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  The voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith came on the line. "Yes, Mr. President?"

  "We're at a dead end with this Gagarin incident. But I have some information for you. The FBI informs me that the man who was seen boarding the craft when it was on the ground was a known fugitive named Earl Armalide. He was seen in your area only two days ago. I don't know what any of it means, but I can't help but recall that problem we had with the Russians last year."

  "In the past, Mr. President," Smith said formally.

  "We lost our enforcement arm during that mess. Just because we paid with our dearest blood doesn't mean that the Soviets aren't out to even the score."

  "I am certain I can assure you that the Gagarin incident is not a part of any such senario."

  "The military think the shuttle has gone back to Russia. What do you think?"

  "I cannot speculate on that, sir. But my special person is already looking into this."

  "Good. I have enough meatballs working for me on this end. I need someone I can rely on. You're the man, Smith."

  "Thank you, Mr. President. I appreciate your saying that."

  "Then why do you sound like I just broke the news that you have terminal cancer?"

  "Er, yes, Mr. President," said Smith awkwardly. "I'll get back to you when I have something concrete."

  At Folcroft, Dr. Harold W. Smith hung up the phone. Although alone, he tightened his Dartmouth tie selfconsciously. He liked the current President. But the nature of Smith's job required that no personal bond be formed with the President. Smith could not afford a chief executive who thought that he could call on CURE to solve every little problem that came along. The unwritten CURE charter stipulated that the President could suggest missions, but not order them. A President had only eight years in office, tops. But Harold Smith was in his job for life.

  He sat back and waited for Chiun to report in. Remo Williams whistled as he walked through the Seattle-Tacoma Airport. He was in a good mood. True, he had not exactly eradicated the problem of the homeless in America, but it wasn't his fault that he couldn't find any. But he could take pleasure in solving the bizarre plight of Dexter Barn, now sleeping peacefully through the first leg of his trip to a happier tomorrow. It had been a neat solution to a difficult matter and Remo was especially proud that he hadn't had to kill anyone. He was retired from killing. Killing was in the past. In a few months Remo would ship out for Korea one last time and settle down with his bride-to-be, Mah-Li, and raise a family. Maybe he would teach his children Sinanju. But he would not teach them to kill. No, he would teach them just enough Sinanju so they could become famous acrobats or entertainers. Yes, that was it. Maybe when they grew up he would start a family circus. Remo used to dream of running away and joining a circus when he was a boy. All boys, he supposed, did. Remo used to dream of walking the high wire without a net.

  Remo had walked all the way from town because he had run out of money. No longer employed, he didn't have the credit cards or cash that Smitty used to supply him with. Remo had come back from Sinanju with some gold from the treasure house of the village, but he had spent the last ingot worth about four hundred dollars--on the case of dog food. The grocer had refused to give him change, claiming that he hadn't that much cash in the entire store. No one, it seemed, liked to change gold ingots these days, thought Remo as he searched for a working pay phone.

  Still whistling, Remo walked to the next terminal. He would call Chiun when he found a pay phone that worked. Chiun would lend him some money. Normally he would have asked Smitty, but Smith would probably ask for collateral and Remo was wearing all the collateral he had to his name.

  There was no answer from Chiun's room, so Remo asked the operator to switch him to Dr. Smith's office. "Remo," Smith said. "I'm glad you called."

  "You are?" said Remo. "Think about that a minute. I still don't work for you."

  "I need you here, right away."

  "Nothing doing," said Remo. "I'm retired. No more missions, no more killing."

  "Are you familiar with the landing of the Yuri Gagarin?"

  "No, but I can hum 'Sink the Bismarck.' "

  "Don't be smart, Remo. Chiun was just brought into Folcroft. There's something terribly wrong with him, and I have reason to believe it is related to the missing Soviet space shuttle."

  "Chiun?" whispered Remo, gripping the receiver until he left fingerprints embedded in the plastic.

  "Folcroft doctors are examining him now."

  "He might be faking," Remo said slowly. "He did that once before. At least, I think he was faking that last time. "

  "I don't know, Remo. It looks serious. And Anna swears it's connected with the Gagarin mystery."

  "Anna? Is that your wife's pet name this week?"

  "No. Anna Chutesov. You remember her."

  "Oh, her. Was she asking for me?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes."

  "Did you tell her I was engaged?" Remo asked in an anxious voice.

  "No, I didn't think it was important."

  "Try to break it to her before I get there, Smitty. I don't need any more problems right now."

  "Please hurry."

  "Don't hang up yet, Smitty. I'm out of money. Can you arrange airfare for me?"

  "Go to the Winglight Airlines desk. A ticket will be waiting for you there. Where are you, by the way?"

  "Seattle."

  "First class or coach?"

  "First class," said Remo. "You must really need me, Smitty. In the old days, I never had a choice."

  "I expect you to reimburse me for the fare, of course," said Dr. Harold W. Smith.

  "Of course," parroted Remo Williams. "National security is only national security, but the Folcroft budget is forever." And he tossed the receiver to the floor and walked away.

  Chapter 11

  Remo Williams brushed past the secretary.

  "I'm sorry, sir. Dr. Smith is in conference," the secretary said.

  "He'll see me," Remo snapped, tight-lipped.

  The bosomy woman jumped to her feet and put her head into Smith's office one step ahead of Remo Williams. "I'm sorry, Dr. Smith, I couldn't stop him," she apologized, getting out of Remo's way just in time.

  Dr. Harold W. Smith saw the rock-hard face of Remo Williams and said, "Quite all right, Mrs. Mikulka. No one could."

  "Where is he, Smitty?" said Remo. "Where's Chiun?" Anna Chutesov rose from her corner seat.

  "Hello, darling," she said in a warm voice. She walked up to give him a welcoming hug and found herself clutching empty air.

  "Hi," Remo said without glancing in her direction. To Smith he repeated his demand. "Chiun. Take me to him."

  "This way, Remo," said Smith. He led Remo to the elevator.

  Anna Chutesov stood rigid, disbelief marking her unblemished complexion. When she realized she was being left behind, she ran after the pair and squeezed through the closing elevator doors. Remo was in a heated conversation with Smith.

  "He's regained consciousness and is asking for you," Smith said. "The doctors are certain he will be all right."

  "Then what was the problem?" Remo wanted to know.

  "Better let Chiun explain it to you."

  Remo stared at the ceiling light, flexing his thick wrists impatiently. "He'd better not be faking this time. He just better not be," Remo warned. But the sick worry on his face belied his harsh tone.

  "He is not," said Anna crisply.

  "How would you know?" asked Remo distantly, as if months had not passed since they had said warm farewells to one another.

  "I was with him when it happened."

  The elevator doors slid open, and without waiting, Remo brushed past Anna Chutesov as if he had suddenly forgotten they were talking.

  He found Chiun sitting up in a hospital bed. The visage of the Master of Sinanju was waxy and pale, but Remo's attuned hearing told him Chiun's heartbeat and lung action were normal.

  "Little Father, what happened to you?" Remo asked.

  "Death," said Chiun
hollowly.

  "You're not dead," said Remo.

  "I am not dead," agreed Chiun. "Not yet. But I do not matter. Sinanju is dead. The future is dead. It is gone, all of it gone."

  Remo, hearing the trembling anguish in the voice of the Master of Sinanju, knew that his mentor was not faking. The pain was real. Remo sat at the edge of the bed, took Chiun's long-nailed hand in his, and pressed it concernedly.

  "Tell me all about it, Little Father," he said.

  "There are many deaths, Remo. There are the death of body and the death of mind and the death of spirit." Remo nodded. Smith and Anna Chutesov hovered in the open doorway, reluctant to intrude.

  Chiun turned his hazel eyes upon Remo's deep brown ones.

  "But there is a worse death than any of those," he intoned. "Woe to the House of Sinanju. I shall rue the day I allowed that woman to lure me into that place of doom."

  "Woman?" wondered Remo, looking at Anna Chutesov. He looked right through her as if she weren't there. Anna flinched under the indifference of his gaze.

  "I was learning to drive a motor carriage," Chiun explained. "Do not trouble yourself that you were too easily bored to complete your teaching. I understand. You were too busy seeking the unfindable homeless to care for your adopted father, who spent nearly two decades training you in the sun source. A few hours of instruction in return were too valuable to you. But it is of no moment. I understand."

  Remo squeezed Chiun's hand.

  "Cut it out, Chiun. I don't want to hear guilt. I want to hear what happened."

  "The Russian woman lured me into the diabolical temple with the Russian name. She promised the Master of Sinanju a few moments of diversion from his cares and worries. But before it was over, I felt it die within me. All of it."

  "Die? What died?"

  "The future of Sinanju."

  "I am the future of Sinanju. Haven't you always said that?"

  "You are the future of my house, Remo. But not of the pure line. The pure line ends with me."

  "That's news?"

  "Tell them to be gone," Chiun said, gesturing in the direction of the open door.

  Remo turned. "Could you two give us a minute? This is family stuff." And Chiun smiled wanly.

  "We'll be in my office," said Smith. Anna went reluctantly, her features a patchwork of confusion. Remo was ignoring her.

  When they had gone, Chiun laid his aged head against the double pillows.

  "Lean closer, my son, that I may speak of my misfortune. It is too unbearable to say aloud. I will whisper it. "

  Puzzled, Remo leaned his ear next to Chiun's thin mouth.

  "I can no longer have children," the Master of Sinanju intoned in a doleful hush.

  Remo looked blank. "Children?"

  Chiun nodded. "The seed within me has died. It is the fault of the Russian woman-her and that place of death."

  "Seed?"

  "Yes, seed. You know, Remo. The male seed. The seed that makes the female fat with child."

  "Are you trying to tell me you're impotent?"

  "Shhh! Do you want the whole of Folcroft to know of my shame?" Remo saw the color come back into Chiun's cheeks, but it was buried beneath the skin, like roses under wax.

  "Little Father," Remo said gently, "these things happen. You get older, you slow down, things change. I don't think it is so terrible."

  "So terrible!" Chiun hissed. "Is there wax in your white ears? There can be no offspring of my bloodline. It is over. When I awoke from my fevered sleep, I knew it instantly. The seed no longer burned within my loins. Alas, no woman will ever bear it now."

  "Remo stood up."

  "Little Father, I think I understand your disappointment. But as long as I've known you, you've never expressed any interest in having children. I always thought I was sort of ... well, you know."

  A gentle light sprang into the eyes of the Master of Sinanju. "You are, Remo. But you are not the blood of my blood. Oh, there is some Korean in you. We both know this. But you are not the product of the pure seed of Sinanju."

  Remo shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm sorry if that disappoints you, Chiun. But I thought I was good enough."

  The Master of Sinanju reached out to touch Remo's arm. "Do not be hurt, Remo. There is being a son and being a son. I think no less of you than I would if my dead wife had birthed you in the shadow of the Horns of Welcome itself."

  "Then what's the problem?"

  "The problem is that my seed has died."

  "So, it died. You weren't planning on remarrying, were you?"

  "Phaggh!" Chiun spat. "No. One disappointment of a barren wife was enough. But the seed of Sinanju was there, should I have had need of it."

  "For what? A sperm bank?"

  "You're being insulting, Remo."

  "Okay, okay. I just don't understand the fuss. You seem to be fine. I'm thrilled. That's all I care about."

  "Typical," clucked Chiun. "You think only of the moment, not of the future. Very well, I will explain it so that even your dense brain will absorb the true import of this calamity."

  Remo folded his arms. "I'm listening."

  "I am the last of the pure line of Sinanju. You are the next Master, not of the pure line, but you will do."

  "Thanks," Remo said dryly.

  "I mean no insult. You have done well. For a white. But Sinanju is not merely the skills, not only the sun source. It is a blood tradition that has been passed down the line of my ancestors for centuries."

  "It fell apart when you could find no relative worthy of training," Remo said. "That's how I came into the picture."

  "An oversimplification-but what can I expect from one of your mentality? Try to follow along now. You are the next Master of Sinanju. When I am dust, you will take my place. But suppose something were to happen to you?"

  "You'd have to start all over and train another, I guess."

  "I am too old for another uphill struggle with a grown pupil. If you were to perish, I would have to start with a babe, which is the traditional way to train a future Master. Preferably a Korean. More preferably of my village, and even more preferably of my seed."

  "I get it," said Remo suddenly. "If I were out of the picture, you'd try for another son."

  "Yes," said Chiun. "Exactly." Then his voice trailed off. He looked at Remo suspiciously.

  "What do you mean-another son?" Chiun asked. Flustered, Remo tried to cover up. "I meant another son, like me. I'm your son, sort of."

  "That is not what you meant, Remo. Speak to me."

  "I know about the son who died," Remo admitted.

  "How?" said Chiun, sitting up. "I have never told you that story."

  "True," Remo admitted.

  "Have you been looking through my personal scrolls?"

  "Never," said Remo, crossing two fingers over his heart and giving the Boy Scout salute.

  "What, then?"

  "The Great Wang told me. It was one of the things we talked about when his spirit appeared before me and I passed into full Masterhood."

  "That gossip!" hissed Chiun. "He was always a gossip."

  "Hey, that's no way to speak of the dead. Not to mention the greatest Master in the history of Sinanju."

  "I do not wish to discuss it."

  "I understand, Little Father. Maybe someday you will. Maybe someday you will see me as the son fate denied you."

  "I would rather see you as the avenger of the seed of Sinanju."

  "You want revenge, huh?"

  "It is your duty. Our duty."

  "I'm game."

  "We must be careful," said Chiun, raising an admonishing finger. "I do not want you to lose your seed too."

  "Oh, don't worry about me," Remo said airily. "I think I have a few good years left in me."

  "You have not listened to a word I have said. This is not a calamity of aging, for I am still young in Sinanju years, but of deliberate evil. Someone did this to me. He is doing it to others. We must stop him."

  "Okay," Remo said, still
not following Chiun. "We'll stop him."

  The Master of Sinanju sank back into the bed and closed his eyes wearily. "He has ears, but he does not understand," he muttered.

  Anna Chutesov was hitting a high C when Remo walked into Smith's office.

  "I am telling you that someone has perpetrated a heinous crime against my country," she railed.

  "Calm down, Ms. Chutesov. I understand your frustration, but your theory is not ... plausible."

  "I know what I know."

  "And I know nothing," Remo interjected. "Somebody fill me in."

  Anna Chutesov presented Remo with her shapely back. Remo ignored the slight.

  "Ms. Chutesov thinks she has found the Soviets' missing space shuttle."

  "Thinks!" Anna blazed. "I know."

  "Stenciled letters on an inside wall are not exactly conclusive proof," said Smith dryly. He was seated behind his big oak desk. The computer terminal was up from its concealed port and running. Smith had sent his secretary off on an errand. He was uncomfortable conducting CURE meetings in his office, but he had no choice.

  "It was the Gagarin," Anna Chutesov insisted. "Why else would it have the same name?"

  "What's the Gagarin?" Remo asked.

  "Ms. Chutesov is here on authority of her government to recover their missing shuttle, which may have crashed in this area."

  "I got that much," Remo said.

  "The shuttle is named Yuri Gagarin. She thinks she's found it."

  "I have found it," Anna Chutesov bristled. "It is now called the Yuri Gagarin Free Car Wash."

  Remo looked at Smith and silently made circles over his temple with a finger. He mouthed one word behind Anna's cool back: crazy?

  Smith shook his head in the negative. "That doesn't sound right," Remo said.

  Anna whirled on him. "What would you know, you ... you suktin synP"

  "Hey," Remo said in a hurt voice. "What happened to detente? And the good times we once had?"

  Anna sputtered something unintelligible. "Did you tell her?" Remo asked Smith.

  "No time," Smith said. "It never came up."

  "What never came up?" Anna demanded.

  "My new situation," Remo said, suddenly understanding Anna's bad mood. She had expected to pick up their casual relationship where it had left off months ago. She didn't know about Mah-Li. "Never mind," Remo sighed. "I'll fill you in later." To Smith he said, "I think Chiun will recover. He claims that he's been sterilized."