He looked down at his loafers to make sure the soles didn't have holes in them because no matter how much money he paid for his hand-made Italian shoes, they weren't designed for running. Maybe when he went to the Olympics, he would buy a pair of sneakers. Maybe he would buy them before he went to Moscow. In Moscow, he had heard the shoe factories spent one year making size eights and the next year size nines and so on. This might be their year for making a size that wasn't Remo's and he might not be able to get sneakers. He would buy them before going to Moscow.

"Hey, old man," the voice came again. "You with the loafers."

Remo turned around to see a tall twenty-year-old with muscular legs, blond hair, and a mocking smile staring at him.

"What are you dressed up for, Pops? A masquerade party?"

"Are you talking to me?" Remo asked.

"Who else?"

"I thought you were talking to him," Remo said, nodding toward Chiun.

"He said 'old man'," Chiun said. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Never mind," Remo said. He turned back to the blond. "Just what is it you want?"

"What I want is to know what you think you're doing here running with us? You looking for a coronary? And who is this guy?" He looked at Chiun. "Hey, Fu Manchu. What is it you do?"

The blond began to laugh uproariously at his own rhymed wit. He trotted up and down in place, to keep his muscles warm. Chiun stepped over to him

50

and placed one of his slippered feet on the young man's right foot.

He stopped trotting. It felt as if his foot had been instantly and totally nailed to the ground.

"Hey," he yelled. "Cut that out."

"Young bassoon," Chiun said, "your spirit is about to be broken. Remember this. No matter how fast you run, Remo here will always be one step ahead of you. One step. You will never to be able to pass him, no matter how hard you try, no matter how fast you run. This is a promise the Master of Sinanju makes to you for your insolence."