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"There was a show. A nurse struck you." He looked at Rad Rex carefully to see if the man would remember."

  "Oh, that."

  "Yes, precisely. That. It is a bad thing, this violence."

  "But it was only a slap," said Rex, regretting almost instantly having said it. From the pained look on Chiun's face, he could understand how the old man might regard a slap as the equivalent of World War III.

  "Ah yes. But a slap may lead to a punch. And a punch may lead to an effective blow. Before you know it, you will be dodging guns and bombs."

  Rad Rex nodded. The old man was serious.

  "Don't worry. If it ever happens again," he said, "I'll take care of her." The actor rose to his feet and assumed a karate stance, arms held high and away from his body. "One blow to the solar plexis and she will never strike a physician."

  "That is the correct attitude," said Chiun. "Because you allowed her to deal you a bad blow. Badly done, badly aimed, badly stroked. It can only embolden her."

  "When I get her, I'll fix her. Aaaah. Aaaah. Aaaah," shouted Rex, slashing imaginary targets with karate hand swords.

  "I can break a board, you know," he said pridefully.

  "That nurse did not look like a board," said Chiun. "She might strike back."

  "She'll never have the chance," said Rad Rex. He wheeled on an imaginary opponent. Out darted his left hand, fingers pointed like a spear; over his head came his right hand, crashing down as if it were an axe.

  He saw a wooden pool cue in a rack in a far corner of the room and whirled toward it, yanking it from the rack. He brought it back and placed it between the end of the sofa and the dressing table, stared at it, took a deep breath, then slashed his hand down onto the cue, which obediently cracked and clattered to the floor in two pieces.

  "Aaaah, aaaah, aaaah," he yelled, then smiled and looked at Chiun. "Pretty good, eh?"

  "You are a very good actor," said Chiun. "Where I come from you would be honored for your skill as an artificer,"

  "Yeah, yeah. But how about my karate, huh?" Rad Rex went into another rapid series of hand slashes. "How about that?"

  "Awe-inspiring," said Chiun.

  The telephone rang before Rad Rex could show Chiun any more of his martial arts skill.

  "Yes," said Rex.

  The voice was a woman's but a strange woman's voice, ice-cold and iron-hard, with no regional inflection, with not even the touch of the old South that was popular in most parts of California among women who spent their worktime talking on the telephone.

  "I am calling for Ms. Reidel. The set to which you are to take your visitor is ready now. You may take him there now. It is the set in back of the main building in the far corner of the lot. Do not tarry. Take him now."

  Click. The caller hung up before Rad Rex could speak.

  The actor grinned sheepishly at Chiun. "That's one of the things I hate about being in a new town. People herd you about like an animal."

  "True," said Chiun. "Therefore one must never go to a new town. One must be at home everywhere."

  "How to do that would be a secret worth knowing."

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

  "Dance?" said Rad Rex.

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

  "Greatest killing technique ever devised."

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

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

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

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

  "Then what's bad about it?"

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

  "And what is an art? Kung fu?"

  Chiun laughed.

  "Atemiwaza?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I'd like to learn it."

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

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

  He knew. He knew.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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

  "Why am I here?" asked Chiun.

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

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

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

  "By whom?"

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

  "Would you say mechanical?" asked Chiun.

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

  "Quick," said Chiun, "you must go."

  "But why? Why should…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "You put such faith in your guns?"

  "Fastest draw in the world," said Gordons.

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

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

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

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

  "I have no guns," said Chiun.

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

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

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

  "Hi," Remo called, driving by.

  "Hey, you, stop. Whatcha doing?" yelled Gallagher.

  "You see my ball?" Remo called. "I'm playing a Titleist Four." And he was past Gallagher and onto the lot. But where was Chiun?

  Up ahead Remo saw a familiar face and drove up to the man who was walking along, slowly shaking his head.

  Remo pulled up in front of him and said, "Where's Chiun? The old Oriental?"

  "Who wants to know?" said Rad Rex.

  "Mister, you've got one more chance. Where's Chiun?"

  Rad Rex rocked back on his heels and raised his hands in front of his chest. "Better not fool with me, buddy. I know Sinanju."

  Remo took the front of the golf cart in both hands, twisted and ripped out a piece of the fiberglass the size of a dinner plate and tossed it to Rex.

  "Is it anything like this?" he said.

  Rex looked at the heavy slab of fiberglass, then pointed over his shoulder to the closed door of the sound set. "He's in there."

  Remo drove off. Behind him Rad Rex followed him with his eyes. It looked like everybody knew Sinanju except Rad Rex. He did not think he liked being in a town of martial arts freaks. He was going back to New York, and if Wanda didn't like it, screw her. Hire somebody to screw her.

  Inside the building, Remo heard shots. He jumped off the still-moving golf cart, opened the door and raced inside.

  As he moved through the door, Mr. Gordons wheeled and fired at the movement.

  "Duck, Remo," called Chiun, and Remo hit the floor, rolling, spinning toward a large crate on the floor. Two bullets hit the door behind him.

  Remo heard Gordons' voice. "You will be next, Remo. After I have disposed of the old man."

  "He's still kind of talky, isn't he, Chiun?" Remo called.

  "Talky and inept," said Chiun.

  Remo peered over the top of the wooden crate, just in time to see Gordons fire two more shots at Chiun. The old man seemed to stand still, and Remo wanted to shout to Chiun to move, to duck, to dodge.

  But the old man seemed only to twist his body slightly and Remo could see the sudden thuds of the fabric of his robe as the bullets hit it, and Chiun called: "How many bullets, Remo, have those guns?"

  "Six each," Remo yelled back.

  "Let's see," said Chiun. "He has fired nine shots at me and two at you. That is eleven and leaves him one more."

  "He fired three at me," Remo said. "He's out of ammunition."

  "Eleven," Chiun called.

  "Twelve," yelled Remo. He stood up and again, Gordons wheeled and squeezed the trigger at Remo.

  Bang! The gun fired but Remo moved on the flash of light, before the sound, and the bullet hit the wooden box, gouging out a large slash from it.

  "That's twelve now," said Remo.

  "Then I will destroy you with my hands," Gordon said. He dropped both guns on the floor and advanced slowly toward Chiun, who backed off and began circling, away from Gordons and away from Remo, opening Gordons' back for Remo.

  Remo moved forward, between the box and the wall, toward the old Western saloon set.

  His hand brushed something as he moved, and he looked down and saw a fire extinguisher on the floor. He grabbed it up in his right hand, and came forward.

  Chiun had continued circling and now was almost over Gordons' guns. In one smooth movement, he scooped up both revolvers.

  "They are expended, gook," Gordons said. He circled, keeping his eyes on Chiun, and Remo moved up behind him until he was only five feet away.

  "No weapon is useless to the master of Sinanju," said Chiun. He twirled both guns in the air above his hand, seemed ready to unloose the gun from his left hand, then let fly the gun from his right hand.

  It buried itself deep in Gordon's stomach, but there was no sparking, even though the force of the projectile had penetrated the hard wall of the abdominal cavity.

  "His circuit controls are somewhere else, Chiun," said Remo.

  "Thank you for telling me what I have just learned," said Chiun.

  "It will do you no good," said Gordons. He moved a step closer to Chiun. "This is your end, old man. You will not evade me as you evade my bullets."

  "And you can't evade me," said Remo. He turned the fire extinguisher upside down. There was a faint chemical hiss. Gordons spun toward Remo, just as Remo squeezed the handle and a heavy white foam spritzed out of the extinguisher and swallowed up Gordon's face. As he turned, Chiun unleashed the second gun, firing it, like a deadly frisbee, end-over-end into the heel of Gordons' right foot.

  There was an immediate sparking. Gordons' hands reached up to claw the foam from his eyes, even as Remo fired more at him.

  And as he watched, Gordons' hand movements grew slower and slower and his heel continued to spark against the revolver imbedded deep in it and then Gordons said:

  "You can not escape me," but each word came out slower than the word before it until "me" sounded like "mmmeeeeeeeee," and the android dropped onto the floor at Remo's feet.

  "Bingo," said Remo. He continued spraying Gordons until the whole body was covered in a mound of thick white che
mical foam, then he tossed the empty fire extinguisher into the corner behind him.

  Chiun stepped forward and touched Gordons' prone body with a toe. There was no reflex movement.

  "How'd you know the circuits were in his heel?" asked Remo.

  Chiun shrugged. "The head was too obvious. Last time it was the stomach. This time, I decided, the foot. Particularly since I had seen him limp at the hospital."

  "This time, we get rid of him," said Remo who looked around until he found a fire axe on the wall and began chopping into the mound of foam, sending splatters ceilingward, feeling like an axe murderer and he dissected Mr. Gordons into a dozen pieces.

  "Hold," said Chiun. "It is enough."

  "I want to make sure it's dead," said Remo.

  "It is dead," said Chiun. "Even machines die."

  "Speaking of machines," said Remo. "We've got to get Smith loose."

  "It will be nothing," said Chiun.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Chiun freed Smith by long-distance telephone from the Sportsmen's Lodge.

  On the way back to the lodge, he had Remo stop in a drugstore and buy a simple bathroom scale.

  In their room, he directed Remo to call Smith.

  "Tell the emperor to have a scale brought into his room," Chiun directed. He waited while Remo transmitted the message and then waited some more while Smith got on a scale.

  "Now tell him to find his weight," said Chiun.

  "One hundred forty-seven pounds," Remo said to Chiun.

  "Now tell him to put ten pounds of weight into each pocket of his kimono and to walk from the room," said Chiun.

  Remo passed along the message.

  "Are you sure this will work?" asked Smith.

  "Of course it will work," said Remo. "Chiun hasn't lost an emperor yet."

  "I'll call you back if it works," said Smith and hung up.

  Remo waited by the phone as seconds turned to minutes.

  "Why doesn't he call?" he asked.

  "Do something productive," said Chiun. "Weigh yourself."

  "Why? Is this room mined too?"

  "Put your feet upon the scale," ordered Chiun. Remo weighed one hundred fifty-five.

  The needle had barely stopped jiggling when the telephone rang.

  "Yeah," said Remo.

  "It worked," said Smith. "I'm out. But now what? We can't leave the room mined."