It was all very logical, but what did it have to do with a force of nature? It was like saying the rain was slipping.

But he was slipping nevertheless. Yet, for the better part of those eighty years, Chiun had plied his trade very well. Better than any man before. Better, perhaps, than any man would ever do again. If there were a hall of fame for assassins, the central display belonged to Chiun. They could stick everybody else, Remo Williams included, in an outside alley.

Remo rolled the monk's robe up into a brown ball, wrapped it tightly with its own white rope, and dropped it into a wastepaper basket. From a wall-length closet, he took out a pair of mustard-coloured slacks and put them on. Then a light blue sports shirt. He kicked off the sandals and slid his feet into slip-on canvas boat-shoes.

He splashed skin-bracer on his face and neck, then walked back into the living room.

The telephone was ringing. Chiun studiously ignored it.

It would be Smith, the one, the only-thank God, the only Dr. Harold W. Smith, head of CURE.

Remo picked up the telephone.

"Palazzo Monastery," he said.

The lemony voice whined at him. "Don't be a smartass, Remo." Then, "And why are you staying at the Palazzo?"

"There was no room at the inn," Remo said. "Besides, you're paying for it. Therefore it gives me pleasure."

"Oh, you're very funny today," Smith said, and Remo could picture him twirling his thirty-nine-cent plastic letter opener and magnifying glass at his desk at Folcroft Sanatorium, the headquarters for CURE.

"Well, I don't feel funny," Remo growled. "I'm supposed to be on vacation, not running errands for some…"

Smith interrupted him. "Before you get abusive, put on the scrambler, please."