"Dr. Charlese, I would like you to meet Chiun, the latest Master of Sinanju."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," said Dr. Charlese. He offered a pudgy hand. Chiun did not turn around. Dr. Charlese looked to Remo, confused.

"He says hello a little differently," said Remo, by way of explanation. Chiun's way of saying hello was to not even turn his head as Remo explained some of the things Dr. Charlese had been talking about.

"Breathing," Remo said. "Nothing mysterious. Nothing great. Just good old American science. By white men."

Chiun chuckled. "Am I now led to believe the awesome magnificence of the Glorious House of Sinanju has been put into a little pill for people? That centuries of discipline and wisdom can be discovered in a test tube?"

"No test tube," said Remo. "Breathing."

"When we talk of breathing, we talk of approaching the unity which makes you a force," Chiun said. "When that man talks of breathing, he means puffing."

"I don't think so, Little Father. I think they may have stumbled onto something. Maybe by accident."

"So glad to meet you, sir. The name's Charlese. Dr. Averill Charlese, no relation to Averill Harriman, the millionaire. And you, sir, are Mr. Chiun?"

Chiun looked off into the blue Mexican sky outside their window.

"He doesn't like to discuss these things with strangers, especially foreigners."

"I'm not foreign. I'm American," said Dr. Charlese. "And so are you."

Remo heard Chiun mumble something in Korean about being able to take whiteness out of the mind but not the soul.

"Go ahead, talk. He's really listening," Remo said. Dr. Charlese began drawing diagrams of the mind on small white cloths he found under an unused ashtray.

Breathing, thought Remo. It had been more than a decade now since he heard that first strange instruction. More than a decade since he had stopped using his body and mind only partially, as other men did.