"So how long does this judging thing go on?"

"It depends," Chiun replied, his eyes glued to the flickering television set. "It could be brief or long."

"It's been weeks," Remo complained. "I feel like a freaking zoo exhibit."

"Said the monkey to the chimp."

"Ha-ha. It's gotten so I can't even go to the can in peace. Did it take this many weeks for you?"

"For me?" Chiun bristled, insulted. "Of course not. Why would the ghosts of my ancestors need to waste their precious time watching for a mistake from someone who obviously doesn't make mistakes? The dead have better things to do, Remo."

"So how long will they watch me?"

"Ten million years," Chiun replied. "Shush." The old man's program was back on.

It wasn't ten million yet, but it was right around one year since he'd first awakened to his supernatural spectators and they hadn't left him alone for a minute. Even though it had gone on for what seemed like an eternity, it remained a feeling Remo doubted he'd ever get used to.

They were with him always. Watching, judging. Remo had thought his teacher's gaze during training was bad. After all, Chiun hadn't been the most forgiving instructor. Multiplied by a thousand, it was worse than he'd ever imagined.

The invisible eyes were there morning, noon and night.

They were with him earlier that afternoon when he was watching the twelve-o'clock news in the Stamford, Connecticut, duplex he now shared with the Master of Sinanju.