Remo walked back to his hotel room, strolling past the Playboy Club, where he waved at people sitting near the windows and yelled at them that they ought to be playing racquetball, instead of drinking so early in the day.

Back at his room, he walked up to an aged Oriental who sat in a lotus position in the middle of the carpeted floor. Remo said, "I am Everyman. Beware my vengeance." He pointed his index finger toward the ceiling for emphasis.

The Oriental rose in one smooth motion, like smoke escaping from a jar, and faced Remo. The old man was barely five feet tall and had never seen a

25

hundred pounds. At the sides of his head, white wisps of hair flitted out from his dried yellow skin.

"Come, my son, and sit," he said to Remo, guiding the young man forcefully to the couch. Remo didn't want to sit down. The old man gently touched his chest and Remo sat down.

The old man shook his head and said sadly, "I have been expecting this."

"Expecting what, Chiun?" Remo asked.

"The strain of learning the techniques of Sinanju has finally driven you mad. It is my fault. I should have known that a white man could not stand the strain forever, even with my genius to guide him. It is like trying to pour an ocean into a cup. Eventually the cup must crack. You have cracked. But remember this, Remo, before they come to take you away: you did well to last this long."

"Come on, Chiun. It was a joke."

Chiun had returned to the lotus position and appeared to be praying for Remo's memory, his hands folded across the lap of his purple kimono.

"Chiun, stop it. I'm not crazy. It was just a joke."

"A joke?" Chiun said, looking up.

"Yes. A joke."

Chiun shook his head again. "Worse than I feared. Now he jokes with the teachings of the Master of Sinanju?"