they weren't just paying for the patter now, they were paying for bragging rights as one of the select clients of the exclusive Shane Billiken, world-renowned Doctor of Positivity, author of The Elbow of Enlightment, Soul Commuting, Crystals and Your Cat, and his current best-seller, The Hidden Healing Powers of Cheese.

It was a sweet deal, lately getting sweeter with the channeling bit he was doing with Glinda.

The wind coming off the Pacific sent the Tibetan prayer wheels positioned at each corner of the redwood sundeck to spinning, and Shane Billiken adjusted his shades. He settled back to enjoy the rays.

He was almost into an Alpha state when the sliding glass door grated open.

"Hey, who's that?" Glinda demanded, toweling her hair.

"What?"

"There. In the ocean. Someone in a boat."

Shane Billiken sat up and looked across the water.

Out in the surf, bobbing in buoy, was a tiny boat. A ragged sail fluttered from a twisted crosspiece.

"What kind of a boat is that?" Glinda wondered aloud. "Looks homemade. Probably some idiot teenager's." Shane Billiken rolled to his feet and leaned on the rail.

"Hey, you!" he called. "This is a private beach. Better not try to land or I'll have to call the cops."

The boat drifted toward shore.

"I think that's a girl in it," Glinda said.

"Didn't you hear me? Private beach. It's posted." Shane Billiken pointed at the signs.

The boat kept coming.

"You'd better stay here," he told Glinda.

"Be careful," she called after him.

Shane Billiken pounded down to the slapping waves. The heat cooked the bare soles of his feet, but he shrugged it off. He had learned to walk over hot coals back in the late seventies when the psychic thing looked to crash and he was considering a lateral career slide into a straight carnival act.

"I said turn back, whoever you are."

The boat was very close now. It was not made of fiberglass, which it would have been had it been some pampered Southern California teenager's boat. Nor was it wood. The hull was dark and ratty like dry vines. They appeared to have been braided. The sail was a faded gold rag. There were holes in it. The boat had taken a terrible pounding, as if it had made an ocean crossing, which Shane Billiken realized was impossible. It was too small. Obviously unseaworthy.

As it drifted in closer, Shane Billiken saw water sloshing at the bottom of the boat. It was not much from being awash. The sole occupant was huddled on a shelf in front of the tiller.

It was then that Shane Billiken got a clear look at her. It was a girl, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two. She wore a faded kirtlelike garment that had been discolored by salt and sun. Her hair was all over her face. It was long and black and lustrous, in spite of the flecks of dried salt that clung here and there.

"Speak English?" Shane suddenly asked. It was her face that made him ask the question. At first he thought she was Asian. There was something about her skin-a golden brown like poured honey. But her eyes were not slanted. They weren't round like Caucasian eyes either. They were exotic, and as black as hot little balls of tar.

"I said, do you speak English? Speakee English?"

The girl didn't answer. She was too busy at the tiller. It was obvious that she was trying to beach the boat before it swamped. Shane Billiken plunged out into the surf.

"Whoa," he said as he grabbed the shattered bow. It felt like a basket in his hands. Reeds, he thought. This is a reed boat.

"Lemme help," he said. The girl shrank from his voice. She looked at him in a curious mixture of fear and wonderment.

"Help," he repeated, "Me help you." He pointed to himself and then at the girl. He worked his way along the hull. The girl retreated to the other side. The water was up to Billiken's waist.

"What's wrong with you? I want to help. Comprende? No, that's Spanish. Damn. I don't know any Hawaiian or Polynesian or whatever it is you speak."

Shane took hold of the braided rail and started pushing the craft toward shore. A wave came up and sloshed his neck. The next one tossed brackish seawater into his mouth.

"Hell's bells!" he snarled. "I'm not getting anyplace." He shook his head and swore again. The sunglasses fell from his face and disappeared into the water.

"Now see what you made me do? Those were my trademark. "

Despite the violence of his voice, the girl's expression changed. The fear evaporated. The wonderment remained, but she seemed no longer afraid.

For the first time, she spoke.

"Alla dinna Dolla-Dree," she said musically.

"Same to you," said Shane Billiken, spitting salt from his mouth. He was trying to feel for his shades with his toes. He found them when a wave knocked the boat against his chest, and it was all he could do to hold on to the boat. His feet dug into the silty sea bottom. He felt plastic break under one foot.

Swearing, he started to push the boat for shore. Gradually he got it moving. The girl took hold of the tiller, steadying it so that the craft didn't drag.

The water was down around Shane Billiken's knees when the keel grated the sand. He shoved the boat from behind and got the prow onto dry beach.

"Okay, come on. Out of there," Shane ordered, offering his hand.

The girl stood up and shook her skirt. Salt water had stiffened it. Shane noticed that the cloth was of a very coarse weave, and when he reached out to help her onto the beach, his forearms brushed it. It felt like sandpaper. But along the edges of the hem and collar and shortened sleeves was decorative stitching. He touched them instinctively. It was like touching metal wire.

"Silver," he breathed.

"Berra yi Moo. Hakka Banda. Sinanchu. Sinanchu, danna?"

"Babe, I haven't a clue what you're saying, but my name's Shane. Me, Shane. Get it?"

"Sinanchu, danna?"

"Is that your name, Sinanchu?" Shane asked.

The girl grabbed his arm eagerly and spewed out a torrent of words: "Se, Sinanchu. Ho cinda ca Sinanchu. Kapu Moo an Dolla-Dree."

"Whoa, slow down. I don't savvy. What's this?"

The girl was digging under her skirt. Shane Billiken noticed that she had great legs. Better than Glinda's. Come to think of it, her face was prettier than Glinda's. He stared up at the sundeck. Glinda waved back at him. Yes, definitely better than Glinda. And all her parts were probably organic, too. No plastic augmentation.

The girl dug something from under her skirt. It was a leather pouch. It was hung from a string. The pouch rattled when she shook it. She opened it and dug out a handful of fat silvery coins. They resembled old-fashioned silver dollars.

She offered some to Shane.

"Bama hree Sinanchu?" she asked.

"Yeah, right," muttered Shane Billiken. He examined the coins. They were crude. He could see the marks of hammering. Probably handmade. On one side there was the profile of a man who wore a crown. On the other was a fish. Maybe a shark. The fish side was ringed with incised lettering. Shane didn't recognize the script.

"Sinanchu, danna?"

"No comprenda," said Shane Billiken. He shook his head. "No savvy. No. No."

The excited expression fled from the girl's face. She snatched back the coins and replaced them inside the pouch. The pouch then disappeared under her skirt. Shane Billiken watched every move, marveling at her slim honeygold legs.

"Wait," he said when she started back for the boat. "Wait here."

"Papa dui kuru da Sinanchu," she said.

"Right, Sinanchu, Wait here, Sinanchu. Okay? Wait." He pantomimed for her to stay, then ran up to the redwood sundeck and joined Glinda.

"Glinda," he said. "Baby." He was puffing with exertion.

"Who is she, Shane?"

"This is going to be hard on me, baby."

"What? What is?" Her face screwed up like a baby whose lollipop had been snatched away.

"We're adults. Both of us."

"Yeah?" Glinda bit her knuckles.

"But better than that, we're both Realized Beings. We've been through Yoga together. We've Rolfed together. We've chanted mantras until the sun came up."

"We've been on Donahue together," Glinda retorted. "Don't forget that. You wouldn't have gotten on Donahue without me."

"Baby, don't make this any worse than it is. Remember before, when we were talking about reincarnation?"

"Yeah. But what does that have to do with her?"

"Everything. Just listen to me. Okay? Remember when I told you all about Soul Mates?"

"You said we were Soul Mates."

"We are, we are, baby. That's what has made our time together so special. That's why we'll always have these precious memories, no matter what."

"I knew it. You're dumping me. Dumping me for that ... that ragamuffin who just happened to wash up on your beach. Our beach. The beach you bought with the money we made."

"Baby. Glinda. Please. I'm trying to explain Soul Mates."

Glinda folded her arms. "Go ahead."

"That girl down there, do you know who she is?"

"No. And I don't want to."

"She's Princess Sinanchu. My eternal Soul Mate. She's really from the lost continent of Atlantis, too. But she never died, because she's immortal. She's been at sea for thousands of years, searching, seeking. And do you know what she's been seeking all this time?"

"A free lunch?"

"No, she's been seeking me. Because in a previous existence, we were married."

"You told me that we were married in a former life. How many wives in former lives have you had, anyway?"

"That was a different past life. That was during the French Revolution. But Princess Sinanchu and I ruled Atlantis together. Don't you see how much higher that is, karma-wise?"

"No, I don't, and how do you know this stuff, anyway?"

"It's kismet. You got to trust me."

"I did trust you, you temporal two-timer!"

"Baby, just get a grip on yourself. Go inside and do some Yoga breathing exercises like I taught you."

"Then what?"

"You can pack."

"Pack!"

"You can take your time. Just be gone by noon. Okay? Don't make this hard on yourself."

"What about our past life together? Doesn't that mean anything?"

"I forgot to tell you that we got divorced in that life. I didn't want to mention it before because, sentimental me, I thought we could work it out in this one. But now that Princess Sinanchu has found me, I know that it was never meant to be. But take comfort in the true knowledge that we've improved each other's journey through life in these few months together."

"You mean I've improved yours, you ... you bastard!" Glinda turned on her heel and stalked through the open door. She slammed it after her, cracking the glass.

"And, Glinda, baby, on your way out, could you cancel today's appointments?"

Chapter 2

His name was Remo, and he was collecting heads.

It was not as difficult as it sounded. True, the heads that he was collecting were firmly attached to the necks of their owners, and the necks held to muscular torsos by strong tendon and nerves. And the nerves were in turn connected to nervous hands and itchy trigger fingers that rested on the firing levers of a collection of vicious weapons ranging from stubby Uzi machine guns to rocket-propelled grenade launchers. But for Remo Williams, slipping around the perimeter of the self-sufficient solar-powered log cabin deep in the Wisconsin woods, harvesting heads was as easy as picking blackberries, but not nearly as much fun.

For one thing, you could eat blackberries. Remo had no such intentions today.

Remo carried two of the heads by their hair. His fingers felt greasy from an assortment of hair oils. The oils were clogging his pores and their petroleum poisons were leaching into his system. He switched hands and wiped the free one on his black chinos. He had to hold the heads off to one side so the dripping blood didn't spatter on his shoes.

Blackberries didn't drip blood either. That was another downside.

One of the upsides was that people didn't have thorns. But they did have weapons.

Remo saw another guard, a shotgun sagging in the crook of one arm, pause by a thicket to light a cigar. He had virile black hair that gleamed like an oil slick and Remo's cruel face got a disgusted look on it. At this rate, he'd soon have both hands full. It was an unpleasant thought.

Crouching, Remo set his trophies on the ground. He noticed that one eye of one of them had popped open. He shut it.

Then he waited while the cigar smoker drifted in his direction.

It was a clear cloudless day. Yet the guard did not see Remo, even though Remo crouched three inches in front of him. He did not see Remo because Remo was trained not to be seen. And the guard was only trained to watch the skies for helicopters.

When he was hired to protect the life of the man in the log cabin, the guard was told that he would be assigned to the middle ring. The outer ring, he was informed, was posted to take care of ground threats. No vehicle or ground force could get past the outer ring, he was assured. But the outer ring might not neutralize a helicopter on the first try. That was his job. He asked about the inner ring, and was told never to step beyond his defense perimeter without checking with The Man by radio.

So he smoked and watched the skies, less concerned about helicopters than getting skin cancer from standing out in the open like this six days a week.

Like many people, he worried about the wrong things. While his eyes were on the broiling sun, he did not hear Remo Williams rise up from the thicket like a ghost from its grave. Nor did he sense the open hand that swept out for his skull.

He felt the other hand on his opposite side only because Remo wanted him to. Remo needed to steady the man's torso-otherwise there would be a mess. He wanted the head intact, not exploded.

"Wha-?" the man started to say. Actually, he barely got the W out. He reacted to the unexpected touch on his right, and with his attention properly diverted, the other hand slapped his head clean off his neck.

Pop!

Remo backpedaled with the head in his hands, knowing that exposed necks usually spurted like fountains. This one was no exception. The body collapsed and fed the flowers with its most precious fluid.

It was that easy. And now Remo had three heads. Number four was a short guy. He carried two Uzis, one in each fist, like he expected to use them at any second. The short ones were like that, Remo thought. In all his years in the game of violence, as a Marine, as a cop, and now as an assassin, there was one constant. Short guys were always trigger-happy. There should be a height requirement for gun ownership. Anyone under five-foot-seven could not own a pistol or rifle. They were psychologically unfit.

For that reason, Remo took an extra precaution with the short one. He sneaked up behind him and yanked his arms back. They broke at the shoulder. As the Uzis fell onto the grass, Remo slapped this way and that and the head bounced into his arms.

Four heads now. Upstairs said there would be six guards in all. Six would be a good, convincing number. At least he hoped that Pedro Ramirez, AKA The Man, and the owner of the log cabin, would be convinced after he eliminated all six guards. It would be nice, although not mandatory, if Remo didn't also have to eliminate Pedro Ramirez.

Pedro Ramirez was convinced something was wrong. He sat in the den of his cabin, the sun roof showering him in golden sunshine, thinking that this was better than Miami. But anything was better than Miami, where rivals would whack you while you sunned yourself on your own frigging porch. Whatever the problem, it was fixable.

He grabbed the mike of the portable radio set. The guards were under orders to check in at three-minute intervals in rotation. That way Pedro knew within three minutes, tops, if he had a security problem. Usually sooner, because the perimeter was staked with concealed video cameras. They fed the banks of screens that were duplicated on every inner wall of the cabin. That way, no matter which wall Pedro Ramirez faced, he had his eye on things.

"Santander, come in," he barked into the microphone. He was as brown as an old shoe. Not unusual. Most people who grew up in Peru were richly colored. Most people who grew up in Peru grew up dirt poor and were buried in Peru. Pedro Ramirez might have been buried in Peru, except for the magic coca leaf. It had made him rich. And its derivative, crack, had made him powerful.

He was so powerful that although the authorities of virtually every American and European nation had issued warrants for his arrest, and business rivals had contracts on his brawn skin, he was still able to set up housekeeping in the heart of the nation that most wanted him.

"Santander! Bandrillo! Paeo! Sangre de Cristo, someone answer. "

Pedro shot a glance at the video screen. There was no sign of trouble, no unusual movement. Was that good or not? He decided not. At least one of his guards should have strolled on camera by now.

"Pablo! Zenjora!" he yelled. "Madre de Dios!" Over the radio he heard a peculiar sound.

His brown forehead wrinkled. He could not place the sound. It was not a gunshot. It did not possess that popping firecracker quality that denies its deadliness. This was not an explosive sound. It was more ... meaty.

Remo Williams picked up the sixth and final head. He had to kneel to do it, and catch a loop of hair with his pinky. The other fingers of both hands were occupied with other loops of hair.

It was awkward, carrying three heads in each hand so that they did not bleed all over him, but for what Remo wanted to do, it would be worth it. Especially with the cigarette lighter he had taken off the body of the late cigar-smoking guard.

Remo ghosted past a video camera concealed in a hollow of a dead oak. Even if Upstairs had not briefed him about the camera's location, Remo would have spotted it. It was so obvious. The entire thirty-acre area surrounding the solar-powered log cabin was immaculately groomed. A dead oak tree in the middle meant that it had a purpose other than being a former tree.

Remo stopped at the edge of what Upstairs had, in the briefing, called the inner ring. Remo dropped to one knee and pulled a water-soluble folded map from a back pocket. It showed the location of every buried antipersonnel mine in the inner ring.

The trouble was, Upstairs had forgotten to draw compass points on the map.

"Damn Smith!" Remo muttered, turning the map every which way. He tried to align the map with the dead oak tree. When he thought he had it, he tucked the map into his back pocket and gathered up the six heads. The hairtonic smell was getting to him.

Remo strode for the place where the nearest mine should be, knowing that he would be exposed to the video camera once he stepped into the expanse of greensward where the mines lay buried.

What the hell? he thought. If they don't see me coming, they sure are going to hear me coming.

Several minutes after the last pop emanated from the radio set, Pedro Ramirez was sweating. Something was truly wrong. The one good thing, he thought, was that he handled his own security problems himself. An underling, faced with the absence of hard intelligence, might hesitate over disturbing his superior. Whatever the problem was, Pedro Ramirez had a head start on it.

Working the controls that governed the pan-and-scan function of the video cameras, Pedro set them for wider coverage.

The camera showed nothing at first. Not even the guards. It was as if they had vanished. Then Pedro realized a flaw in the system. The cameras pointed straight out. They were not set to scan the sky or the ground. The ground was where his six guards must be. There was nothing in the sky, because the roof-mounted parabolic mikes hadn't picked up helicopter blades and the sun roof was wide enough to reveal parachutists or hot-air balloons.

Pedro Ramirez has everything covered. But still he sweated. He had lots of enemies.

The oak-tree camera caught a momentary glimpse of something. He adjusted the controls, sending the camera in reverse. When it framed the man in black T-shirt and pants, he froze the gear.

Pedro leaned closer to the color monitor. The intruder was as lean as a two-by-four. He had deep-set dark eyes and high cheekbones. He was walking through the mine field so quietly that Pedro thought the mike system was broken, except that it clearly picked up the sound of a squirrel-dropping hitting a leaf. Pedro relaxed a little when he realized the man was alone. What kind of fool would send one man to kill him? He shrugged. Probably the same kind of fool who would go.

Grinning a little, Pedro Ramirez watched the man. He was walking around the mine field in a twisting path. The idiot. Better to run through in a straight line, if one hoped to avoid the mines.

They were beautiful mines, too. They had been deployed during the Vietnam war specifically to decimate small units. The unique design actually did no physical damage to the man stepping on the mine. It was those who surrounded him who were riddled with shrapnel. Usually the man on the mine was so psychologically devastated that he had to be removed from combat. Tactically, that meant no survivors.

Pedro watched as the man tramped through the grass. What were those things he carried? Pedro wondered, noticing what looked like bags. Perhaps filled with hand grenades, he thought. Well, he would not worry about hand grenades until the man got through the mine field, which of course he would not. After all, if an army couldn't penetrate that field, what could one man do? Especially one who kept stopping to test the ground with his feet. A stupid amateur.

Remo stomped again. He hit the area where, according to the map, a mine should be. Nothing happened.

"It's always something!" he said, annoyed. He trird moving to the left. He stomped the grass. Nothing. He moved to the right, and felt, under his gum-soled shoes, the light depression that was the result of rain tamping down the loose earth that had been redeposited over the buried mine. He pressed firmly. He was rewarded with the warning click that would have frozen his blood back in his Vietnam days. Today he grinned.

The explosion sent dirt, rocks, and fire spraying outward. "There," Remo said, lifting one bundle of human heads and talking to them politely. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" The heads didn't reply. But Remo noticed that the eye of one deceased guard had popped open again. His hands were full and he couldn't shut it. Remo pressed on, searching out more mines.

Pedro Ramirez jumped in his cushioned chair. He was learning that antipersonnel mines designed to destroy and demoralize small units were not equal to every task. The idiot was going out of his way to set off every mine in the field. As soon as he stepped on one, he went on to another. The explosions didn't seem to faze him at all-and it was a miracle that the concussion didn't trigger one of the grenades in those bags.

The realization of those potential weapons made Pedro Ramirez think that it would not be long until the man was knocking at his front door.

It was time to go to the defense of last resort. Not even a man who walked with impunity through a mine field could overcome Big Bonsalmo, who stood gleaming by the fieldstone fireplace.

Remo came up on the side of the log cabin, which generated its own electricity, was supplied by a private well, possessed no telephone lines, and technically did not exist. Except that there it stood.

Remo set the heads down on the grass and dug out the cigarette lighter. Lifting up one head, he applied the lighter's flame to the thick oily hair. It caught instantly. Remo let it burn a little, and then flung it toward a window.

The smoked glass shattered on impact.

Remo set two more of the heads on fire and ran around to the back. He tossed one head in an upper window and the other in a lower window. The other heads, blazing like torches, shattered strategic windows on the other side. Remo saved the sixth head for last. He carefully closed its stubborn baleful eyes and, setting it alight, gave it an overhand toss to the roof.

Pedro Ramirez did not fear the smoke. His eyes were shielded and he breathed pure oxygen through a breathing aparatus. He did not fear the grenades that he knew had smashed the windows, although it was taking an awfully long time for them to detonate. The fire bothered him not at all, although it was rapidly spreading. He started for the front door. When he moved, he clanked.

But when the sun roof broke into glittering shards, his heart quailed. The glass bounced harmlessly off and about him. But the thing that landed at his feet was another matter.

It was Santander. His hair was a ball of flame and as it ate into the darkening flesh of his face, one eye twitched open.

Remo watched until the smoke billowed out of every window and chink in the cabin and then walked up to the door, happy to have free hands once again.

He knocked politely. And waited.

Metallic sounds greeted his ears and he wondered for a moment if Upstairs had slipped up. There had been no mention of a midget tank in the briefing.

The door suddenly slapped open and Remo looked up. Remo was tall-about six feet high-but the thing that greeted him was taller by a solid two feet.

It was silvery-gray and plated like an armadillo. It stood on thick legs that ended in clubby feet. The arms hung crooked, like those of an overmuscled gorilla. The head was a box with round glass eyes and a black rubber appendage like an elephant's trunk. The breathing sounds it made resembled those of a hospital respiration machine. "Do your worst!" the thing said hollowly.

"I beg your pardon?" Remo said politely.

"I said do your worst. I'm not afraid of you!"

"Let's take this from the top, shall we?" Remo said. "I'm here to see Pedro Ramirez, millionaire playboy a chief distributor of crack in the western hemisphere. Could you tell him I'm here, Tobor? Or do robots relay messages?"

"Idiot. I'm Pedro Ramirez."

"You?"

"You're here to kill me, no?"

"Actually, I come bearing options," Remo started to say.

"But I can't be killed," said Pedro Ramirez, smashing a mittenlike gauntlet against his thickly plated chest. It made a bell sound. "Not as long as I'm wearing this. It's titanium plate. Stronger than steel. Over it is bullet-proof Kelvar with a Teflon base. Bullets bounce off. Grenades are nothing to me. I'm impervious to poison gas, fire ... you got it, I spit upon it."

"Actually, I was hoping you'd just surrender to the authorities. The government wants to make an example of you."

"You'll never take Pedro Ramirez alive."

"I'll go with option B if I have to," Remo said, shrugging.

"Just try," boomed Pedro Ramirez. "Go ahead, see if anything works. Why don't you try shooting?"

"Shooting?" Remo asked vaguely.

"Yeah, don't tell me the little cockroach forgot his gun."

"Actually," Remo said, patting his pockets, "I'm not sure if I thought to bring a gun. I was really hoping you'd just surrender, especially after I went to all that trouble with your guards. You did notice that."

"Yeah. So what?"

"I thought it would convince you of the error of resistance," Remo said, continuing to pat his pockets. "Guess not," he added weakly.

Out of his back pocket Remo pulled a folded slip of paper. He glanced at it and tossed it away.

"What was that?" Ramirez asked.

"Nothing much. Just the layout of your mine field."

"How did you get hold of that?"

"Satellite surveillance," Remo said. "My superior monitored the entire construction of this place."

"Oh," said Pedro Ramirez, who knew the U.S. government wanted him, but didn't know they wanted him quite tkat badly.

"I can't seem to find it," Remo was saying.

"Too bad," said Pedro Ramirez. "Why don't you just go away?"

"Ah," Remo said suddenly. "Here it is." Out of his right pants pocket he brought out his fist. He held it in front of him as if about to throw a punch. His arm was bent at the elbow.

"That's your fist," Ramirez pointed out.

"Keep your scales on," Remo said. "I haven't cocked it yet." Remo pulled back the thumb of his fist. He made a little click of a sound with his tongue, and his index finger popped out like a gun barrel.

"There," Remo said with a satisfied smile. "Now-last chance. Put your hands up."

Pedro Ramirez did not put his hands up. He spread his arms. "Go ahead, cockroach. Shoot! Shoot!" he howled. Remo shrugged. He dropped his thumb like a falling hammer and said, "Bang!"

Pedro Ramirez guffawed inside his protective square helmet. His eyes closed with laughter. He didn't see the index finger, pointing at him, move for the center of his chest. He wouldn't have seen it move even if his eyes had been open. For the finger was coming for him at supersonic speed.

The coroner's official verdict was that Pedro Ramirez died of hydrostatic shock. Because Pedro Ramirez was at the top of the FBI's Most Wanted list, he was forced to explain hydrostatic shock to a flock of reporters at the FBI news conference.

"Hydrostatic shock, gentlemen," the coroner said carefully, "is a phenomenon wherein the human body is subjected to a noninvasive impact so great that it results in a chain reaction of internal stress which quite literally disrupts the body cells. This man's mitochondria were destroyed. The result was instantaneous death. We see such a phenomenon when the wearer of a bullet-proof vest is struck by a bullet of sufficiently large caliber-a .357 Magnum round for example-where even though there is no penetration of the protective garment, the impact is as lethal as if penetration was achieved. "

One reporter wanted to know what kind of bullet-proof vest Pedro Ramirez wore.

The coroner replied that it was not a vest, but an armored body suit.

Another reporter asked the question that the coroner feared.

"What caliber was the murder weapon?"

"That I am unable to answer at this time," he admitted. "No shell fragments were found at the scene, but the size of the dent in the suit's chest is consistent with a .38 slug."

The coroner was relieved that the logical follow-up question-how could a mere .38 slug cause hydrostatic shock?-was drowned out by a journalist asking him to speculate on which of Pedro Ramirez's many enemies had finally gotten to the drug kingpin.

When the news conference finally ended, the coroner went back to his lab and sat down to put the finishing touches on the official death report. He decided to simply state the details as they existed, and not try to explain how a .38 slug had wrought such havoc-especially when no corresponding slug could be found and the impact point bore a strange indentation.

The coroner lifted the plate to the light. It was bent. And the impact point was unmistakable. Also unmistakable were the tiny rills at the impact site. He couldn't get over how much like the ridges of a man's fingerprints they were. There was even a little slice of a line above the ridges that corresponded to the edge of a fingernail.

But what kind of fingernail could score a Kelvar-Teflon-titanium sandwich?

No kind, he decided. His final report would simply not mention those imponderable details. Some lines of inquiry were better off not pursued.

Chapter 3

Remo slammed the door behind him and announced, "I'm home."

A peculiar odor greeted his sensitive nostrils.

"You are just in time," a squeaky voice called from the kitchen. Remo followed the odor. It smelled vaguely familiar. It was a food odor, that much was certain, but for the twenty years that he had been a disciple of the art of Sinanju, he had learned to shut out what used to be tantalizing smells. His olfactory organs now only responded to the Sinanju version of the five basic food groups-rice, fish, duck, nuts, and berries.

"Sit," said Chiun over his shoulder as he hunched over the gas stove. The Master of Sinanju, who was barely as tall as the stove, stood on a footstool. He wore a thin white kimono with shortened sleeves appropriate for cooking with fire.

The table was set for two. Remo sat.

"What's cooking?" he asked, sniffing the hauntingly-familiar aroma.

"A celebration dinner."

"Great. But what is it'?"

"A surprise," squeaked Chiun.

"Close your eyes." Remo did as he was told. He even folded his hands. He waited. He sensed rather than heard Chiun's sandaled feet slither in his direction. Something hot was poured into the great celadon bowl that dominated the center of the table. Remo sniffed harder. He felt his stomach juices stir as they had not in many years.

The opposite chair scraped back and the Master of Sinanju spoke up.

"You may open your eyes, my son."

Remo did. The wise eyes of the Master of Sinanju looked at him with crinkled amusernent. Merriment lay in their hazel depths. They dominated a face that was the color of aged ivory, making the myriad of wrinkles look somehow akin to youth and not age. Twin puffs of wispy white hair decorated the hollows over his small ears. A fragile beard was stirred by the steam coming from the great bowl. Such was the countenance of Chiun, latest Master of Sinanju, heir to the longest and most celebrated line of assassins in history, and Rerno's trainer and adopted father.

"This is a great day for us," he said softly.

"Amen," said Remo. "But what's this? Duck soup?"

"No duck today. Nor fish. And rice we will do without. For this is a day of celebration. I have waited long for this golden hour. "

"Great. But what is it? It smells great."

"Patience," intoned Chiun, raising a long-nailed finger. The nail was pointed and slightly curved. "Perfection is fleeting. Do not hurry the moment."

"Tell my mouth. I'm practically drooling. What is this stuff?"

"Egg-lemon soup," whispered Chiun. His voice was reverent.

"Egg-lemon?" Remo said, staring at the steaming bowl.

"Reserved for full Masters only. Oh, this is a glorious day. "

"Egg-lemon soup." Remo looked into the steam as if the *..s,cies were parting to reveal their innermost secrets for his eyes alone.

"Savor this moment, Remo."

"I'm savoring. I'm savoring," Rerno said. It had been over twenty years since he had come to Sinanju, the sun source of the martial arts. Twenty years since he had learned the skills that made its practitioners the most feared warriors in history. Twenty years since he had eaten his last steak. Twenty years since sugar, coffee, processed foods, and alcohol were forbidden to him. Twenty years since his body had been made one with the universe, until his diet had shrunk to rice, duck, and fish, with the occasional organically grown vegetable thrown in for vitamin content. And twenty years since his tongue had touched an unfamiliar food.

"Ah," said Chiun. "I see it in your eyes."

"Steam?"

"No, a twinkle. Egg-lemon soup always brings a twinkle to the eye."

Remo did not reply. He only stared. A new food. A new taste sensation. He had to keep swallowing because his mouth juices were erupting like a liquid volcano. His hands reached for a spoon, but something inside him made him hesitate. A new food. Maybe after this there would be no more new foods. Chiun was right. This was a moment to savor.

"Have you-nothing to say?" Chiun inquired at length.

"I'm speechless," Remo said sincerely. "Really, Chiun, this is wonderful. Egg-lemon soup."

"From an ancient Korean recipe."

"This is great. How very thoughtful, Little Father. And only last week you were harping on me to let my fingernails grow long like yours."

"Speak not of trivial quarrels on this auspicious morning," Chiun said magnanimously.

"Sorry," Remo said sheepishly. His eyes were not on Chiun, but on the bowl. It still steamed. But he could see the broth now. It was yellowish-white. And in it tiny dark specks floated. The sight filled his eyes to brimming as the aroma filled his nostrils. Remo felt almost as if he were going to cry with the sheer joy of discovery.

"Egg-lemon soup," he said under his breath. And it was a prayer.

"I will let you pour," Chiun said suddenly, clapping his hands.

"Gladly," Remo said, bolting from his seat. He scooped up the large bowl and ladled out the heated broth, filling first Chiun's bowl and then his own. He replaced the bowl and sat again. He stared into his own bowl. His hands, holding the ladle and a spoon, almost trembled.

"You may go first."

Remo hesitated. Then, dropping the ladle, he dug in. He brought the first hot spoonful to his mouth. He hesitated again. Chiun's eyes were eager as they watched him, his wise old face beaming with pride. This was a sacred moment.

Remo blew on the spoon to cool the broth. He took his first spoonful. It seared his tongue like acid.

"Hooo!" he said, swallowing.

"Good?"

"Strong."

"It has been a long time since your tongue has tasted such nectar. I recommend small sips."

"Okay," said Reano. The second spoonful was pungent. It slid down his throat with all the fire of a shot of good Kentucky bourbon. The third taste was merely sharp. Remo found himself able to take larger doses. He drank up the bowl greedily, not even noticing that Chiun had not even tasted his own.

"More?" asked Chiun. Remo nodded.

"I am glad you like it," Chiun remarked as he refilled Remo's bowl. Only then did he sample his own bowl. He sipped from the spoon lightly, showing none of the strong reaction that had come with Remo's first flavorful sips.

Remo was on his third bowl when a thought occurred to him.

"This is really excellent, Little Father, but if you were able to eat this stuff all these years, why didn't you?"

"Egg-lemon soup is reserved for full Masters, which I have been for all the years that you have known me, but which you have achieved only recently."

"So, why'd you abstain?"

"Could the father eat so well and let his only child go without?"

"All these years," Remo said, looking up from the nearly empty bowl. "All these years you sacrificed. For me."

"A father's duty," said Chiun, who was not really Remo's father, but in many ways was more, much more than that.

"I am honored by your sacrifice," Remo said quietly. "And only yesterday you were telling me that it was time for me to grow a beard like your own. And I told you to go stuff it."

"A harsh memory, but on this night we transcend such petty arguments," Chiun said loftily. "More?"

"Yes," said Remo, holding out his bowl.

After consuming every last drop, Remo spoke up. "I feel ashamed, Little Father," he said quietly.

"On such a night?" Chiun squeaked. He brushed Remo's admission aside as if it were inconsequential. "It is of no moment."

"But I should explain."

"It is nothing."

"But I'd really like to," Remo repeated. "I cut you off, about the beard and the fingernails, because we've had these discussions many times before. But I don't want you to think I don't honor you. I do. It's just that this is America. Customs are different. I could grow a beard, but it's just not me. As for my fingernails, as I've explained to you before, in America only women go about with their fingernails long."

"And Masters of Sinanju," added Chiun.

"Yes, and Masters of Sinanju. But you're Korean. You can get away with it. But the work we do for Smith and America requires that I sometimes go undercover. I can't have long fingernails. I'd stick out. It would defeat the whole purpose. You can understand that?"

And the Master of Sinanju surprised Remo by saying a simple, "Yes, I understand perfectly."

Remo's concerned expression relaxed. He nodded when Chiun held up a steaming ladle. Remo's bowl came up again. This was the fifth bowl, but the soup was so light that Remo felt as if he could drink it all night.

As he dug in again under Chiun's approving gaze, Remo thought of another question.

"One other thing puzzles me, Little Father."

"Yes?"

"I thought we couldn't eat eggs."

"We cannot. But egg-lemon soup is different."

"Oh. I seem to remember you telling me that even the white of the egg was poison to us. The yolk would turn our dead bones to powder."

"And so it would. But this is egg-lemon soup."

"Its lemony, all right. But I don't seem to taste much egg."

"It is there. The lemon simply masks its taste."

"And these crunchy things," said Remo, looking at the dark specks floating in his spoon. "What are they? Almond slices?"

"No," said Chiun quickly.

"Seeds, then? They're very hard."

"No."

"Then what?"

"They are the precious egg bits." Remo blinked. He looked at his spoon.

"I don't get it. Eggs aren't hard and crunchy." He looked closer. He noticed that the specks were shaped like tiny shards of glass. Some were white. Others a dark brown. He jiggled his spoon and noticed that some of the brown ones were white on the opposite side. What did that remind him of? Remo wondered.

"How do you get an egg to be this hard?" he asked.

"It is simple," Chiun replied. "You take the raw egg, and you break it over a bowl. Then you place the shell in another bowl."

"Yeah," said Remo. He was hanging on every word.

"And there you are," said Chiun, beaming.

"Did I miss a step here?" Remo asked.

"You wish to know the recipe?"

"If that will explain the egg part, yeah."

Chiun shrugged. "It is simple. In a pot you have the lemon broth simmering."

"Right. Lemon broth."

"Then you take the bowl with the eggshells and the bowl with the inedible eggs' hearts."

"That means the whites and yolks. Yeah. Go on."

"Then," said Chiun rapidly, "you pour the first bowl down the sink and the second bowl into the broth, first taking care to crush the eggs into small edible pieces."

"The shells!" Remo roared. "I'm eating eggshell soup!"

"Egg-lemon soup," Chiun corrected, his face stung. "And a moment ago you were raving about it."

"Raving. I'm hysterical!" Remo snapped. "Why didn't you tell me these were shells? I wouldn't have eaten them!"

"But they are good for you. Did you not enjoy your first five bowls?"

Remo's face calmed down. "Well, yeah, actually I did. But now that these are eggshells, it's a different story."

"That is the recipe. Had I used the hearts of the eggs, you would have been dead after your first bowl."

"Yeah, but-"

"I do not understand, Remo. If it was delicious when you did not know its ingredients, why is it not still delicious after you know these things?"

"It is delicious," Remo said defensively, and Chiun's face softened.

"Then eat," Chiun implored. "There is plenty."

"You're still on your first bowl," Remo observed.

"At my age, it is better to eat in moderation. But you are young yet. Come, fill your stomach. This is a happy day. "

"Okay with you if I skip the shells?"

"But they are the best part. And you would not spoil this auspicious day by not eating what I have slaved over all day?"

"I won't chew them, then."

"If that is your wish," Chiun said sadly.

"Okay, I'll chew," said Remo. "See?" His teeth went crunch-crunch against the bits of eggshell.

Chiun beamed. He looked like a wrinkled little angel. When the meal was over and Remo had cleared the table, he asked:

"So what do we do now?"

"It is time for Copra Inisfree. We will watch her show."

"Okay," said Remo, but only to be polite. He had no interest in the talk-show hostess whom Chiun found so fascinating.

But when the Master of Sinanju settled on his reed mat before the living-room television, the picture that greeted his eyes sent his happy face into shocked dismay.

"What is this?" he demanded querulously. "Where is Copra the Clown?"

Remo looked. "Guess she's been replaced. This guy is the new hot thing."

On the screen was the name "Horton Droney III" inside a graphic designed to resemble a shouting mouth. The image dissolved into a shot of a cheering studio audience. Then a casually dressed man jogged down the studio aisle, giving high fives to enthusiastic greeters. In the background, Remo noticed that security guards were dragging other audience members away. One took a switchblade away from a black man. Others shouted epithets to the man who, once on the stage, appeared not to notice that not all the commotion was in his favor. He shot the audience a huge smile. His teeth were so big and white the smile made his face seem suddenly dirty.

"Tonight's guests-and I use the term loosely-are a quack and a fraud," said Horton Droney III in a too-loud voice. "The quack's here to plug his book, The Hidden Healing Powers of Cheese." A hardcover book flew into Horton Droney's hands. He pretended to flip through the pages. "And a piece of Swiss it is too." He threw the book over his shoulder. It knocked over a standing spotlight. The crowd cheered wildly.

Chiun turned to Remo. "Explain this creature to me."

"Where do I start?"

"With the answer to a simple question. Why does he have a Roman numeral for a last name?"

"Actually, he doesn't. The number III means 'the third.' He's Horton Droney the Third."

Chiun's wrinkles smoothed in surprise. "You mean there are two more like him?"

"Not exactly. It means his father is Horton Droney II. Probably his grandfather was the First."

"How long will this go on?"

"As long as there are women willing to bear little Horton Droneys, I guess."

"Shhhh," Chiun said suddenly. "He speaks."

"Shouts," Remo corrected. Chiun's hand shot up.

"Now I know you're going to give these New Age hucksters exactly the welcome they so richly deserve," Horton Droney III proclaimed. A blood howl rose from the audience. "Here they come, Shane Billiken and-get this-Princess Sinanchu."

"Hey, did you catch that name? It sounded almost like-"

Remo's words were literally pinched off by Chiun's fingers. He tried removing Chiun's fingers from his lips. They were locked like pliers. Remo decided to sit quietly. Chiun would not let go until he was ready.

A square-faced man in black leather clothes and wraparound sunglasses stepped out. He led a small golden-skinned woman by the hand. She wore a short white costume and seemed frightened by the roar of the audience. Even after they were seated, the man, whom an on-screen tag identified as "Shane Billiken, New Age Guru," continued holding the girl's hand, as if afraid she would bolt at any second.

"This, I take it, is Princess Sinanchu?" Horton Droney III sneered.

"That's right," said Shane Billiken. "And you can scoff all you want. But this woman is what I call a perpetual channeler. Unlike other channelers, she does not need to go into a trance in order to access her spirit guide. She is permanently locked into the consciousness of Princess Sinanchu, a warrior queen from prehistoric times, when technology was more advanced than ours."

Horton Droney III gave the studio audience, and the camera, an arched eyebrow look. The audience howled with laughter. A tomato splashed at the feet of Princess Sinanchu, who recoiled.

"No, not yet," Horton Droney told his audience reprovingly. "I'll tell you when to start throwing things."

"I can prove my claim," Shane Billiken insisted.

"I know, I know," Horton Droney said. "You've had language experts from all over the world listen to her, and they all agree that she's speaking in an unknown tongue."

"Exactly right."

"And we all know how infallible those ivory-tower geniuses are. I mean, if I wanted to run a scam like this, all I'd have to do is say, 'Yabbba-dabbo doo' a few times and I'd have them scratching their pointy little heads too."

"Why don't we let the audience judge for themselves?"

"Shoot."

Shane Billiken turned to the woman he called Princess Sinanchu and squeezed her hand hard. She began speaking in rapid bursts.

"Mola re Sinanchu. A gosa du Sinanchu. Ponver dreu du Sinanchu."

"She says that she is Princess Sinanchu," Shane Billiken said carefully, "and she wants to warn us that we're letting our technology destroy us. We should eat more organic foods like cheese, clean up our water and our air, or the calamity that befell her civilization will fall upon ours."

"She said all that, eh?"

"That's correct."

"Then how come she said her name three times and you repeated it only once?" Horton Droney said savagely.

"I gave you the loose translation."

"And if this language is unknown to modern world, how come you speak it? Huh? Answer me that."

"Because in a previous life I was her husband."

"Oh, this is such crap." Horton Droney turned to the audience. "I say it's crap. What do you say?"

"It's crap!" yelled the studio audience. Security guards moved in when some in the front row started to rush the stage.

"They say it's crap," accused Horton Droney, turning to Princess Sinanchu. "And I'm going to prove it." He was shouting now, shouting abuse and invective in the frightened face of Princess Sinanchu.

"Come on, admit it. You're a fraud. This is an act. Who are you really? Some cheap stripper he picked up in a saloon? I'll bet right now there's someone in our television audience looking at you and saying, 'I know her. I went to high school with the little trollop.' Come on, 'fess up, before someone else blows the whistle."

"Dakka, qi Drue Sinanchu," said Princess Sinanchu.

"We know your freaking stage name, you smarmy fake. What we want is the truth. Who are you? How much is he paying you to work this little scam? Huh? Come on, admit it."

Horton Droney was spitting words in her face with relentless violence. His face was turning red. The studio audience was a mob.

"Shake it out of her, Hort," they yelled. "Make the bitch talk."

Horton Droney grabbed Princess Sinanchu by the hair and yanked her out of her seat.

"I know how to prove she's a fraud," he shouted, wrestling her to the front of the stage. "An old-fashioned spanking!"

Princess Sinanchu made a sound like a spitting cat and reached under her skirt. Her hand flashed up and Horton Droney suddenly backed away from her. He twisted on his feet until his knees started buckling. His mouth opened in a grimace. An ornate bone handle jutted from his chest.

He gripped it in both hands, and then, his face darkening even as his grimace widened, he fell on his face.

A "Technical Difficulties" sign was beamed into millions of homes across the nation.

"Enough," Chiun said abruptly, releasing Remo's numb lips. He arose and shut off the TV. "We are going to Moo."

"I realize television may have sunk to new depths here, Little Father," Remo protested. "But I think we can find some better way to entertain ourselves than by resorting to animal impressions."

"There is no time to explain," Chiun said, flouncing from the room like a fussy hen. "Pack."

"Pack? Why?"

"Because we are going to Moo."

Remo, seeing from the Master of Sinanju's body language that he meant business, shrugged and said, "I'd better inform Smith, then." He picked up the telephone and dialed the nonemergency number that connected him with CURE, the supersecret government organization for which he worked. A recorded message told him he had reached the Miami Beach Betterment League and that, at the sound of the beep, the caller had exactly thirty seconds to leave a message.

Remo waited for the beep and then, letting out his breath, let out with it a rapid-fire stream of words. "Smitty. Remo. Chiun and I are going to moo. I don't know what exactly that means, but it involves travel, and from Chiun's look, it's serious. I'd explain, but I don't know any more than that, and besides, I have a hunch the explanation would take longer than thirty seconds. Next time spring for a longer tape. 'Bye."

Remo hung up with three seconds to spare and called into the other room:

"Srnitty's taken care of."

"Good," called Chiun. "Are you packed?"

"One thing at a time," Remo grumbled, starting for his room. He stopped abruptly and ducked back into Chiun's room.

"Give me one good reason why I should," Remo demanded.

"I will tell you on the way."

"No, I think I deserve a straight answer right now." Remo folded his arms. "And if I don't get one, I'm not going to quack, bark, grunt, or whinny. Never mind moo."

Chiun stopped his packing. He straightened up from laying a traveling kimono in a bright red lacquer trunk with brass handles. His clear hazel eyes narrowed craftily.

"Because," the Master of Sinanju said carefully, "the women go bare-breasted."

Remo blinked as the significance of the Master of Sinanju's words sank in. He did not understand this moo business. He did not understand how it connected with this sudden urge to pack. Breasts, he understood. When Harold Smith had first subjectgd him to a battery of psychological tests before turning him over to Chiun, Remo had passed most of the tests handily. Except one. The Rorschach test. Smith laid down one inkblot and Remo looked at it briefly and pronounced it a pair of female breasts. That was the answer he gave for nine out of nine inkblots. Sometimes he saw only one breast. Once he saw three. When the worried look on Smith's parsimonious face made Remo fear he was about to be dumped into the grave bearing his name but which actually contained a nameless derelict, Remo announced that the tenth and final inkblot was an accurate depiction of the Indian subcontinent-even though it looked like the most colossal set of boobs he had ever seen.

Remo shook his head suddenly and straightened out of his leaning slouch against the doorjamb.

"Well, don't just stand there," he said. "Keep packing. I'll call a cab."

Chapter 4

The doctor at New York Hospital wanted to say that Horton Droney III would not, could not, under any imaginable circumstances, see visitors.

Instead, a blood-curdling scream erupted in the room. It wasn't coming from the tiny Oriental gentleman in the colorful native costume. His companion, the one with the deadest eyes Dr. Alan Dooley had seen since medical school, stood tight-lipped. He was not the author of the blood-curdling scream either.

It might have been Nurse Bottomsly. Her mouth was open. But her throat wasn't pulsating the way people do when they scream. She looked more shocked than horrified. And she was looking directly at him.

It was then that Dr. Dooley noticed that it was he himself who had authored the mysterious scream. Imagine that. He was screaming and he hadn't even noticed. Before his fear-frozen brain synapses could begin the process of wondering why he was screaming, the answer shot up his arm, spread to the other arm, down both legs, up his screaming skull, and, most painfully, to his testicles.

He fell on the floor and clutched himself. He screamed louder. He coughed through the scream and the resulting sound was quite disgusting. As he curled up on the floor like a maggot that has been doused with lighter fluid and set afire, he noticed that his right arm hadn't joined his left in the necessary action of clutching himself at the point of maximum pain. It was hung up on something.

With tearing eyes, Dr. Dooley looked up. His wrist was pinched between the thumb and forefinger of the little Asian gentleman. The man's face was a thundercloud of wrath.

"I will ask again," the Asian said evenly. "Direct us to the room of Horton the Turd."

"Do us both a favor," the white man interposed casually. "He's in a rush and I'm in a hurry. Don't piss either of us off."

The thought, clear as a surgical needle going through Dr. Dooley's brain, penetrated with amazing clarity. If the Asian was inflicting this much agony before he was pissed, how much pain would he inflict when he crossed that terrible threshold?

Dr. Dooley decided not to find out. Better to risk a malpractice suit from the patient. Besides, he was not Horton Droney's personal physician. He was just the doctor on duty when the television host was rushed into the Emergency Room. Suddenly Dr. Dooley felt absolutely no obligation to his patient.

"Room thirty-seven," he groaned. His hand suddenly fell to the floor, landing beside his nose, as flaccid and lifeless as a dead tarantula.

"Thank you," a voice told him as he picked his hand off the floor. It was as if it was separate from his body. He couldn't even feel the arm that still linked it to his shoulder. "Don't just stand there, nurse. Get a doctor!"

"Which ... which one?"

"A good one, dammit."

"I hope he's conscious," Remo told Chiun as they approached the hospital room. "At the studio, they said he was stuck pretty deep."

"If he is not conscious, I will awaken him," Chiun promised.

"And if he's dead?"

"Then we will search out the poor unfortunate girl without his aid."

"I wouldn't call her unfortunate. She handled herself pretty well, especially in front of that bully."

"She was terrified. And that lummox refused to listen to her."

"What could he do? She didn't speak English."

"Yes, all the good languages are forgotten."

"Don't tell me, Chiun. You understood her gibberish?"

"I will not."

"Good."

"But I did."

"Sure," Remo said as he looked around.

The Master of Sinanju paused before the door marked thirty-seven and pushed it open. Remo followed him in. It was a private room. Horton Droney III lay on an immaculate bed. Intravenous tubes led from his arm. A blood bag hung over his head. His eyes were half-closed dreamily.

"Excuse me," said the attending nurse, rising from a chair.

"You are excused," snapped Chiun.

"But-

"He said you've been excused," Remo said gently, leading the nurse out the door. When she protested, he added, "Here, take my wallet as security. It contains my life savings and my ID. If we do anything bad, you'll know who to report to the police."

Then he closed the door after her. He held the doorknob in place while she vainly tried to turn it from the other side. Her poundings woke Horton Droney III.

"Who are you jerks?" he roared when he saw Chiun.

"I am Chiun and I would keep a civil tongue in my mouth."

"Hey, I don't take crap from Japanese. I haven't forgotten Pearl Harbor. So get lost, you Toyota-loving riceball."

"Now you did it," Remo said.

"Remo," Chiun said evenly, "would you excuse us?"

"Little Father, why don't you let me handle this?" Remo began, still holding the doorknob against the nurse's frantic struggling.

"Did he call you a Japanese?" Chiun demanded.

"No, but I don't think he knows any better."

"I know that if we don't stand up for our rights," Horton Droney screamed, spittle flying from his yawning mouth, "the Japanese are going to buy America out from under us."

"Remo," Chiun repeated.

"Okay, Little Father, I hear Security coming up the hall. Just, please, don't kill him. He's a television personality, for Christ's sake."

"Kill?" said Horton Droney III, looking at Chiun's wrinkled face. And then he threw his head back in laughter. He howled the word "Kill" in between spasms of hilarity.

The laughter stopped almost as soon as Remo closed the door behind him. The nurse landed on her white rump when the door she was straining against suddenly came toward her.

Two security guards came running up the hall. "What is it? What's the trouble?" they demanded.

"She is," Remo said, pointing at the hapless nurse.

"I am not!" the nurse said indignantly.

"Who are you, buddy?"

"Horton Droney IV." Remo bared his teeth to the gum line, hoping to create the effect of a family resemblance. The guards hesitated.

"The big guy's son?" one of them asked uncertainly.

"That's right. And it's a good thing I came along when I did. I found this nurse going through my father's stuff. And when I asked her what she was doing, she gave me a lot of double-talk and lifted my wallet."

"I did not!" the nurse cried.

"That's my wallet in her hand right there. Check it out."

"He gave it to me," the nurse protested.

"Hah!" retorted Remo. "A likely story." He hoped he sounded as self-important as Horton Droney IV would sound-assuming that there was a Horton Droney IV.

One of the security guards retrieved the wallet and was about to go through it when the Master of Sinanju glided out of Horton Droney's room.

"All set, Little Father?" Remo asked.

"I have what I want," Chiun replied.

"Good," said Remo, snatching his wallet from the guard's hand.

"Hey," the guard said. And suddenly he found himself on the other side of a closed door. He experienced a moment of profound disorientation. He remembered the hand snatching the wallet from him and then the guy's other hand hooking his belt buckle. Then he was in here. He didn't remember any intervening action. When he noticed the man with the caved-in mouth on the bed, he realized he was in Horton Droney III's room. Then he wasn't alone anymore. His fellow guard sprawled on the floor beside him. The nurse came running in on her own. She closed the door and leaned up again it, her skinny chest heaving spasmodically.

"What are you afraid of?" the guard asked her.

"Everything," she sobbed.

Out on the street, Remo trailed after the Master of Sinanju. Chiun was storming along First Avenue, oblivious of the crowds surging around him.

"Did you get what you wanted?" Remo asked.

"That, and more."

"Tell me about the 'that.' "

"The one known as Shane Billiken lives in a place called Malibu. We are going there."

"I'd better hail a cab," said Remo. He put two fingers into his mouth and whistled. A cab pulled up and Remo opened the door for Chiun.

The Master of Sinanju settled into the rear seat and the cab was in motion before Remo had the door closed after him.

"Kennedy international," he told the driver. And turning to Chiun, he asked, "What was the more?"

"This," said Chiun, pulling a huge set of false teeth from one voluminous sleeve. Chiun held it in a hospital towel to keep his hands clean.

"I guess his secret is out. What are you going to do with them?"

"I do not know," Chiun said casually, and balling the dentures inside the towel, he flipped them out the window. They hit the street, where a bus ran over them. The crack brought a satisfied smile to Chiun's face.

"That's a relief," Remo said. "I thought you were going to kill him."

"Another time, perhaps." said Chiun.

As they approached the airport, Remo suddenly remembered something.

"When do we get to the bare-breasted women?"

"Have patience. We are at least headed in the right direction."

"Anything I can do to get there faster? Like moo?"

"I do not understand this moo you speak of."

"Well, I don't understand the moo you keep talking about either. "

"Obviously we are thinking of two entirely different Moos."

"Obviously," said Remo.

Chapter 5

Dr. Harold W. Smith wore a lemony frown as he shut down the computer system in his office at Folcroft Sanitarium. The sun was setting, and darkness was enveloping Long Island Sound, which showed through the big one-way glass picture window directly behind his desk.

It was the end of a difficult day. He had made an inspection of the psychiatric wing of Folcroft. One of the inmates had been found missing. Not a routine matter in any asylum, for Smith it was fraught with potential serious ramifications. For Folcroft was a cover for CURE, a supersecret government organization, and under the guise of being Folcroft's director, Smith actually ran CURE.

Set up in the early 1960's when the tide of crime threatened to swamp the ship of state called the United States of America, CURE was the brainchild of a young President who had no idea then that an assassin was about to end his term in office prematurely. In those dark days, the handwriting had been on the wall. The nation was breaking down. Two roads lay ahead: anarchy, or a temporary suspension of the Constitution in order to set things right.

The President had come up with a third alternative. CURE. The Constitution would stand, but to root out the criminal elements that were using it to bury America under a mountain of legalistic red tape, CURE was set up to work outside of constitutional restrictions. If known, that would be a tacit admission that American democracy had ceased to work. And so CURE was sanctioned to operate in secret.

In those days, Smith recalled wistfully. CURE had been a sociological-research foundation, and its multiple banks of computers had functioned as CURE's information-gathering brain. But a crisis in which CURE had been nearly exposed forced a major change. Folcroft became a sanitarium in fact as well as name. And its many computers, thanks in part to the march of technology, went into a concealed basement where a small bank of them could do the work of a roomful.

With the change came new headaches. Medical staff. Patients. AMA oversight. Billing problems. And now this. A missing patient.

Smith's preoccupation with the missing patient forced from his mind two messages that had come in over the office tape machine. Two separate phone lines accessed the machine. One was a dummy line to be used by Remo and Chiun for noncritical contact messages, and the other was known only to his wife. Smith had balanced the additional six dollar-and-twenty-two-cent cost of an extra line against any possible security risk and erred in favor of frugality.

When he had returned to his office after a fruitless and frustrating search for the missing patient, whose name was Gilbert Grumley, Smith had replayed both messages. The first was from Remo. He had rattled off some breathless nonsense about mooing. Smith, not knowing the current whereabouts of Remo or Chiun, told himself that there was no problem as long as there were no assignments on the CURE agenda. And all was quiet there.

The second message was from his wife, Maude. It was brief. It ran:

"Harold, dear, could you please remember to bring home a package of those nice mashed-potato flakes you like so much? And by the way, I saw the oddest thing today. You know the-"

The tape had not caught the entire message and Smith made a mental note to get a longer tape cassette if he ever saw one on sale.

As he closed his briefcase and locked the office behind him, Harold Smith wondered what the odd thing Maude wanted to tell him was. Oh, well, he thought, he would know soon enough.

In the lobby, the guard informed him that the missing patient, Gilbert Grumley, was still nowhere to be found. "It's just a matter of time," Smith said. He said good night to the guard, went to his personal parking space, and tooled his battered sedan out the gate.

He stopped off at a convenience store and bought an economy-size box of Flako Magic Potato Mix, first examining every box to find the one with the latest freshness date. The package cost exactly $1.37 and Smith paid for it with a dollar bill and exact change, which he took, one careful coin at a time, from a little red rubber change holder. It took longer to give exact change, but Smith had once been short-changed twelve cents by a careless clerk in 1955, and was forced to drive seven miles back to the store and argue for twenty minutes before the proprietor agreed to rectify the error. Smith had only caught it when he got home and went through his wallet to budget his spending money for the next working day. At any time, he knew exactly how much money he had on his person. A penny's difference was usually enough to depress him.

Maude Smith, frumpy and white-haired, greeted him with a perfunctory kiss at the door.

"Did you bring it?" she asked.

"Yes, of course," Smith replied, setting his worn briefcase on the table by the door. He settled onto the big stuffed sofa.

"Don't get comfortable, Harold. The roast is ready. And these potatoes will take only a moment."

Five minutes later, Smith had settled into his straightbacked wooden chair at the head of the dining-room table. He tasted the roast first. It was very dry.

"Good?" asked Mrs. Smith.

"Yes, very," Smith said, taking a sip of ice water.

"And the peas?"

Smith took a knife and herded some peas onto his fork. The peas tasted like peas.

"Good," said Smith, who was indifferent to peas. Mrs. Smith beamed. She never got tired of cooking for her appreciative husband.

"And the potatoes, Harold. How are they?"

Smith tasted them. They tasted artificial. But of course, he wouldn't say that. As a matter of fact, after over thirty years of marriage to a woman who served mashed potatoes three or four times a week without fail, he had grown totally disinterested in mashed potatoes. But, of course, it would be the height of impoliteness to criticize his wife's cooking. When Maude Smith discovered artificial mashed potatoes, it was like going from bland to worse. But Smith consoled himself with the fact that at least these mashed potatoes were not lumpy.

"The potatoes are very . . . smooth," he told her. And with the tasting ritual done, Mrs. Smith dug into her own food. She thought the potatoes tasted medicinal, the peas tinny, and the roast beef too dry. But if this was the way her Harold preferred his food, she was going to be a good sport about it. But the man did have odd tastes.

Harold Smith got the potatoes out of the way as fast as possible. He mixed the peas into the white mush in a vain attempt to make them more flavorful. Then he washed them down with ice water.

Smith was working on the dry roast beef when Mrs. Smith perked up suddenly.

"Oh, what did you think of that strange thing I mentioned on the phone?"

"Actually, the tape ran out before you finished speaking. All I got was something odd that you had seen or heard about."

"We have new neighbors," Mrs. Smith said.

"Oh, did the Billingtons move?"

"The Billingtons moved out when Richard Nixon was in office. We've had two families in that house since."

"That's nice, dear," said Dr. Harold W. Smith, wondering what was so odd about having new neighbors. He knew his wife would get around to telling him. Eventually. "There were the Reynoldses, who had too many children, and the Lippincotts, who had none. Well, Mr. Lippincott received a job offer in Tucson, so they had to move. Mrs. Lippincott was heartbroken."

"I don't think I ever had the pleasure of meeting them."

"With the hours you keep, it's no wonder. Really, Harold, does that office need you so much?"

"We had a patient turn up missing today."

"Did you find him?"

"Not yet. But we will. Our security is quite good. I'm certain he never left the grounds."

"That's nice," Mrs. Smith said vaguely. "But you know, I've been thinking of it all day and I still can't place him."

"Who?" asked Smith.

"Our new neighbor, silly. What do you think we've been talking about?"

"Oh," said Smith, who thought they were discussing Folcroft. "What about our new neighbor?"

"Well, I only caught a glimpse of him leaving. I waved to him, but I don't think he saw me. But he was someone I've met before. I'm sure of it."

Smith stopped with a desiccated slice of roast beef poised before his open mouth.

"Met where?" he asked. He forced his voice to be calm.

"Well, that's what I can't for the life of me figure."

"Could you describe this man?" Smith said in a voice he fought to keep steady. He did not know why he was suddenly concerned. Perhaps it was the unsettling matter of the missing patient. Loose ends always affected his nerves.

"Oh, he was tallish. His hair was dark. I didn't see his eyes very clearly. I would say he was handsome."

"Young or old?"

"Young. But not too, too young. In his late twenties, I would say. Maybe early thirties. It's so hard to tell these days. "

And you say he looked familiar?"

"Yes, definitely. I know I've met him before."

"Hmmm," said Smith. "When did they move in?"

"Well, that's one of the odd things. No one knows."

"What do you mean, no one knows?"

"I got on the phone to Mrs. Gregorian when I couldn't stand it anymore-you know, the nagging feeling that I knew the man-and she didn't even know anyone had moved in. There was no moving van. She told me that she could see their living room from her upstairs bedroom and there was practically no furniture."

"Maude!" Smith said reprovingly. "Snooping."

"I didn't snoop. It was Mrs. Gregorian. I just listened."

"To gossip," Smith said, but his lips thinned. Anything out of the ordinary was something that he, in his sensitive position, had to look into.

Probably the new neighbor was an ordinary person. But Smith knew that if there was a place he, as director of CURE, was vulnerable, it was not in his well-protected Folcroft office, it was in his modest Rye, New York, home.

And if there was a threat about to materialize against him, he must be prepared to move ruthlessly to eliminate everyone involved in it.

"Excuse me, please. There are some phone calls I must make," he said, dabbing his chin with a linen napkin.

"But you haven't finished your roast beef."

Smith looked at his plate. Two slices remained. He quickly wolfed them down, and drained the last of his ice water.

"Good," said Mrs. Smith, happy that her Harold had cleaned his plate. He always cleaned his plate. It was nice that tonight was no exception. She had worried that the roast beef was undercooked. She knew her Harold hated it rare. He so detested blood.

Chapter 6

If the truth were to be known, Shane Billiken would have been perfectly content to chuck it all. The filthy-rich dowager clients. The best-seller book contracts. And the radio and TV talk-show appearances.

He was, as he saw it, an artist. But the world had kept slapping him down, and exploiting its wealthier inhabitants' world was his way of making up for past disappointments.

He meditated on it again after he hustled the girl he had dubbed Princess Sinanchu into his waiting limousine. He ordered the driver to take them to Newark International Airport, where his chartered Learfan jet awaited. With any luck, they'd be in the air before the police got organized.

After that, Shane Billiken had no idea what he was going to do. True, he told himself, he was not culpable for what had happened on The Horton Droney III Show. The whole nation could attest to that. But the police were likely to arrest Princess Sinanchu-or whatever her actual name was-and Shane Billiken wasn't about to let his meal ticket languish in jail.

Better to make a break for the Coast, where celebrity misadventures were swept under the rug every week. Let the lawyers handle it. New York was just too damn unevolved.

The Learfan was in the air less than thirty minutes after they had bolted from the Manhattan studio. Shane Billiken breathed a sigh of relief. Princess Sinanchu sat in the rear of the plane, her tawny face angry, her eyes blazing like dark jewels as they stared out into the night sky.

No, this was not what Shane Billiken had wanted to do with his life. There was another way, a better way. And if only his life had gone in that direction, he'd be happier, and probably still have the same Malibu beachfront home, fat bank account, and a hell of a lot younger groupies than he had now.

If only Roy the Boy would just lie down and die.

As Shane Billiken saw it, only a rock-and-roll dinosaur stood between him and a full calendar of yearly concert bookings.

Long before Shane Billiken knew a tarot deck from macrobiotic onion, he had been lead singer in a band called the Rockabilly Rockets. They had a meteoric career at the beginning of 1963. They crashed to earth like a bollid.

The Rockabilly Rockets had everything going for them. A sound, described by Variety as doo-wop folk, trademark three-cornered hats, a hit single, and a record contract with a major label.

Then the Beatles hit New York and the Rockabilly Rockets' debut album, The Rockabilly Rockets Live at the Hootenanny, made recording history. It shipped tin. It went directly from the pressing room to the cut-out bins.

"What happened?" Shane Billiken had demanded of his personal manager. He kneaded his Paul Revere hat in nervous fingers.

"Look at it this way, Shane, baby, you made music history. Nobody's ever shipped tin before."

"You swore we'd go platinum overnight. I'd settle for gold. But tin!"

"Don't blame me, blame those shaggy-headed Brit pansies."

And Shane Billiken did. He held a bitter news conference, fired his band, and spent the early sixties bouncing around in restaurant dishwasher jobs. He was a poet with a broken heart.

It was in 1968 that Shane noticed the world was changing. The Beatles had gone psychedelic. Everyone was into astrology. And Zen. And higher consciousness. Especially the groupies. It was the Age of Aquarius.

Shane Billiken bought a stack of used books on mysticism at a head shop and decided that maybe he'd get in on the action. He worked carnivals and private parties in the beginning. It was a good life, and gradually he forgot his bitterness. Even the slump in the late seventies, when everyone suddenly decided the sixties were passe, was not so tough. Shane had put a lot of his money into stocks. He did well.

Then came the eighties. Suddenly the fifties and sixties were hot again. Old rockers were crawling out of the woodwork, working the nostalgia circuit. And Shane Billiken, energized from attending a Righteous Brothers reunion concert, returned to his Southern California home and dug out his old Ovation guitar.

Standing in front of the mirror, his ax hanging off one shoulder, and strumming an old I-VI-IV-V-I chord progression, he noticed that his pushing-fifty face had gotten puffy. He put on a pair of wraparound sunglasses to see if it would take the curse off him, and lo and behold, he made a wonderful discovery.

He looked almost exactly like the great Roy Orbison. Especially when he combed his hair into a kind of Julius Caesar pageboy-bang effect.

Shane experimented with a few bars of "Only the Lonely," and inspiration hit him. The woods were full of Elvis Presley impersonators living off the bones of the King. Hell, almost every overweight singer who could curl his lip was cashing in. Why not Shane Billiken?

He convinced the owner of an Agoura discotheque to book him for a weekend as Roy Orbit Sun. Both nights sold out in advance, and Shane Billiken knew he had found his way at last.

The night of his first set, he waited for the warm-up act to finish. He was sweating so had, even his Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses were beading up.

"Relax," said the club manager. "You're gonna be dynamite. You sound just like the guy."

"I haven't done this in a few years. Are my shades on straight?"

"You'll do fine. In fact, there are a couple of suits in the front row. Look like talent scouts to me. What are you gonna open with?"

" 'Running Scared,' " said Shane Billiken, his teeth chattering.

"Good choice," said the manager. "Fitting."

"Then I'm gonna seque into 'Blue Angel,' shift up to 'Ooby Dooby,' and then do 'Oh, Pretty Woman.' "

"If you hit, I'm gonna want you to play every weekend for the next three months."

"If I hit, you'll have to talk to my agent about that."

"You told me you didn't have an agent."

"If I hit, I'm getting one."

"Don't get too big for your britches, pal. Try not to forget I'm the guy who's giving you your big break." Shane Billiken was about to say something when the MC announced the world premiere of the hottest performer since the fifties, Roy Orbit Sun, and Shane Billiken clumped out on the stage.

He fired up a rocking rendition of "Running Scared," forgot the words midway through the soulful "Blue Angel," and switched over to "Crying Over You," which he was saving for the first encore. The crowd was with him from the third bar of "Crying Over You."

Unfortunately, so were the two suits who happened to be sitting in the front row. They jumped onstage and tried to hand Shane Billiken an official-looking envelope.

"It's over," one of them said.

"I'm saving that one for the second set," Shane Billiken hissed as he launched into an improvised guitar solo. "And I don't do requests. So get off the stage. "

"We represent Roy Orbison. The original. And this is a cease-and-desist order. You can change acts right now, or you can see us in court."

"But, but-"

"Better decide fast, friend," the other man said.

"Screw you," snarled Shane Billiken. And then he was singing "Crryyiiiing Oooover Yooouuuuuu."

One of the suits snapped his fingers and a pair of plainclothes cops hustled Shane Billiken off the stage to a chorus of boos and catcalls.

Shane Billiken barely made bail that night. At the trial, faced with a battery of high-powered lawyers, his own attorney suggested that he plead no contest. Shane Billiken reluctantly agreed, and they made him sign a paper in which he promised that he would never steal Roy Orbison's act again.

Once more Shane Billiken's career in music had hit a brick wall.

If anything, he grew more embittered. A zillion Elvis Presley impersonators were making individual fortunes and everyone knew that any warbler with a bay window and a spit curl could impersonate the King. But mimicking Roy Orbison, with his high, haunting bel canto tenor-that took skill.

For a time, Shane Billiken flirted with the idea of having Roy the Boy whacked. He went so far as to initiate contact with a hit man. But at the last minute he chickened out. It was too risky. Besides, how long could Orbison go on? Almost all of his contemporaries were dropping like flies from drugs or booze or some damn thing.

Shane Billiken decided to wait the guy out. How long could it take? And so he returned to his former trade. But by this time mysticism was no longer the province of dippy girls in tent dresses and guys with earrings. Now it belonged to the yuppies and the housewives. The Age of Aquarius was over. It was the New Age.

Once he got into the swing of it, Shane Billiken found that by working the exclusive-clientele angle, he could make ten times the money for one-twentieth the effort. Meantime, he practiced his singing in the shower.

A limo was waiting for him at LAX airport. Shane hustled the princess into the back. She spat at him. Some days she was touchy. Like the last time he tried to get into her pants. He hadn't been as much interested in that as he had been in getting another look at those silvery coins of hers. She guarded them jealously. She even slept with them, which was more than she did for the man who fed and clothed her and got her on talk shows all over the nation, thought Shane Billiken bitterly.

Even months after he had first taken her under his wing, after a battery of linguists had assured him to his own surprise that her language was not merely unidentified, but bore no linguistic resemblance to any tongue known to the modern world, Shane Billiken still had no idea where Princess Sinanchu came from. She resisted all his efforts to teach her English.

All he knew was that if no one could understand what she was saying, no one could possibly disprove his claim that she was the avatar of Princess Sinanchu of Atlantis.

For all he knew, it was true.

Returning to his house, Shane Billiken instructed Fernando, his Filipino valet, that he was not home.

"And I don't mean not home to visitors or callers, I mean not home. As far as you know, I'm in New York. Got that?"

"Yes, Mr. Billiken."

"And lock the princess in her room. She's been acting up again."

"Yes, Mr. Billiken," said the valet, gently but firmly taking Princess Sinanchu by the arm and escorting her to her room. He locked it, thinking that it was a shame that such an attractive woman should be a virtual prisoner in this house. But he dared say nothing to the authorities. He was an illegal alien himself and Shane Billiken constantly held the threat of deportation over his head.

When the doorbell rang hours later, Fernando was afraid to answer it. Mr. Billiken had ordered him to get his lawyer on the phone and then had ordered him out of the room while he took the call. Fernando was afraid that he had called the immigration authorities. He feared them.

But not as much as he feared his master. So when Mr. Billiken had yelled at him to answer the "freaking door," Fernando wiped the palm sweat on the side of his black pants and straightened his white housecoat properly.

They were not immigration authorities at the door, he was relieved to see. Not unless they had an international force. The white man wore a T-shirt and slacks. There was an Asian man, very old, who wore a kimono. No, not Immigration, Fernando thought with relief.

"We're here to see Shane Billiken," the white one said simply.

"Mr. Billiken not home."

"I didn't say he was. We're willing to wait." And the white man breezed in. The Oriental started to follow, but Fernando tried to shut the door in his face.

The door, instead, kept on going. The knob flew out of Fernando's stung hand. It sailed over the tiny Oriental's head and hit the driveway like a fallen tree.

Fernando stepped aside quickly to let the Oriental pass. "What's that noise?" demanded Shane Billiken from the den.

Fernando looked sheepish when the white man turned and shot an accusing glare at him.

"Not in, huh?" Fernando shrugged.

Shane Billiken took one look at the fruity-looking man and the old Oriental's saffron costume and said, "If you're here for the Harmonic Convergence Open House, you're too late. That was last month."

"We're not," the white man said.

"Then who are you'?" Shane demanded. "Not cops?"

"No, not cops," the white said.

"Lawyers, then. Process servers?"

"Interested parties."

"Yeah. What are you interested in?"

The old Oriental spoke up then. His voice was low and reserved. He was an Eastern type in a robe. Probably some fakir or something.

"We wish to speak with her highness."

"About what?"

"It is a matter that concerns her house and my house."

"Yeah, well, this is my house, and I have a right to know what your business is."

"Don't look at me," the skinny one said. "I've been trying to pry it out of him for hours."

"Fernando, get rid of them," Shane Billiken ordered. Behind the two, Shane Billiken noticed Fernando pointing at the open door. He kept pointing. Shane blinked. He noticed the door was not there. Then he saw a corner of it lying out in the circular driveway. The corner was splintered.

"Hey, what'd you do to my door?" he demanded.

"Let us see the princess and we won't do a repeat demonstration on every door in the place," the white man said.

Shane Billiken hesitated. Then he said, "Okay, c'mon into the Crystal Room."

The pair followed him into a room adjoining the den. It was decorated in early psychedelic. The ceiling was a flat black. The walls were covered with astrological signs. Shane Billiken hit a light switch and black light tubes mounted flush to the ceiling made the astrology symbols jump into Day-Glo orange.

The old Oriental looked about the room approvingly. "You consult the stars?" he inquired.

"I'm one of the foremost astrological technicians of the New Age."

"Perhaps when we have concluded our discussion, you will cast my chart."

"Sure. I do it all the time. What's your sign?"

"Leo. I am a Leo by Western reckoning. But according to the ways of my village, I was born in the Year of the Screeching Monkey."

"Oh, yeah? That's a long time ago. I think."

"There are older things. I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju."

"Sinanju. Not Sinanchu?" said Shane Billiken suspiciously.

"In some lands, it is pronounced Sinanchu."

"Yeah, what lands?"

"Moo."

"Say again?"

"Moo."

"I guess this is where the animal impressions start," the white said. "My name's Remo, by the way, and I don't know what's going on any more than you do."

"Your ignorance, I am used to," Chiun told Remo. "But I do not understand how this enlightened one does not understand of what I speak."

"Him? Enlightened? This place looks like a sixties hangout."

"This is my Crystal Room," said Shane Billiken. "I do all my deep meditations here. If you look around you, you'll see that embedded into the walls are tiny crystal generators. They act to focus the odyllic energy that flows through the universe into this nexus room."

Remo looked. Embedded in the stucco wall were tiny shards. Remo touched one.

"These feel like glass."

"Crystals. Adventurine."

"Looks like glass to me. And now that I see you in person, you remind me of someone."

Shane Billiken puffed up his chest proudly. "Is that so?" he remarked.

"Yeah, but I can't place the face. I used to be good with faces. "

"This give you a hint?" asked Shane, strumming on an imaginary guitar. He threw his head back as if singing. Remo rubbed his chin in thought. Finally he snapped his fingers and called out, "Elvis. Elvis Presley."

"No! Roy Orbison."

Remo frowned. "Did he die too?"

"I wish," Shane Billiken growled.

"Enough," Chiun said. "Let us get on with this. Explain to me, Shane Billiken, how you are ignorant of Moo when I saw you in the company of the Low Moo on television."

"Low Moo?" Remo and Shane Billiken asked in the same breath.

"Yes, the girl. Her highness. You spoke of her as the princess of a lost civilization. She obviously told you that."

"Yeah, she did. Sorta."

"Then you know her plight."

"Well, kinda."

"And even though she entreated you to take her to the Master of Sinanju, you forbore to do so."

"I for-what to do so?"

"He means you refused," Remo said, new interest in his face.

"What do you know about this?"

"Less than nothing," Remo said sourly.

"I demand to speak with the Low Moo," said Chiun. "Take us to her."

"You're not cops?"

"We represent the longest continuing line of true assassins in history," the old Oriental said proudly.

"Hey, it's cool," Shane said nervously. "I'm very nonjudgmental. It's like I always say: Be the best you can possibly be. But let's all get clear on one concept. Princess Sinanchu doesn't speak English. If I let you see her, I'm gonna have to translate every word she says."

"Not necessary," said Chiun loftily. "I speak her language as well as you."

"You do?"

"Yes."

The old Oriental sounded serious, and Shane Billiken hesitated momentarily. But if what he said was true, he'd probably be able to tell him who or what Princess Sinanchu really was. Not that Shane Billiken believed the old Oriental. He was acting pretty crazy, making barnyard sounds and spouting double-talk.

"Okay," he said at last. "Come with me."

Shane Billiken led Remo and Chiun to another room. It was a bedroom. He switched on the light and the girl blinked out of her sleep. She wore the same costume she had worn on TV. Her eyes were puffy-either from lack of sleep or tears, Remo decided.

"Princess Sinanchu," said Shane Billiken in a self-important voice, "I bring visitors who say they know you." Princess Sinanchu sat up on the edge of the bed. Her eyes went to the old Oriental. He spoke. Her mouth opened like a surprised flower. She began speaking.

"Juilli do Banda Sinanchu?"

The old Oriental stepped up to the bedside and inclined his balding head in respect.

"Let me translate that," said Shane Billiken. "She said that she is Princess Sinanchu, of the lost continent of Atlantis. "

The Oriental whirled on him suddenly.

"What lies are these? Are you deaf? She just asked me if I am the Master of Sinanju. Now, still your false tongue. This is a historic moment."

And Chiun faced the girl again. He spoke. To Shane Billiken's surprise, his words sounded very much like the girl's. The same inflections and accents.

"Do juty da Banda Sinanchu," he said firmly.

The girl rose from the bed and, sobbing, poured out a torrent of words. She pulled the leather pouch from under her costume and spilled the coins at the old Oriental's sandaled feet.

Shane Billiken drifted up to get a closer look at the coins. The guy named Remo got in his way.

"Like he said, this is a historic moment, Elvis."

"I thought you didn't know what was going on here."

"I don't. I'm just along for the ride."

Shane backed off.

As he watched, the girl and Chiun exchanged an excited volley of words in the same strange language. During the course of their talk, Princess Sinanchu fell to her knees and began to cry into her hands. The old Oriental laid a tender hand on her lustrous hair. He made sympathetic clucking sounds, like a father to a frightened child. When at last the princess found her composure, the Master of Sinanju turned to Shane Billiken.

"The Low Moo has told me how you rescued her from the sea."

"We're Soul Mates. Did she tell you that?"

"And how you housed her and fed her."

"Yeah, I've been good to her. You see, she was my wife when I was King of Atlantis about seven or eight million years ago."

"And for those mercies," continued Chiun, "I will not slay you for the lies you speak to me now."

"What do you mean, lies? We were husband and wife in Atlantis. Disprove it if you can."

"Atlantis is a fraud, perpetrated by that Greek Plato to trick sailors into going to sea in search of it."

"Bull!"

"It is well known among my people that Plato had a relative who built boats. The story of Atlantis was but a scheme to drum up trade."

"That's ridiculous. She's a princess."

"That much is true."

"It is? I mean, I know it is! What I want to know is how come you speak her language when the best language experts in the world say her tongue is unknown'?"

"Because truly it is a lost tongue. Or one believed to be lost. I know it only because my ancestors passed it down from generation to generation so that we, at least, would not forget."

"Forget what?"

"Moo."

"There he goes again," Remo sighed.

"Moo?" repeated Shane Billiken.

"Moo."

Shane Billiken looked at the little Eastern guy and at the white man named Remo. Then he looked at Chiun again.

"I'm not following very much here."

"Correct. You are not following us. We are leaving now. "

"Well, nice of you to drop in," Shane Billiken said, relief suffusing his puffy features. "Fernando will see you to the hole where the door was."

"Remo, gather up the coins. They belong to us now."

"No, they don't. They belong to Princess Sinanchu, and Princess Sinanchu belongs to me."

"Truly?" said the Master of Sinanju as Remo scooped up the coins and stuffed them into his pockets. "Have you told her that?"

"Yeah, actually."

"Then perhaps you should tell her again."

"Er, you can do it if you want."

"Thank you, I will," said Chiun. He turned to the girl and spoke a few words. She listened carefully.

Then Princess Sinanchu walked up to Shane Billiken. Her face was not pleasant. She slapped his once, hard. He fell back into a Japanese taboret and knocked over an ion fountain.

"Hey!" he said, coming to his feet angrily. "I could sue her for that!"

"Be grateful that she told me of your kindness, otherwise your transgressions would not be overlooked on this day. "

And taking Princess Sinanchu by the elbow, the old man who called himself the Master of Sinanju led her from the room.

On his way out, the one named Remo waved good-bye. "See you later, alligator," he said.

Chapter 7

Outside Shane Billiken's sprawling home, Remo put a question to Chiun.

"Now what?"

"We are going to Moo."

Remo shrugged. "Might as well get it over with." And raising his voice, Remo called, "Moo. Moo. Moo. Or should I give one long moo, like this: mooooo!"

"Are you crazed?"

"You said we were going to moo. I just did. Didn't I do it right?"

"You can do nothing right," Chiun snapped. "And you are embarrassing me in front of the Low Moo."

Remo glanced at the girl. She watched them with an openly quizzical expression on her oval face.

"Sorry," he said, "but I don't think she understands English. "

"She does not. But she does understand Moo."

"She's one up on me, then. Not that I care."

"You should."

"Why? She's obviously not one of the bare-breasted women you keep promising me."

"They are merely a five-day sail from here."

"Sail?"

"Yes. The Low Moo's boat is nearby. Come."

His face gathering in confusion, Remo followed as the Master of Sinanju, the girl at his side, led him around to the back of the house. The girl cast several curious glances over her shoulder at Remo. Remo smiled at her. She smiled back. Maybe the night wouldn't be a total waste, Remo decided.

There was a boat set up on a wooden cradle on the dry beach sand. Chiun looked it over carefully, tugging at the rattan lashings and examining the drooping and tattered sail.

"It is too small," he said in a disappointed tone.

"Doesn't look very seaworthy," Remo agreed.

"Then we will build our vessel," Chiun announced, lifting a triumphant finger. "Come, Remo, let us fall to work. "

"Build? Why not buy?"

"I will not be seen in an American boat. A thing of plastic and ugly metal. No, we will build our own."

"I don't know squat about building ships."

"Then it is time you learned. Ship-building is an honored skill."

"Especially if your relative writes stories about Atlantis." Chiun's face contracted.

"You are not taking this in the proper spirit," he fumed.

"Chiun, I have no idea what spirit I should be taking this in. I still don't know what is freaking going on."

"We are going to Moo, as I have told you."

"Oh, moo this and moo that. And moo to you too. I'm sick of double-talk and runarounds."

"Enough!" Chiun said, clapping his hands. "We will begin by felling some trees."

Remo looked around. There was a palm tree about a mile inland. Everything else was sand and ocean.

"When you get enough of them together, let me know," Remo said, lowering himself onto the sand. "I'll be catnapping." He folded his hands over his chest and shut his eyes.

"Remo," Chiun hissed, "do you want the Low Moo to think I have a lazy slug for a son?" He tugged on Remo's arm. "Up, up! She is a princess. A true princess."

"And I'm a Master of Sinanju, not a boat builder. You want to play Popeye the Sailor Man, fine. But you build your own boat."

Chiun stamped his foot angrily.

"Very well, lazy one," he said finally. "I will give in to your selfishness, but only this once. We will buy a boat."

Remo leapt to his feet. "Now you're talking," he said, grinning. It was a rare day when he won an argument with Chiun. The princess matched his smile with an infectious one of her own, and Remo thought it was a rare day indeed.

The salesman at the Malibu Marina wanted to know if Remo was interested in a racing sloop, a yacht, or a pleasure boat.

"Something fast," Remo said. "With dual motors."

"No motors," Chiun inserted quickly.

"No motors?" the salesman asked.

"A sail craft," Chiun added.

"You want something for pleasure trips, then."

"No," retorted Chiun. "We are going on a long voyage."

"We are?" said Remo. He was ignored.

"Then let me suggest something with auxiliary diesels."

"Sounds good to me," Remo said. "I want lots of chrome trim."

"I will have none of it," Chiun spat.

"Look, Little Father, I've strung along with you this far. I've traveled clear across the country, and now I'm agreeing to tag along while you and Yma Sumac there go off in search of Jacques Cousteau. I think you can bend just a little here."

"I am bending enough. I am not building a boat."

"Look," said the boatyard owner exasperatedly, "if you two could just get on the same frequency, I could help you, but-"

"There!" said Chiun suddenly, pointing past the salesman. The salesman turned. Remo looked. Even the princess followed the Master of Sinanju's quivering fingernail. Remo groaned even before Chiun spoke the next words. "There. That one. It is perfect," he cried.

"Not that!" groaned Remo. "Anything but that."

"The junk?" said the salesman.

"Good word for it," Remo piped up.

"It is authentic, of course?" asked Chiun.

"Yeah. Imported from Hong Kong. The previous owner lost his portfolio in the market crash. Couldn't afford the upkeep anymore. I took it on consignment, but I never expected to find a buyer."

"And you won't today," Remo growled.

"I must see it closer," Chiun breathed. The salesman waved Chiun ahead.

"No way," said Remo, running after them.

"It's really a five-man craft," the salesman was saying. "You couldn't manage it with less than a crew of five. And it's difficult to handle. All those lugsails. It's not like manning a sloop or a ketch. By the way, how much sailing experience have you people had?"

"None," said Remo.

"Enough," said Chiun.

"It takes a skilled hand to pilot a Chinese junk."

"Did you hear that, Chiun? He said it's Chinese. And we all know how you feel about Chinese stuff. You despise them. "

"Not as much as I despise American plastic," Chiun retorted. "Look at her, Remo, isn't she breathtaking?"

"Now that you mention it, there is an odor."

The junk wallowed in its slip like a three-story hovel with a keel. It had five masts, and the odd-shaped sails flapped like quilts in the wind. The junk creaked at every joint, like a haunted house. The name painted on its stern said Jonah Ark in green lettering.

"How much?" asked Chiun.

"The owner wants what he paid for it seventy thousand."

"Fifty," countered Chiun.

"Sixty," offered the salesman.

"Wait a minute," Remo began.

"Sold," said Chiun triumphantly. "Come, Remo. Let us board our proud vessel."

"You take credit cards?" Remo asked unhappily.

"We can work something out. But you know, you're going to need a lot of training before you can risk piloting that thing out of dock."

"Twenty bucks says Chiun has us on the high seas within an hour."

"He's crazy."

"He's also determined," Remo said, digging for his wallet.

"I'll take that action," said the salesman.

Twenty minutes later, Chiun had single-handedly lowered the batten-reinforced sails, and they caught a shore wind.

"What are you waiting for?" Chiun called from the broad high stern. The Low Moo stood beside him. She waved Remo aboard.

"Thanks," Remo said, taking the salesman's money. "And wish me luck."

"You can't sail that thing with a three-man crew. It's suicide."

"That's what I said. Wish me luck," Remo called back as he pelted down the deck and leapt onto the groaning deck.

"Prepare to cast off," Chiun cried. "We sail with the dawn tides."

"Let's hope we don't sink with the sun," mumbled Remo, throwing off the stern lines while Chiun handled the port side. The wind, filling the quiltlike sails, seemed to grow stronger and the junk lumbered out of its slip like a fat dowager squeezing through a too-narrow door.

A piece of hull modeling caught on the dock and tore loose with a rip-squeal of a sound.

Chiun hurried to the tiller. He threw it to starboard. The junk pivoted slowly.

"Remo, why were you not at the rudder?" Chiun demanded querulously.

"I was casting off. And what do I know about rudders? I'm a landlubber."

"How much damage?"

Remo peered over the rail. "We lost some gingerbread," he reported.

"When we are at sea, it will be your responsibility to repair it."

"Oh, wonderful," Remo said sarcastically. "Just what I've always wanted-to learn a new trade."

Chapter 8

Three days out of Malibu, Remo awoke in his bunk. The creaking of the Jonah Ark filled the hold like the sound of sick mice. Faint shards of morning sunlight came in through the chinks in the stained hull. The chattering of wind in the sails was noticeably absent.

Remo pulled on his salt-stiff pants and T-shirt, wishing that he had packed for the voyage. But he was too anxious to follow Chiun to the bare-breasted women to bother. He never stayed in one place long enough to acquire much of a wardrobe. With the many credit cards issued to him under a dozen cover identities by Harold Smith, it was more convenient to simply buy replacement clothes on the fly. He hadn't anticipated an ocean voyage.

During the early days of his work for CURE, when he was still bitter about the loss of his old life and identity, Remo bought a new pair of shoes every day, giving the old ones to people he met on the street. When Dr. Smith had complained about Remo's flagrant waste of taxpayer money, Remo had replied:

"Hey, you made me an assassin. Can I help it if I keep getting blood on my shoes? So make up your mind-more shoes or fewer targets."

And that had been the end of that.

As he walked up the creaking steps to the deck, Remo wished he had one of those extra pairs of shoes right now. But not as much as he wished for a change in underwear and a razor. He felt his beard growth, and he noticed his nails were getting longish, even though he had cut them only the other day.

On deck, Remo saw that the sails hung slack as shrouds. The junk was becalmed.

The princess was at the rudder. Remo shot her a smile and said, "Ola!"

"Ola, Remo!" she called back. "Kukul can?"

"Nonda," Remo said. When the girl frowned, Remo realized that he had replied "itchy" instead of "fine" to her inquiry.

"Nah, nuda," he said.

The Low Moo laughed. In three days, Remo had picked up just enough of their tongue to hold his own in simple conversations, but not enough to be really comfortable with the language. He suspected Chiun had fed him some imperfect translations just to be mischievous.

"Dalka Chuin?" Remo asked, joining her at the tiller.

"Hiu," the Low moo said, pointing to the stern, which towered behind her.

"Yeah, I see him," Remo said in English. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," the Low Moo, whose name, she had told Remo, was Dolla-Dree, said in English.

The Master of Sinanju was seated on the high poop deck at the junk's stern. His pipestem legs dangled over the rail. He held a long bamboo pole in his hands. A string tied to the far end trailed in the water.

"How's the fishing?" Remo asked politely.

"Slow," said Chiun, twisting the pole so that the line coiled around the end. It lifted free of the water. There was no fish. As a matter of fact, there was no hook or bait either. He frowned. "I do not think there are any fish in this part of the ocean."

"Sure there are," Remo said brightly. "I can hear them laughing. "

Chiun turned his head and glared. He spun the pole in the opposite direction, dropping the line back into the sea.

"Perhaps you will have better luck," he suggested sternly.

"Not me. I'm a city boy. Besides, I'm not hungry."

"But she is."

"I see. Gotta feed her highness."

"Do I detect a note of distaste in your voice, Remo?"

"No. I'm starting to like Dolla-Dree just fine. I'm just tired of you falling all over her like she's God's gift to Korean seamen. You gave all the food-what little of it there was in the larder-to her and none to me."

"You can go without food. So can I. Returning the Low Moo to her father, the High Moo, intact and in good health, is more important than our stomachs."

"The High moo?"

"Yes."

"Tell you what," Remo said, settling on the deck beside the Master of Sinanju. "You take the High Moo and I'll take the Low Moo, and whoever gets there first, wins."

"What are you prattling about?" Chiun demanded, staring at the water.

"It's a joke."

"To your feeble mind, perhaps. Not to mine. Please explain. "

" 'Moo' is the sound a cow makes."

"No, Moo is the greatest client state in Sinanju history."

"You don't say," said Remo. "Well, since we're going to be here awhile, what with the lack of wind and the fact that you're fishing without hook or bait, why don't you tell me the whole involved story?"

"I do not need a hook."

"Tell that to the fish."

"And cows do not make a sound that resembles the name of Moo. Their sound is more like a 'looouuuwww.' " Chiun gave a creditable impression of a lonely cow.

"Not bad. But in America it's more like 'moooooo.' "

"Obviously American crows are inferior to Korean cows, just as Americans are inferior to Koreans. No self-respecting Korean cow would take the name of Moo in vain."

Remo shrugged. "I bow to you as the supreme authority on cows, both foreign and domestic. But can we get on with the legend?"

"How do you know I am about to treat you to a legend?"

"Your nose is wrinkled. It always wrinkles up when you are about to recite a legend."

Chiun looked at Remo as if to discern whether or not he was joking. Remo smiled impishly. Chiun turned his attention to his line, twirling it so the line cleared the water. He did it slowly, to heighten Remo's impatience. He returned the line to the water just as slowly. If Remo was going to make fun of the sacred traditions of Sinanju, he deserved a dose of delay.

When the line was back in the water, Chiun started to speak. At intervals, he tapped the bamboo pole to make the line wiggle.

"The days of which I am about to speak are before those of Wang, greatest Master of Sinanju. Before the discovery of the sun source itself. In the days of which I am about to speak, Sinanju was not like it is now. Masters of Sinanju were not as they are now. The art of the assassin was known to Sinanju then, but it had not achieved the purity which you have been blessed to know, Remo. Masters of Sinanju used weapons-blades of iron, poisons-and not the natural tools of the body. And in these ancient days, Masters of Sinanju did not work alone. They were assisted by the young men of the village, who were known as night tigers. Of these night tigers, but one would be chosen to become the next Master. Thus, each night tiger fought hard and fought well, for only through his efforts could he hope to achieve full Masterhood. It is not like today, when even a white can achieve Masterhood."

Remo grimaced, but held his tongue. It had been a long time since Chiun had told him a story of the early days of Sinanju. Sometimes Remo thought Chiun preferred to sweep those days under the rug, because Sinanju was in such a primitive state.

"Now, the days of which I am about to speak were the era of Master Mangko. Have I ever told you of Mangko?"

"Nope. "

"Mangko was the son of Kim, who was not a Master. For in the days of which I am about to speak, the line of Sinanju was not a bloodline. Instead, Masterhood was passed from generation to generation through merit and achievement. A worthy method, but now outdated, of course. "

"Of course," Remo agreed. His eyes were on the horizon. He felt a strange peace out here on the still ocean, even not knowing where he was or where he was going.

Chiun smiled at Remo's agreement and continued in a low, dramatic voice. "Now, Mangko was the third Master of Sinanju. Young he was, and dark of hair and keen of eye. Tall he was, being by Western standards nearly five feet tall."

"A giant."

Chiun glared. "In those days, that was tall. Some would say too tall. It is only the ridiculous modern Europeans who think five feet is not tall."

"Sorry," Remo said sheepishly.

"Now, these were prosperous days for Sinanju, although my lowly village was not then the jewel it is now, of course. "

Remo started to snort in derision, but managed to turn it into a cough. The village of Sinanju was a cluster of mud-ringed huts clinging to the rocky coast of North Korea. It was cold and wet, and, even by the standards of a clam, inhospitable. But Remo didn't say that. He wanted to hear about Moo, and eventually the bare-breasted women he had been promised.

"Egypt knew of us in those days, although they were stingy with steady work. The Chinese knew of us, although they paid slowly and sometimes it was necessary to make an example of certain tribal princes in order to expedite payments."

"Business is business."

"But fortunately there was one client who was always on time with payments and who offered steady work, although it unfortunately involved extra travel time."

"Commuting is the bane of the workaday assassin, then and now," Remo remarked.

Chiun regarded him as if uncertain of Remo's meaning. His hazel eyes narrowed and he went on in a quieter voice, knowing that this would force Remo to strain to catch his every golden syllable.

"This land was known as the Kingdom of Moo."

"How do you spell that, by the way?"

"In the European alphabet, it is M, followed by two O's."

"That's what I thought," Remo said dryly.

Chiun rearranged his kimono skirts. "Are you making fun of Moo, Remo?"

"No, just holding up my end of the conversation. Go on. "

"Now, Moo was a great land. Greater in area than Korea. It was an island, but larger in size and riches than all of the islands now claimed by Japan. It lay further east than Japan, in the ocean now called the Pacific. This ocean, Remo," Chiun said meaningfully.

Remo looked out over the water. Sunlight danced on the choppy waves.

"So great was Sinanju's fame that in the days of the first Master, whose name does not survive in any known record, the High Moo, ruler of the great land of Moo, sent a messenger to my village, requesting assistance. The first Master of Sinanju sailed to Moo and performed a great service for the High Moo, whose throne was beset by pretenders, and in doing this service, was richly rewarded for his efforts. And so Moo became a favorite client of Sinanju. And Moo also became a place beloved by my ancestors, for the rare coins of Moo were a currency more powerful than that of Egypt or China. And these coins enabled us to feed our young so that they did not have to be sent home to the sea. Have I told you how, when the food ran out in those days, mothers drowned their youngest infants, the females before the males, to spare them the slow death of starvation?"

"A million-zillion times."

"It is an important lesson, one you must never forget. For one day you will be in charge of my village."

"I won't forget the story of sending the babies home to the sea until the day I die. Maybe not even then."

"Good. But the occasional reminder does no harm."

"It does help pass the time, especially when the fish aren't exactly fighting to get out of the water."

The Master of Sinanju made his bamboo pole wriggle faster. He frowned. Surely there was at least one fish in this entire ocean.

"As I was saying," he went on, "Moo was good to Sinanju and Sinanju was good for Moo. It was a happy, fruitful association, blessed by the young gods of those early days. Then one cold morning, in the reign of Master Mangko, who was the third Master, there came a message from the High Moo. This was a different High Moo than the High Moo I spoke of earlier. For the High Moo is what a king would be to the English, or a pharaoh to the Egyptians."

"I figured out that part all by myself."

"And why not? I have taught you all you know."

"And I appreciate the continual subtle reminders," said Remo, trying to imagine where the bare-breasted women could possibly fit into this. He would have asked, but he knew that Chiun would probably save that part for the absolute end, just to annoy him.

"This message called upon the Master Mangko to journey to the land of Moo with urgent speed. It spoke of a terrible calamity, which only the Master of Sinanju could remedy. The messenger was of Moo, and like all men of Moo who ventured out into the world, his tongue had been cut off so that he would not reveal the true location of his emperor's domain if he were set upon by bandits, who were very common in those days."

"Unlike today."

"Exactly," said Chiun. He continued. "The message, which was written on tree-bark parchment, was very unspecific, and Master Mangko understood that it had been written in haste. So he slew the messenger and assembled his night tigers."

"Hold the phone," Remo said suddenly. "He slew the messenger! What for?"

"Because the messenger had delivered his message and was no longer needed."

"What was wrong with taking him back to Moo?"

"Remo! Have you no common sense? He was another mouth to feed and would require an extra horse. Men of Sinanju were great horsemen in those days. Did you know that?"

"Two seconds ago, no. Now, yes."

"You are never too old to be enlightened. And so the Master Mangko traveled from Korea through what would later be known as the kingdom of China. It was a hard journey, for they were beset by Chinese bandits and severe winter storms. But at last they reached the coast. But not without price. For one of the night tigers, whose name was Sako, had been wounded by the same Chinese bandits. It was a sad day for Master Mangko, for in his heart he had already chosen Sako to be trained as the next in line. Although, of course, Sako knew none of this."

Chiun paused in his recitation. His voice was hollow when he continued.

"It is a sad thing when a Master dies young, Remo. Sadder still when he does before achieving Masterhood. For who knows what great things Sako might have accomplished had he lived. Poor Sako. Alas. Cut down by Chinese bandits in the flower of his manhood."

"He died of his wounds, huh?"

"No, Master Mangko dispatched him."

"Why?" Remo demanded hotly.

"Because he was wounded and the bandits were riding hard after them. The Master and his entourage had a long sea voyage ahead of them and could not be burdened by a wounded man."

"That's awful!"

"The story gets worse," Chiun said.

"How is that possible? So far, the good guys are killing all their friends."

"Worse," repeated Chiun, his voice dropping to a hush. "They had to abandon the horses."

"So?"

"You do not understand. The Chinese got them."

"Is that bad?"

"Bad! It is a tragedy," Chiun screeched. "Beautiful Korean ponies left to big, brutish Chinese barbarians. Probably they were worked until their proud, straight backs were bowed and their strong legs crippled. It is sad." A single tear leaked out of Chiun's far eye. He turned his head so that Remo could not see, and brushed it away surreptitiously.

"Then what?" Remo prompted.

"With the Chinese bandits bearing down on them, the night tigers pushed off in boats. Those who remained slew the Chinese with their swords, taking care not to harm their horses, who were after all innocent brutes. For Sinanju never harms animals."

"Just messengers and potential Masters."

"If you insist upon distorting every word I utter, why do you not tell this story?"

"Because I don't know it."

"Exactly. Now, keep silent. The Master Mangko and his night tigers left many dead Chinese on their shores on that long-ago day. Sparing the horses, of course. Then they pushed off in the tiny boats that they had built, and sailed for Moo. Many days they sailed, through storm clouds-but no storm came to pelt their faces with hard rain or push their boats against one another. Lo, the entire earth had become a still place of deathly silent water. For seven terrible days, the future of my village was at the mercy of the great ocean we now sail on. A typhoon might have eradicated all of Sinanju's promise, just as Sako himself perished. Alas." Chiun brushed at his eyes again. His voice trembled with emotion when he resumed his story.

"Bravely, the Master Mangko sailed on. He watched the stars, seeking the configuration that would lead him to Moo. He followed it faithfully day and night. And still the storm clouds gathered, but no storm came."

Chiun was silent, thinking. His eyes grew inward and reflective, as if in his mind's eye he saw the very events he was relating.

"On the twelfth day," Chiun said, quavering, "the Master knew why the storm never swept over him. He understood why he did not spy the shores of Moo. He had sailed over the place where Moo should be. And the storm which was reflected in the sky, belonged not to the sky, but to the very ocean itself. This ocean, Remo."

"Moo sank?"

"Moo had perished, yes. The seas were the color of mud where Moo should have been. And where the very heart of Moo had lifted proudly over the waves, the flotsam of civilization floated and the seas bubbled green as with a sickness. And there were bodies too."

Chiun was silent a long time as he stared out at the white-capped waves. Remo was afraid to speak up. Finally he settled for clearing his throat.

"With a heavy heart," Chiun continued, "Master Mangko accepted the truth. He ordered the boats turned around, and they steeled themselves for the difficult return journey across water and bandit-infested China. He knew terrible days lay ahead for his village, and indeed, this was what came to be. The messenger had brought with him a bag of coins, each stamped with the head of the High Moo. These would be the last such coins, he knew. And when the Master Mangko returned to Sinanju, he himself chose the first female child to be sent home to the sea, because he knew that it would not be long before the coins ran out. For in those days of which I have spoken, the clients of Sinanju were only the slow-paying Egyptians and the stingy Chinese-and the great land of Moo, which was no more. That female child, Remo, was his very own daughter."

In spite of himself, Remo shivered. He was born and raised an American, and the ways of Sinanju were still alien to him. But sometimes he felt the tragedy of Chiun's stories almost as keenly as the Master of Sinanju.

"Since those days, there has been no word of Moo. Until now," Chiun said, removing a large flat coin from a pocket of his kimono.

Remo took the coin. It had obviously been hammered into shape by hand.

"Is this the High Moo?"

"The Low Moo's father, yes, for the coins of Moo are melted down and recast whenever a new High Moo ascends the Shark Throne."

"Shark Throne, huh? Sounds brutal."

"And today, after nearly five thousand years, Sinanju returns to Moo to fulfill the down payment accepted by Master Mangko-and earn the balance too, of course."

"I knew money had to enter into this somehow."

"A crass remark which I will ignore. You see, Remo, when I beheld the Low Moo on television, she was not saying what the charlatan white claimed at all. She was issuing a plea. A plea to the Master of Sinanju to journey to Moo to help the High Moo, whose throne was in mortal danger. "

"So when you said we were going to Moo, that's what you meant?"

"All is clear to you now, Remo?"

"Not quite. If Moo sank nearly five thousand years ago, where does the Low Moo come from and where is she taking us?"

"Why don't you ask her? I have told you my story. Let her tell you her own. Besides, you will need the language practice if you are to get along on Moo."

"Why not? I'll be here all day waiting for you to catch a fish with that rig."

Suddenly the Master of Sinanju jerked his bamboo rod. The line arched up and a silver fish with flat eyes landed in Remo's lap.

"Hey!" Remo said, knocking the fish onto the deck. The fish flopped and wriggled and Chiun speared him with a long-nailed finger. The fish gasped once and its tail ceased to move. Chiun lifted it up by the gills and examined it carefully.

"Ah, an excellent fish. Two more of these and we will dine very well today."

"Tell me, Little Father. How did you catch that fish without a hook?"

"It is simple. I dangle the line until I have the fish's interest. He thinks the line is a worm, and when I feel him bite, I whip the line up. I do it so fast the fish has no time to let go. A hook is not necessary. Besides, it is cruel. Sinanju does not harm animals, and it deals with those animals it eats as mercifully as possible."

"Sometimes I fail to fully grasp your philosophy," Remo said, climbing to his feet.

"It is easy to understand, Remo. For it is written in the Book of Sinanju that 'Death Feeds Life.' "

"Yeah, right under 'No Credit Issued.' If you want me, I'll be talking to the Low Moo."

"Do not dawdle. We will breakfast soon."

"I may pass. I checked last night and there are no matches left on this scow."

"Then we will eat them raw."

"Sushi isn't my thing. Besides," Remo said, scratching his bestubbled face, "I have this irresistible craving for egg-lemon soup."

Chapter 9

Dr. Harold W. Smith had not played golf in years.

This was ironic, for in the days when CURE was being set up, Smith had bought his present home because it was virtually next door to one of the finest golf courses on the east coast. Smith, who had until then been with the Central Intelligence Agency, envisioned himself playing weekend golf. He had no idea of what he was getting into. The gravity of his new post was clear, but the sheer number of man-hours that would be demanded of him, first as the coordinator of CURE's vast network of information-gathering resources, and then later, when he was forced to admit that CURE would need an enforcement arm for situations beyond his operational reach, was not clear.

Smith had not touched his golf clubs in nearly a decade. He wouldn't be doing so now but for the fact that a few practice putts were the perfect cover for what he had to do.

Smith teed up and sent the ball skipping along the fairway. He pulled his wheeled bag behind him because today he did not want to be bothered with a caddy. He hit it again.

Smith had deliberately hit the ball out of bounds. When he found it, in the rough, he pulled out a small pair of high-powered binoculars and pretended to scan the fairway. His gaze drifted over to his house and then settled on the one next to it. Smith peered into the windows.

He saw bare hardwood flooring. He would need a different vantage point. He selected a driver and sent the ball in the general direction of the third hole.

The ball came to rest in a sand trap, and Smith, first checking to make sure that there was no one watching him, got down into the trap. He lay on his stomach, and peering up over the trap, directed his binoculars at the near side of the house.

The rooms were bare. In one he saw a big television but no other furniture. The open driveway was empty. It had been empty since his wife had first alerted him to the existence of the strange new neighbors.

It was the absence of a car that had caused Smith's initial disquiet to blossom into full-blown suspicion. He lived in an exclusive section of Rye, far from the bus routes. It was the kind of tree-lined peaceful suburban neighborhood he had once dreamed of retiring to, but now understood he could never enjoy because the only retirement from CURE would involve his death.

And if there was one absolute to living in suburbia, it was ownership of an automobile. The owners of the house next door did not own a car. Smith's wife had noticed this, and according to her, the neighbors had confirmed it.

No car, no furniture, no sign of habitation.

As Smith lay in the sand trap, attired in a short-sleeved pullover jersey and khaki pants, he tried to reason out who would buy a house and not furnish it.

More and more, it seemed to him as if the house were purchased; not as a home, but as some kind of blind. Or a staging area.

Grimly Smith climbed to his feet. Something was very wrong. It was time to stop pussyfooting around. He could no longer ignore the obvious. Replacing his driver and pocketing his ball, Smith pushed his golf bag back to the clubhouse.

"That was quick," said the caddy whom Smith had refused earlier.

"I'm more rusty than I thought," Smith muttered.

"Then you should stay out there. Work out the rust."

"Another time," said Smith, anxious to leave. He had attracted attention to himself by returning so early. That was a mistake. It was part of his job never to call undue attention to himself. But this had the earmarks of an emergency. Smith would bring all the awesome computer power of CURE to bear on the puzzle of learning who the new owner of the house next door was, and everything about his background.

As Smith drove off, every caddy and member in the club surged to the windows. Everyone wanted to see the mysterious Dr. Harold W. Smith, who paid the annual membership fee on time every year, but who hadn't been seen on the golf course in a decade. A few of the older members, hearing of Smith's brief visitation, expressed surprise. They had assumed Smith had passed away years ago.

Chapter 10

Tu-Min-Ka, High Moo of Moo, Lord of the Water Ocean, Wearer of the Golden Feather Crown, and He Whose Face Adorns the Coin of the Realm, ascended the worn stone steps.

Two guards, scarlet feathers dangling from their long shark-tooth spears, walked before him. Two others walked behind. Also following behind, ahead of the trailing guards, but a respectful two paces behind the High Moo, was the royal priest, Teihotu. He was cloaked in black, his narrow black eyes intent. Even the moonlight coming through the square openings cut into the passageway walls failed to light his pinched features.

The lead guards halted at the hardwood door, pivoted in place, and stiffened on either side, their spears snapping across their bare chests in the traditional salute.

The High Moo stopped. He turned to his royal priest. "Teihotu, I would be alone."

"As you please," the royal priest replied. He gathered his cloak about him like protective wings.

"I have asked you to accompany me only because if I lose you too, I will have none to trust."

"I understand," said the royal priest. His eyes were small, like those of a bird.

"My guards will see to your safety. But I will pass the evening watching the eastern sky, for although my daughter has been gone far longer than I anticipated, I feel in my heart that she lives yet."

"So the stars tell me."

"You trust the stars. I trust my heart."

"As you wish."

And without another word, the High Moo passed through the door onto the roof of his palace, overlooking the low rice fields to the north and the mine-dotted slope to the east. He averted his eyes from the south, where the banyan trees grew thick and the Tall-Things-That-Were-Not-Men walked by moonlight. It was the place called the Grove of Ghosts, and for as long as he lived, only forty-one years, he had never dared to enter it. Although he knew some of his subjects were, even now, skulking there to perform who knew what obscene oblations.

It was to the east that the High Moo directed his kingly visage. His eyes were bold and proud. He was a squat, square man, thick of limb and well-muscled. He ruled this kingdom by dint of his mighty right arm, and he would die before he surrendered the Shark Throne.

But even he could not battle the things that walked by night and wore the faces of his villagers.

"Give me a skull to break, and I will prevail," he muttered to the unheeding wind. "But against the very spirits of evil, I am no match."

The waves to the east were dappled with moonglade. It was a beautiful sight, but it sent chills through the High Moo. For he knew that the greatest portion of his kingdom lay under those fantastic waters. The fishes had long ago ceased to feast on his great-great-great-grandfather's great-great-great-grandfather, but it still chilled him to look at the waters by night. Who could know when the Mighty Giver of Life might rise up to engulf them all? Even the royal priest said that the portents were back. The stars were moving into the position they had occupied when Old Moo, Great Moo, had fallen into oblivion.

But the High Moo did not truly believe the royal priest's portents. He believed in what he could touch and conquer and vanquish.

The wind caused the golden plume that stood up stiffly from the metal fillet that served as his crown to shiver. He folded his bronzed arms on his thick hairless chest.

Where was she? Where was Dolla-Dree, his daughter, Low Moo of Moo, and the only person he could trust to venture into the lost lands? Only she could be trusted to find the Master of Sinanju-if indeed there was a living Master of Sinanju. For had not the priests for centuries said that when Moo sank, so had China and India and Korea and all the other lands with which Moo had traded in those days?

But the High Moo did not truly believe that all was water beyond the horizon. There had been ships sighted. Some of these vessels were greater than a building. But all passed by without heeding this island far from any other land. There were tales of men with skin the color of a pale moon, who came from lands to the east. Such men had landed on Moo only three or four generations past. No lands to the east were known to Old Moo, just the western lands of Korea and China.

No, the land world endured, just as this speck of Moo had endured. And if life endured, so would the House of Sinanju. The royal priest had scoffed at the High Moo's assertion that this must be true, but he had held firm. Priests only wanted you to believe what they said was true. Else, how could they control you?

No, Moo endured. Sinanju endured. But to be certain, he had sent his daughter to the lands to the east, not to the west. She would learn there where to find the Master of Sinanju, if he still lived. Now he must wait for his daughter. He would wait until he was old and white-haired and the sun had wrinkled him like a turtle, and his kingly burdens had bent his spine. He would wait.

It was in the deepest part of the night, when the sea breezes seemed to hold their breath, and the High Moo's heart held the greatest loneliness, that the stillness of his sleeping kingdom was shattered.

The High Moo was leaning on the parapet, his arms folded, his eyes set on the eastern sky, when something sailed up from the courtyard below.

The High Moo's warrior-trained reflexes reacted instantly. He ducked the missile. He threw himself on the roof and rolled.

"Guards, to my side!" he called.

The object broke not five feet from him. Two of the guards burst through the door. "There!" he told them.

And their eyes fell on the clay jar. It lay in pieces, not flat, but completely shattered. Dark liquid drained from it in all directions. And from under the clay shards, something writhed and threw out ropy appendages.

"Slay it!" ordered the High Moo, coming to his feet. But a single hooded eye peered out in a crack between falling clay bits, and the guards let out a combined screech and fled the roof.

One of them had dropped a war club, and the High Moo dived to recover it.

He noticed that the stairwell was dark. There were no signs of the other guards, or the royal priest, Teihotu. He returned to the roof. The thing was free of its prison now.

It was, as he knew it would be, an octopus. It was black, and the moon was reflected on his shiny hide. It flopped its tentacles weakly in the unfamiliar environment. The greater portion of the seawater had flowed into a drainage channel cut into the roof, and the octopus began to slide along it, desperate to cling to its true element.

The High Moo pounced as he slipped toward the roofs edge. He mashed one tentacle into jelly. Then, bringing the club up again, he struck the mortal blow.

It fell on water.

The octopus had slipped over the parapet with boneless fluidity. It struck the ground below with a wet smack that caused the hairs on the back of the High Moo's head to stand up.

Down in the courtyard, the royal priest came running from the palace, accompanied by the other guards-the two who had not run away.

"There!" cried the High Moo. "Below me. Kill it!"

"Do as your king bids," ordered the royal priest. And the two guards fell upon the octopus. They beat it into submission. A pulpy pop told that its boneless head had burst. They crushed the tentacles methodically. When they stood back after many more blows than were needed, the octopus was a black viscous puddle that did not move.

"The Enemy of Life is no more," said the royal priest solemnly.

"No," called down the High Moo wearily. "Only one of his children sent as a warning to me that nowhere am I safe, and no one may I trust, not even those closest to me."

"But, your highness-"

"Hold your tongue," said the High Moo. "You guards return to your stations. You, priest, find the guards who ran and punish them. I care not how you do it, just so that it is done. The sun comes up soon, and I will be here to see it rise." Then under his breath he added, "And the Sun God willing, it will bring my daughter, who alone is my only hope."

Chapter 11

Dr. Harold W. Smith settled behind his shabby oak desk. It was Saturday and his secretary was not at her desk in the reception area. That meant Smith would not be interrupted. He had told the lobby guard that unless the missing patient, Gilbert Grumley, who still had not been found, came to light, officially he was not on the premises. Smith pressed the concealed stud that brought the terminal linked to hidden basement computers rising from a recess in his desk. It clicked into place like an obedient robot. Its glass face stared at him blankly.

He keyed in the password for the day. When the system was up and running, Smith began to key in a series of questions.

The problem was a simple one: to discover the identity of the new owner of the house next to his own. That information could not be found in Smith's data base, of course. Even after over twenty years of methodically collecting data-some gathered from anonymous field workers who believed they were really feeding their monthly reports to the CIA or the FBI or even the IRS, and some of it siphoned off America's burgeoning computer networksthere was just too much raw data out there, much of it trivia.

Ordinarily a change in home ownership would also be too trivial to note. Not this time. This time the strangeness was too close to home. Smith knew he was not being paranoid in suspecting the mystery of the empty house next to his own was a possible CURE problem. CURE security had been breached before. Even the Folcroft cover, as innocuous as it was, had nearly been compromised, most recently by a fluke of the last presidential campaign. That problem proved manageable, but it was not beyond the realm of possibility that this could be fallout from that incident. A leak or a slip of the tongue during the pressure of the campaign.

A pattern was forming. First the mysteriously missing patient. Then the empty house whose owner's face had triggered a memory in Mrs. Smith's mind. Something was going on.

It was time to put a name to that owner, and if he proved to be a security threat, then Harold Smith must eliminate him.

Smith logged onto the computer records at the Westchester County Registry of Deeds. The password was easy for a man as computer-skilled as Smith to break. It was simply a date code. He began paging through recent files.

After twenty minutes he was forced to admit defeat. There was no record of the transaction. That meant one of two things: either the transaction had not yet been filed in the computer-which was reasonable, given the time frame-or the transaction might have been conducted illegally.

Before he could jump to that last damning conclusion, Smith would have to pay a call on the Registry of Deeds himself. If the house had changed hands legally, their books would contain the answer he sought.

Chapter 12

"It is your turn at the rudder, Remo," laughed the Low Moo, Dolla-Dree. Just as Remo reached for it, she threw the tiller to one side. The Jonah Ark heeled sharply and cut away from the wind. Remo grabbed it and hauled back. The ship righted itself.

The Low Moo giggled, shaking her lustrous hair. It hung long and free. Remo noticed a natural wave.

"Very cute," he said dryly. "Sit with me?"

"Maybe," she said coquettishly.

"Please?" Remo said. He had to say it twice before he pronounced the Moovian word for "please" correctly.

"Only if you promise not to bore me," the Low Moo said.

"Promise," said Remo. He decided he liked her. Now that they were on the open sea, she had changed. Gone were her dark moods, her smoldering anger. She was going home, and the knowledge had liberated her spirit. Watching the Low Moo shake the windblown hair from her laughing face made Remo think of free-spirited island girls out of old Hollywood films. She had island written all over her. Remo decided he liked that.

"Tell me about Moo," Remo suggested.

"What do you wish to know?"

"Chiun said it disappeared thousands of years ago."

"Old Moo sank, yes," the Low Moo said sadly. "Our folk tales say that the sun looked down upon Moo and saw only greed. In punishment, he made the seas to devour Moo. But Kai, the Sea God, spared the highest portion of the empire and those who lived on it. That is where I come from, where we are bound."

"Is it big?"

"Oh, very big. It stretches from the north sea to the south sea, and there is the west sea to one side and the east sea to the other. There is a great palace and a city. My father is the High Moo, you know."

"So I gathered. But you don't act like a princess."

"And how many princesses do you know, Remo?"

"One or two. You don't act like either of them. You're more ... down-to-earth."

The Low Moo's brow puckered. Remo's translation of "down-to-earth" into Moovian came out as "wallowing in dirt."

"Why do you say that? Why do you say I wallow in dirt?"

"I didn't mean it like that," Remo said hastily. "It's an expression. I mean 'regular'. 'Normal.'"

The Low Moo frowned prettily. As a member of the royal house, being called normal was an insult. Every man of Moo would gladly slay his brother for her hand in marriage.

"'Nice'?" Remo ventured.

Her brow smoothed suddenly. "Oh, I am that. You are nice too-even if you are a slave."

"Slave?"

"You are the Master of Sinanchu's slave. I see him order you about and you obey. I do not mind that you are a slave. I like your white skin. It is so different. I wonder what you are like inside."

"I'm like I am. Like you see me. And I'm not a slave."

"Do not be ashamed. On Moo we have no slaves. In older times white men did come to our land. Some we made to be slaves, but not for long. Slavery is cruel and so they were set free."

"Really? Then what happened to them?"

The Low Moo looked away suddenly. She started toward the bow, and shaded her eyes from the sun. Seeing nothing, she looked back. She rubbed her stomach. "I am hungry," she said, sounding like a petulant child.

"Chiun's catching fish."

"I will go to him and see."

"Can't you stay a little longer?"

"I will return," the Low Moo said. She took hold of Remo's arm and stroked it gently. With her fingers she felt his hard muscles. "I like your nice white skin." She gave his arm a playful squeeze and jumped up suddenly.

Remo thought she was going to kiss him, but instead she bit him on the earlobe, not hard. It was more of a nip. "What was that for?" he asked, taken aback.

"I like you. I will come back to you."

And with that she scampered up the steps to the afterdeck.

That evening an albatross flew along the horizon, making raucous sounds.

The Low Moo came up from the hold eagerly.

"A rugu bird!" she exclaimed. "Sail harder, Remo, we are almost to Moo."

"Are you sure?" asked Remo.

"There is no other land to be found under last night's stars. Only Moo. Oh, hurry. My father awaits us."

The Master of Sinanju, hearing those words, went below. He returned with a folded piece of white cotton. He laid it out on the deck and unfolded it until Remo recognized the parallelogram symbol that had been stitched into it with green sailcloth. The symbol of the House of Sinanju.

"Where'd you get that?" Remo asked.

"I made it. It will inform the people of Moo that the Master of Sinanju is coming. It will give them time to prepare a proper welcome."

"We're not there yet," Remo pointed out.

"Look again, O ye of little faith," Chiun retorted as he inserted the bamboo pole into a sleeve in one side of the cloth.

Remo looked past the complex of batten-stiffened sails. He thought he could make out a dark blue hump of land. From a distance it looked like an anthill with a flat top.

As Chiun raised the bamboo pole and the Sinanju flag began flapping and chattering in the crosswind, Remo said, "Looks awfully small for the huge island nation everyone keeps talking about."

"It is only your mind that is small," huffed Chiun as he marched to the bow, proudly waving his banner.

Chapter 13

Trailed by his retinue, the High Moo hurried to the lagoon beach. He did not run, for it would be unseemly. But he walked with such alacrity that his Red Feather Guard were hard pressed to maintain a decorous pace.

"See?" said the little boy Mann, the first to sight the great ship.

The High Moo drank in the sight. It was like no other ship he had ever seen. It was greater than the war canoes, bigger even than the ship in which his daughter had sailed. It had five poles for the sails, which were stiff and oddly shaped.

As he watched, the craft turned smartly to present its hull to the wind, and its sheer height astounded the High Moo. Sailing ships of such majesty were told of in legend. None had been seen in the lifetime of any living Moovian.

"What does it mean?" demanded the royal priest, Teihotu, as he hovered by the High Moo's ear.

"I do not know," said the High Moo, hope dying in his breast. Then the tiny figure in the bow moved to the rail and waved a banner. The wind tore at it, disturbing its emblem, but at last the High Moo discerned the age-old symbol of the House of Sinanchu.

"My daughter has returned!" he cried. "Go, priest, order the feast to start. You, guards, fetch women to beat a path from this spot to the Royal Palace. We will make my heroine daughter welcome, and treat with the Master of Sinanchu who returns to preserve my kingdom."

The priest padded off and set a runner to the village. The High Moo turned his eyes to the ship. A massive thing he understood to be an anchor was thrown overboard. And after the sails were pulled up, a small boat was lowered over the side with two figurees in it. A third scrambled down a rope and joined them, taking up the oars.

One of them, he saw, was his daughter.

"Remo, you take the oars," commanded Chiun sternly.

"Why do I always get the scut work?" Remo demanded, one eye on the Low Moo.

"It is your responsibility to get the princess and me to shore. It is not scut work. It is a privilege. When I inscribe this day's events on a scroll, you may be certain that your honored role will be fully described."

"Yeah, pulling on the oars like a galley slave," Remo complained. "You know, she thinks I'm your servant," he added. He spoke English so the princess wouldn't understand their argument.

"If you would like, I will add a codicil to my records, assuring future Masters that to the best of my knowledge you were never at any time a slave."

"It's not future Masters I'm worried about. It's her."

"Then," Chiun retorted, turning from the bow, "you will bend your back to this task with vigor so that the Low Moo may admire your efforts on her behalf."

"Up yours," said Remo, who didn't like being thought of as a slave. But he pulled at the oars while Chiun returned to his proud stance at the bow. He stood with one arm on his hip and the other holding the Sinanju banner rigid. The princess sat behind him. Remo thought Chiun looked impossibly affected, like an idealized portrait of George Washington crossing the Delaware.

The Master of Sinanju was pleased. The High Moo stood surrounded by his retinue. Women busily swept the sand clear with straw whisks. An honor guard of warriors formed two ranks to meet them.

A bronze man clad only in a loincloth splashed into the water. He took the bow in hand and helped guide it ashore. The keel scraped sand. And the boat was quickly pulled up onto dry beach so that the sandals of the Master of Sinanju would not suffer being wet.

It was as Chiun always dreamed of being greeted. By a proper emperor in a proper kingdom. Let Remo see true respect, such as Masters of Sinanju had enjoyed in times when the world was ruled correctly and Sinanju was respected from pole to pole.

Chiun set the banner into the sand. It stuck, the fabric waving proudly.

"I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju," he proclaimed. And abruptly the retinue surrounding the High Moo parted and the High Moo strode forward. His face was broad and fine, a king's visage. But his garb was not as kingly as Chiun had imagined. He had expected more clothing than a feathered breechclout. But it was summer, so Chiun decided it was not an affront if the king greeted him bare-chested. Chiun was pleased to see the golden feather that signified the crown of the High Moo. True, the crown was not, strictly speaking, a crown, but more a band of metal. Probably the original crown had been lost when Moo had sunk.

Chiun placed his long-nailed hands into his joined sleeves and bowed once to the High Moo.

And the High Moo replied in a booming voice. "I am Tu-Min-Ka, High Moo of Moo. I am pleased that my daughter has brought you."

"Not so," said Chiun. "It is I who have brought your daughter. I found her in the thrall of an evil wizard, and recognizing her as of true royal blood, rescued her from this man."

"Then I am doubly grateful," murmured the High Moo, taking his daughter into his arms. He turned away from the Master of Sinanju abruptly.

Chiun's face wrinkled. An emperor did not turn his back on the Master of Sinanju during a formal greeting ceremony. Still, this was the man's daughter, whom he had believed lost. On the other hand, a daughter is only a female who happens to be a blood relation. This was the first meeting between the Master of Sinanju and a High Moo in nearly five thousand years. One would think that the man had more respect for history than to take his daughter aside to gossip. Chiun wondered what it was they discussed, but decided that eavesdropping would not be seemly. Besides, they were too far way.

Remo drifted up beside Chiun.

"What are they saying?" he wanted to know.

"I do not know. But he is probably thanking her profusely for finding me." Chiun noticed Remo's posture. "Straighten up! Do you want the High Moo to think I have trained a laggard?"

"Yes, Master," Remo muttered unhappily.

"Are you certain, my daughter?" the High Moo whispered.

"He alone of all I met spoke our language. He remembers Old Moo."

"But the Master of Sinanju is tall and powerful. This man is elderly. And he carries no weapons."

"I do not understand it either, but I am certain it is he."

"And where are the night tigers? Did he not think enough of my plea to bring his retinue? He travels with a slave, and a sickly pale one at that."

"He is a nice slave," said the princess. "I like him."

"If you are certain; my daughter . . ." the High Moo said vaguely. "But I fear he will not be able to help us. For he is very old and his limbs look as if a fever has withered them."

The High Moo turned to the Master of Sinanju. He forced himself to smile. In his heart he felt sick. The Master of Sinanju had been his last hope.

"I bid you welcome to Moo," he said. "And in honor of your landfall, we have prepared a feast. We have all the foods that in ancient times Masters of Sinanju enjoyed. There is roast pig, turtle, fresh eggs, and we have butchered a Korean delicacy-dog."

"No way, Chiun," Remo whispered in English. "I don't care what taboo it violates. I draw the line at dog."

"Hush, Remo." To the High Moo the Master of Sinanju said, "We are grateful for your thoughtfulness, O High Moo, but times have changed. Masters of Sinanju no longer eat meat."

"No meat?"

"Have you fish?"

"Yes, of course."

"We still eat fish. And rice."

"We have rice. But fish is peasant food." Chiun winced at the implication.

"Here, perhaps," he said, "but in Sinanju it is considered a delicacy."

"Fish and rice are a delicacy nowhere on earth, Little Father," Remo whispered in English.

"What did your slave say?" the High Moo asked.

"He asked if you have lemons," Chiun replied.

"Yes."

"Good, he will have egg-lemon soup. But it must be prepared under my supervision."

"Very well," said the High Moo slowly.

"Thanks a lot, Chiun," Remo said sourly.

"I knew you would appreciate my suggesting it," Chiun replied.

"I don't mean the soup. I meant the fact that you didn't disabuse him of the notion that I'm your slave."

"This bothers you?"

"Slightly," Remo growled, looking at the Low Moo, who stared at him with a wild eager light in the depths of her black eyes.

Chiun suddenly shook his spindly arms free of his sleeves. He raised them to the heavens, and in a loud voice proclaimed, "In honor of this historic occasion, and knowing that the wicked practice of slavery has been long abolished by the enlightened rulers of Moo, I hereby set free my unworthy slave, Remo."

"Oh, you're a thrill," Remo hissed.

"He does not look happy," said the High Moo, taking note of Remo's expression.

"It is the shock," Chiun assured him. "He has been in my family for years. But he will get used to being free."

"And in honor of this meeting, joining the House of Sinanchu with the House of Moo," proclaimed the High Moo, "my royal priest, Teihotu, will bless you both so that no harm will come to you during your sojourn with us." The priest padded out of the crowd. His dark robes rustled like serpents slipping through dry leaves.

"Please kneel," he intoned. Chiun dropped to his knees. Remo did likewise. But only after Chiun pulled him down.

The royal priest laid his bony, long-fingered hands on their heads. Remo noticed that his hands smelled fishy. He held his breath until the man was through muttering incantations to the sky. Then he withdrew and they found their feet.

"Now, quickly, darkness comes," said the High Moo. "We must hurry to light the fires. For when darkness comes, they walk."

Chiun marched in the High Moo's wake. Remo stepped up alongside him.

"Moo looks pretty small, Little Father," he remarked casually.

"You have not seen the whole of it yet," Chiun sniffed.

"You spoke about an empire."

"I told you. Moo sank. This is all that is left."

"Where are the jeweled clothes, the golden shields? And that crown on the High Moo's head looks like an oversize wedding ring with feathers."

"It is his summer crown. I am certain that his winter crown is more impressive."

"I don't think they have winters in the South Pacific."

"And how would you know, O well-traveled one?"

"I remember my geography lessons."

"And did these geography lessons include a history of Moo?"

"No," Remo admitted.

"Then you have been taught by the ignorant and should not be surprised at your own lack of knowledge," Chiun said haughtily.

"Where are the women, by the way?"

"You did not see them because your back was turned as you rowed. They were here smoothing the sand for us. Then they left."

"Yeah? Were they bare-breasted?"

"I did not notice," Chiun said distantly.

"How could you not notice an important thing like that?"

"Because unlike you, I am not a lover of cows."

"Moo," said Remo.

"Is that another of your lame jests?"

"More like a prayer. If there aren't any bare-breasted native women on this sandhill, I've come a long way for nothing. "

"You are very haughty for a newly freed slave," sniffed Chiun. He hastened his step so that he would not have to listen to any more of Remo's nonsense.

Chapter 14

The world had done it to Shane Billiken again.

It was always this way. Just when success was within his grasp, some retro-case would snatch the brass ring away. The Beatles hijacked his singing career. Roy Orbison's lawyers squelched his comeback. And now, two strange men had stolen the perfect channeler out of his own house.

Oh, sure, Glinda had been good. He'd never have gotten into channeling without her. Shane had met her in a Muscle Shoals bar, where she was waitressing. One drink led to another, which led to her apartment. They were reminiscing about the sixties-or Shane was. Glinda hadn't been born until 1967, so was lamenting that she'd missed out on "the good years."

"What was it, like, like?" she had asked.

"You want to experience the sixties?" Shane had replied, firing up a joint. "Try this organic time machine." It was in the smoky moments that followed that he made his discovery. When high, Glinda babbled. Not in English, but in some crazy nonsense baby-talk. That was what had given Shane the channeling idea.

And so was launched the career of Glinda Thrip, who, under certain conditions-usually a joint before a performance-became possessed by the spirit of Shastra, high priestess of Atlantis. Shane Billiken translated her babble into prophecies, for, as he repeated to anyone gullible enough to listen, the high priestess knew all and saw all.

Of course nothing was one hundred percent perfect. Sometimes Glinda muttered a few English words, which Shane covered over with a standard line about disruptions in the cosmic flow. And sometimes when she was high, Glinda giggled. That was worse. Atlantean high priestesses weren't supposed to giggle.

Which was why, when the Princess Sinanchu washed up on his beach, Shane Billiken realized he had struck true gold at last. Princess Sinanchu looked like a princess. Glinda looked like a silicone-augmented California waitress in Greek clothing. And Glinda did not have silver wires in her clothes or a pouch stuffed with strange coins.

It was the coins that particularly fascinated Shane Billiken. Coins were coins, but these looked authentic, historical. As artifacts, they might be worth a fortune to a museum. Millions, depending on who the girl was and where she came from.

Especially, Shane Billiken thought suddenly, if there were more of those coins where she came from.

The thought caused him to push aside the aluminum sun reflector on his chest and sit up.

It was the morning after Princess Sinanchu had left. He had slept fitfully all night, even after soaking in his hot tub, eating cheese and playing with the bath crystals he had brought into he tub. They were supposed to soak up negativity, but when he stepped out, wrinkled like a prune, he felt as frustrated as ever.

Even a joint didn't help.

Now Shane Billiken felt positively enraged. How could the world keep doing this to him? Why? Why him? He was evolved. He chanted every night. True, his heart wasn't always in it, but who knew how much of this New Age stuff really worked? It was not for nothing that his favorite off-camera saying was "You don't fuck with magic."

Shane paced his house fuming. He wandered into his personal library, which he had started with three battered paperbacks but which was now one of the most extensive collections of occult books in private hands. Maybe the I Ching had the answer to his problems.

Then he recalled the exchange between the old Eastern mystic and the skinny white man while they argued on his beach. Shane had listened through his cracked glass patio door.

They had talked about building a boat, then about buying one. The Asian kept babbling about going to Moo, like it was a place, not a sound effect. Why did that name sound familiar?

Shane went to the Atlantis section of his library. He ran his thick fingers along the rows of spines until he came to the book he wanted. It was called The Lost Continent of Mu.

Eagerly he opened the book. Shane read three chapters straight through before he realized his feet were killing him. He was so mesmerized that he had forgotten to sit down.

According to the book, Mu was an island nation of great size which had dominated the Pacific Ocean before the dawn of recorded history. It had sunk during a fierce natural cataclysm that the book's author supposed was the Great Flood of biblical legend. Mu would have been forgotten, except when the Muvian race perished, they transmitted their thoughts to receptive survivors in other lands, who wrote of their visions and thus kept the existence of Mu alive despite skeptical nay-sayers.

"Makes sense to me," Shane muttered, reading on. When he put the book down, hours later, he thought he had it all figured out. Princess Sinanchu was from Mu. Somehow, Mu must have come to the surface again. As Shane Billiken saw it, this was perfectly plausible. After all, they were getting near the Millennium. Weird stuff like this was supposed to happen.

Why Princess Sinanchu had come to America remained a mystery, but Shane understood one thing: if that girl could make the trip one way, Shane Billiken, who was in tune with the universe, could retrace the voyage.

There was only one boat dealership in this area. Shane hopped into his Ferrari and drove for it at high speed. The owner recognized his description of the unlikely pair.

"Sure, they bought that ratty junk, the Jonah Ark. Imagine that. Took off right away, too."

"Was there a girl with them?"

"Yep. Looked Tahitian or something like that. Didn't say a word."

"How long ago?"

"Ten, twelve hours."

"Is a junk slow?"

"Is Superman blue? It's one step up from a garbage scow."

"I'll take the fastest boat you have," Shane said suddenly.

"If you're thinking of following them, and I think you are, you'll want a deep-water craft, not some zippy little cigarette boat. They had long voyage written all over them. "

"I'll take whatever you recommend."

"For sure," said the salesman. "But clue me in first: is there something I should know? I recognize you from The Horton Droney Show and that little Oriental lama looked pretty freaky. Is the world gonna end, or what?"

"Friend, we're talking a definite spiritual migration here."

"Oh wow, I knew it. Like I've been getting these really, really intense vibrations all week."

"Eat more cheese. It'll help you image better."

Once he had made the purchase arrangements on a two-masted schooner with twin inboard-outboard diesels-receiving a ten-percent discount in return for giving the salesman a biorhythmic polarity analysis-Shane Billiken returned home to pack. He didn't know what to expect, so he packed his entire wardrobe, ultimately filling seven medium-size suitcases, three large steamer trunks, an assortment of over-the-shoulder bags, and his electric guitar.

"Food!" he said suddenly. "I'll probably need food." He hurried into the wine cellar, where vats of natural cheese were hardening.

"Anything else would spoil, but cheese is good forever," he muttered, thanking his lucky stars that he had stumbled across the bioregenerative powers of cheese. He wondered if he should bring mineral water, but shrugged. What the hell, he thought, I'll just bring along a bucket and rough it on ocean water. It's probably chock-full of minerals and other healthful stuff.

When he had everything together, Shane realized that he would need help loading all these provisions on his new boat. Then he realized that he might just need help crewing the ship. Then he further realized he didn't know what to expect on the other end of the voyage.

I gotta think this through a little more, he decided, collapsing on a beanbag chair. He switched on his lava lamp. Watching the blue-green goop floating in the amber fluid always helped him to image.

Hours later, a thought struck him. He spoke it aloud.

"I'm thinking expedition when I should be thinking conquest. "

He jumped out of the chair and ran for his bedroom. He rummaged through his dresser looking for that magazine clipping. He knew it was there somewhere. He never threw anything out. Not anything that important.

He found it wrapped around a copper antiarthritis bracelet with rubber bands. He pounced on the phone. After three rings, a hard voice answered.

"Yeah?"

"Mr. Eradicator?"

"Maybe." The voice was guarded.

"You probably won't remember me, but we had a meet three or four years back."

"You're right, pal. I don't remember you."

"Let me finish. I wanted a certain party taken care of. A certain famous party. A singer. Is it coming back?"

"Yeah. Sunglasses. Square face. Bangs."

"That's me."

"I meant the victim."

"That fits him too."

"If you've changed your mind, my rates have gone up."

"Yes and no. I don't want that particular party hit. Maybe later, if things work out. But your Soldier of Fortune ad said you handle military ops too."

"What have you got?"

"There's an island in the South Pacific. I want to take it over. You know, do a Marlon Brando."

"This island got a name?"

"Er, not yet," Shane said evasively. Better not mention Mu. Military types were notoriously unenlightened.

"I don't get you."

"It's a tiny island." Shane Billiken was talking fast, making up his facts as he went along. He needed this man. "Kind of a paradise. Just natives there. No army, no government. "

"Don't discount native fighters. I've seen well-armed professionals gutted by fishbone knives. I'd rather take a dum-dum slug in the face anytime."

"I have a ship, but I need a team. They have to know sailcraft. "

"How long a ship?"

"Actually, I haven't measured it yet. But the salesman said I'd need a five-man crew."

"I can deliver. But can you meet my price?"

"Sure, I'm loaded," Shane said enthusiastically. He regretted it a moment later when the man who advertised himself as Ed the Eradicator quoted a price that was five hundred dollars more than Shane Billiken's current bank balance. And that wasn't counting the money he owed on the boat.

Shane swallowed twice before he burbled, "No problem." What the heck, he'd make it all back soon enough if the cosmic flow went his way.

"When the money is deposited in my Swiss account, we have a deal."

"Give me the number. I'll make the transfer the minute we disconnect."

"Then you've got your invasion team. How soon do you want to move?"

"The ship is ready to sail. It's at the Malibu Marina."

"Give me a couple of hours to work out the details."

"Sure. One thing, though."

"Yeah?"

"Can you swing by my place? I could use some help with my luggage."

Chapter 15

The High Moo led the Master of Sinanju and his freed slave from the lagoon to the very heart of Moo. They walked up the long mangrove slope where coconut palms waved above expanses of steaming turtle grass. He led them past the rice fields. The farmers were called from their work by the royal priest. Remo noticed that they were very young. Most of them were children. They laid down their hoes and adzes and followed, chanting one word over and over: "Sinanchu! Sinanchu!"

Chiun beamed with pleasure.

"See, Remo? Proper respect. You would never see this in America."

"You don't see bare-breasted girls in America. And I don't see them here either."

"Have patience."

They were escorted to high eminence on the far side of the island. Here and there, great bamboo-framed holes gaped from the dark slope like the sockets in a skull.

"These are my metal mines," said the High Moo proudly. "The greater number of them lie beyond the city where the ground rises sheer from the water. There, workers dig for the metal that makes the coins which bear my visage."

"I have seen these coins," said Chiun. "They are very fine coins, wonderfully cast. And the likeness is remarkable."

"Thank you," the High Moo said proudly. "I knew that the coins my daughter carried would bring you here."

"Truthfully," Chiun returned, "I was not enticed by your coins, fine as they are. I came to meet the High Moo, to join again my house with your house in the bondage of happy service."

"Liar," whispered Remo in English.

"What does he say?" the High Moo demanded.

"I said, I'm anxious to meet the young maidens of your village," Remo replied in Moovian.

"He speaks Moovian?"

"I taught him a few words," Chiun admitted.

"I also helped," added the Low Moo.

"I'm a quick study," Remo said. And everyone wondered what the freed white slave meant by saying, "I'm a rabbit lover."

"Does he mean that he eats them or mates with them?" the High Moo whispered to his daughter.

"I have seen him do neither," she replied, looking at Remo. He smiled at her. She smiled back, her eyes on his moon-pale arms. She had thought him too tall before, but now his long lean limbs interested her. She would ask her father later to grant her a special request about the former slave.

"Come, I hear the fires crackling," the High Moo called. "And the meat is on the spit. We must hurry, for the sun is dying."

They trudged up as they grew near the central hill that dominated Moo.

Remo noticed there were many mosquitoes and sand flies, but they left Chiun and him alone. It was a side benefit of the Sinanju diet that neither of them seemed to attract insects.

At length they reached the high plateau that was the heart of Moo.

"This is my city," the High Moo said proudly. He spread his well-muscled arms expansively.

Remo saw thatch huts on the outskirts. Snapping black eyes regarded him through the reed sides. He saw no women, much to his disappointment.

The inner buildings were stone. None were more than one story tall. But the palace was different. Made of some kind of kiln-fired brick, it reared up two stories. It had glassless windows and a flat roof with a gazebolike superstructure that Remo realized was the tallest point on the island. A vantage point.

"It's breathtaking," Remo said in Moovian. His sarcasm was lost on everyone except Chiun.

Chiun shot him a hard glance.

"Do not be so smug. I have seen your Newark."

"I'll take Newark over this jungle paradise."

"Wait until you see the women."

"I'm waiting. I'm waiting."

"Come," said the High Moo. And he led them to the courtyard of the palace.

In the stone-paved open area, fires burned in rows of rectangular earthen pits. A woman bent over a steaming pot. A man was singeing the body hair of a wild pig by hanging it over an open flame by its hind legs. There were carcasses on spits.

"There is your woman, Remo," Chiun whispered. Remo craned to see over the heads of the escorting soldiers. He saw a brown-skinned woman bending over one steaming pot. She wore a long Hawaiian-style grass skirt. Her long black hair swished as she stirred the pot's contents.

When the sounds of their approach caught her attention, she faced them expectantly.

She smiled. She had three teeth. Her face was as wrinkled as a walnut shell and her bare breasts hung like goatskin bladders.

"There," Chiun said. "Go to her, Remo, and tell her that you have crossed a mighty ocean just to behold her loveliness. I am certain she will be flattered by your attention. "

"Very funny," Remo fumed. "She's not my type."

"A breast is a breast," Chiun said flatly.

The High Moo motioned for them to form a circle around the fires. He signaled for Chiun to stand beside him and for his daughter to claim the other side. She motioned Remo to her side. The remaining villagers completed the circle.

The royal priest appeared inside the circle. "Bring the throne," he commanded.

"It is a beautiful throne," Chiun told Remo. "Gold, with many jewels. And a footrest carved of a single block of white jade."

Two men in loincloths came out of the palace bearing a squat wooden box with short legs.

"Here comes the footstool," Remo said. "Doesn't look like jade to me."

"It is wood. No doubt it is your seat," Chiun said smugly.

The stool was set behind the High Moo. "The Shark Throne," he said imperiously.

Remo looked closely. The top of the stool was covered in some kind of gray hide. At each end there were rolled protrusions resembling ornamental cushions, except that they were made of some cracked gray hide. Remo noticed flat, lifeless eyes at either end of these rolls, and suddenly realized that the stool was decorated with the heads of hammerhead sharks.

Remo grinned as the High Moo sat down. "Good thing they cut off the fin."

The royal priest motioned for the rest of the circle to sit. "Before we eat," he intoned, "we will show our visitors the greatness of Moo."

"This is the ceremonial dance," whispered Chiun. "In its fluid motions are the entire history of Moo. We will learn much of what has transpired since the days of Master Mangko. "

"Wonderful," Remo groaned. "I'm half-starved and we have to sit through a six-hour folk dance."