A grainy image appeared on the screen. It seemed to have been recorded on a very old videotape. Ghosts of other images played in the foreground and background.
"Given time, I could resolve the picture quality," the android said. "This is an old image, taken by me just prior to an earlier encounter with my enemies. I am translating it from partially damaged files into a video context that is comprehensible to your limited ocular system."
"It's fine," McQueen said.
The pain in his leg was nearly forgotten. He hobbled forward, amazed by the android's abilities.
On the TV screen were two men. Despite the ghosts and the grainy grayness of the picture, they appeared to exist almost three-dimensionally. One was a young white; the other was a very old Asian. They were strolling through what appeared to be some sort of amusement park.
"That thing you do," McQueen mused thoughtfully as he stared at the picture, "where you take the parts of stuff and incorporate them into you...?"
"My ability to assimilate," Gordons suggested.
"Yeah, that," McQueen said. "I have an idea that might knock your pals off their game. How big an object can you assimilate?"
There was no bravado in the android's voice. "How big an object do you wish me to assimilate?" McQueen flashed a ferretlike smile. He glanced around at the gloomy Gothic surroundings of his dusty mansion. There was an evil twinkle in his eye. "How about a haunted house?" asked the world-famous horror novelist.
FOR SECRECY'S SAKE, Mark Howard had driven across the New York border to Milford, Connecticut, mailing the small metal fragment Remo had collected in Florida from there. The package had been picked up and was well on its way to a laboratory for analysis by the time Mark made his way back inside his Folcroft office.
He noted the small envelope that sat on the edge of his desk as soon as he opened the door.
The morning had been so hectic that he hadn't even bothered to open the second envelope Remo had addressed to him. There was a note scrawled on the outside. With a frown, Howard reread it: "Nothing to do with what we're working on, Prince. Just leave this in my room. R."
Mark collected the envelope. It was fat but soft. Envelope in hand, Mark headed down to Remo and Chiun's quarters. He unlocked the door with his Folcroft passkey.
The common room was tidy. Probably Chiun's doing. Remo didn't strike Mark as a neat freak.
He crossed over to Remo's bedroom door. Fumbling around the corner, he flipped on the light. He was halfway to the bureau when he stopped dead. Jaw dropping, Mark swung his head slowly around. All four walls were covered with scraps of paper. Mark couldn't believe his eyes.
B. O. Anson Dead!
B.O. KO'd By Runaway Golfball. FORE!
LAPD Denies Involvement.
The headlines blared from every corner. Since Anson's death, Remo had to have collected every newspaper and magazine article he could find. On many of the articles, pictures of Anson's grinning face and dead eyes stared out at the room.
Mark couldn't believe what he was seeing. Four walls dedicated to the death of B. O. Anson. A shrine to Anson's murder. He realized with a sinking feeling that this was precisely the sort of thing a serial killer would do.
All at once he remembered the envelope in his hands. With anxious fingers, Mark tore open the bulging envelope.
More articles on Anson's death spilled out, these ones from Florida papers.
Mark glanced up once more. Jaw clenching, he shook his head in disbelief.
This was worse than stupid. It was dangerous. Remo had crossed a line far worse than before. Going over to the nearest wall, Howard began the laborious task of pulling down the many clippings.
Chapter 20
"It is time," the Master of Sinanju announced abruptly.
They were on the flight to Maine.
Remo glanced around the cabin, a concerned expression on his face. He assumed that Chiun had seen another passenger of Vietnamese descent and was about to embark on a fresh round of candy-corn-inspired ethnic cleansing. When Remo saw no Asian faces, he didn't know whether he should be relieved or even more worried.
"Time for what?" he asked cautiously.
"Time for you to listen," Chiun said. "For I am going to tell you the dark tale of Master Shiko and the truth behind the infamous yeti of the Himalayas."
"Oh. You sure you don't want to assault any of the other passengers?" Remo asked hopefully. "I think I smelled a Frenchman back in coach." He rose halfway to his feet.
With one bony hand the Master of Sinanju drew him back down into his seat.
"Now, this did take place but a few scant centuries ago," Chiun began. His singsong voice took on the familiar cadence of storyteller. "It was during that period of time after which Master Shiko had already trained a Master to succeed him, but before his time of ritual seclusion. Since his heir had not yet chosen a pupil of his own to pass on the ways of Sinanju, Master Shiko had not yet relinquished the title of Reigning Master, even though he had already ceded most of his responsibilities to his young protege."
In the seat beside Chiun, Remo shifted uneasily. His teacher's words were a reminder of something he didn't want to think about right now.
If Chiun sensed his pupil's discomfort, he didn't show it. He continued with his story.
"Even though Shiko was in but the waning days of his first full century and still technically true claimant of the title Master, his health was not as it had once been. His infirmity was not the result of age alone," Chiun quickly pointed out, "but was due to an encounter several years before with a cult of fireworshiping Ghebers in Persia."
"Gabors?" Remo asked. "Like Zsa Zsa and Eva?"
Chiun's papery lips pursed. "There are medications, Remo, for children with wandering minds. I will ask Emperor Smith to write you a prescription." Not desiring another intrusion, he continued. "The Ghebers were a once-powerful sect of Zoroastrians, thought extinct by Sinanju."
This triggered something from far back in Remo's memory. "Those Zeroequestrians were astrologers, weren't they?" he asked. "I remember Sister Irene saying that that's what the three Wise Men were way back in grade-school religion class."
Chiun shook his head impatiently. "As usual the carpenter's maidens have dropped in a single fact to float in the pool of their fictions. Yes, some were that. Others were much, much more. And that they were Zoroastrians is irrelevant. That they were from Persia is what matters." He continued his story. "In the sunset of his life Master Shiko was summoned to perform a minor service for a Persian emir. The emir wished the Master to remove a band of cutthroats that was terrorizing the lowlands of his kingdom.
"Now, under ordinary circumstances, though still Reigning Master, Shiko would have remained in Sinanju to mend the nets and watch the children play, allowing his pupil, whose name was Hya-Tee, to go in his stead. However, since Persia was the place where he had met great hardship, Shiko did not wish to risk endangering his pupil so early in his life, Hya-Tee having seen a mere forty-five summers. And so in his age and infirmity did Master Shiko take up his bundle and travel to the distant land of the Persian emirs."
Remo shook his head. "If Shiko was in such crummy shape, shouldn't Hya-Tee have insisted that he go instead?"
"There are Apprentice Reigning Masters and there are Reigning Masters," Chiun replied evenly. "In your experience, Remo, which one has the last word?"
At this Remo couldn't argue.
Satisfied, Chiun resumed his tale. "Now, it should be known that, although in failing health by Sinanju standards, Shiko was still better than any mere man. His bones were old, his sight was poor and some have said that his mind was beginning to precede his body into the Void, yet all of this mattered not when it came to the task he was to perform. In Persia he did impress the court of this lesser emir with his displays of speed and skill. And this was as it should be, for in his youth Shiko was as able as any Master who had come before, save only the greatest of the line. Verily did Shiko slay the murderous highwayman and, receiving payment in full, did he begin the long trek overland back to Sinanju.
"It was during his journey home that Master Shiko did make a most grave mistake. Flush with his success and the accolades he had received at court, Shiko did see himself for what he once was. In the clouding mind that sometimes comes with the sicknesses of age he once more became the man of his youth. Rather than take the longer, safer path that he had used for his earlier journey to Persia, he did take the less certain route he had employed several times as a young man.
"And lo did Shiko abandon the wisdom of age and travel did he up the treacherous route through the Himalayas. His path did bring him to Nepal and past the rude buildings that would one day rise up to become what is now the famed Tengpoche Monastery, which sits in the shadow of Chomolunga, the highest mountain in all the world."
In spite of himself, Remo had found that he was being drawn into the story. But at this, he had to interrupt.
"Wait," he said. "If it's in the Himalayas, that's gotta be Mount Everest, not Chumbawumba."