"So do I. It's poetic as hell." The fist again punched at the air. "But Accounting said it just doesn't grab. This isn't a poetry book. This is a history of a house of assassins."
"And you will leave in that part about the ingratitude of whites?"
"Absolutely," said the senior editor. "Loved it."
"All right," said Chiun with a sigh.
"And let's have a new title. The History of Sinanju certainly isn't a grabber. What about something to do with death?"
"Never. We are not killers. We are assassins."
"Well, you've got Sinanju running through the whole book. Do we have to put it on the cover too? Don't you want the book to sell?"
Chiun thought for a moment.
"All right," he said.
"Do you have a good title?" she asked.
"If it is not Sinanju, I don't care," Chiun said.
"I like something mysterious," the senior editor said. "What about The Needle's Eye?"
"Wasn't there a white book by that name?"
"Something like that," she said, "and it sold beautifully. You can't beat success. We've been copying success for years now."
She did not mention that when her company had a chance to buy Eye of the Needle, it had turned it down because it wasn't Gone with the Wind. It had turned down Gone with the Wind because it wasn't Huckleberry Finn. It had turned down Huckleberry Finn because it wasn't Ben Hur.
It had published none of those books, but it had copied them all instantly.
Bingham Publishing produced more books every year that did not make money than any other house in the publishing business. When the annual report came in showing it had lost money, they tried to make up for the deficits by increasing the number of books. This increased the deficits. Someone suggested they publish fewer books. That person was instantly fired for stupidity. Everyone knew the way to show a profit was to publish more and more books, even if they all lost money.
Bingham had once published a fifteen-year-old New York City telephone directory because the phone company had called it the most well-distributed book of all time.
Bingham put a swastika on the cover, called it Stranger's Lust Nest, because sex sold, put four million copies in the stores, and were honestly amazed when 3,999,999 were returned unbought.
"I understand this business," the senior editor told Chiun. "We've got a wonderful book here. All we have to do is make these few wonderful changes."
"And you will leave in white ingratitude for the teachings of Sinanju?" asked Chiun.
"Of course. If it fits."
"If?" said Chiun.
"Well, you know you just can't throw in an Oriental in a Nazi book."
"You have had success with Nazi books?" Chiun asked.
"Actually, no. We haven't. But others have. A lot of success. Wonderful success."
"If you have no success with them, why don't you publish something that is not a Nazi book?" Chiun asked.
"And go against success?" the editor said, shaking her head in amazement. Her red pencil poised over the paper.
Chiun reached a long-nailed hand across the desk and removed, with grace, his manuscript.
"The House of Sinanju is not for sale," he said. And then, with the nails working in vibrating rhythms, he removed the red marks of the white woman.
"Wait a second. We can go along with a few of your ideas if you feel strongly about them."
But Chiun was already on his feet. He knew he already had made too many compromises with this manuscript, the greatest being that it was not written in Hu, the Korean dialect of Ung poetry. No more compromises.
He tucked the manuscript under his arm and was escorted out through the main entrance by a younger woman who told him of her ambition to become a senior editor also. She had one obstacle she had to overcome, however. She kept suggesting that Bingham Publishing buy books that she enjoyed reading.
"And?" asked Chiun.
"They told me to ignore that feeling. If it would bore drying paint and not be believed by anyone over four and treat every sex act like the pivotal point of universal history, then we should buy it. Otherwise, no."
"Did you read The History of Sinanju?" Chiun asked.
The young girl nodded. "I loved it. I got to understand something about history and how the human body can be used and how people can rise above themselves if they learn. I couldn't put it down."
"So you wanted to buy it?" Chiun asked.
"No, I voted against buying it. I'm moving up."
"That makes no sense," Chiun said.
"Authors are unreasonable," she said huffily. "You all forget that publishing is a business."
"You really will make a wonderful senior editor," Chiun said. "You will have an office no bigger than one of those telephone places."
"You really think so?" the young woman gushed.
"Without doubt," Chiun said.
"How do you know? Why do you think so?"
"Because you make them look intelligent," Chiun said.
Remo had left a note for Chiun at the hotel. "Be back in a few days if the world is still here."
Chiun held the note in his hand. A rude missive. Typical of Remo.
He went to one of his steamer trunks and took out more long sheets of rice paper and an old-fashioned pen and inkwell.