MacCleary still couldn't believe the shape of the old man. The stories he'd read back in the fifties had led him to believe that the Master of Sinanju would be, well, younger. This guy looked older than dirt.

The Korean's parchment face seemed troubled to depths beyond Conn's understanding as he stared out across the bay.

"You mind if I ask you something?" MacCleary asked abruptly as he struggled with the oar.

"I do not paddle," the old Korean replied blandly. Saltwater mist speckled his white hair.

"No," Conn said. "When I came to your village before. Back, geez, seventeen, eighteen years ago. When I delivered the gold from General MacArthur. They said you weren't here because you were off training your pupil."

The Master of Sinanju didn't look at MacCleary. His narrowed eyes were locked beyond the big man, on the looming shape of the American submarine.

"What of it?" Chiun asked, his voice thin.

"Well," MacCleary began, "no offense, but... well, shouldn't your pupil be of age by now? I mean, I know some of your history here. In a generation only one Master trains a pupil. Yours should be Master by now, shouldn't he?"

Conn couldn't explain it. But later, when he recalled that moment, he would swear the freezing air of the West Korean Bay dropped by twenty degrees.

Chiun turned his head with agonizing slowness. When his eyes locked on those of MacCleary, the American was convinced that he was gazing into the face of death itself.

Chiun's voice seemed to quell the very waves. "Yes," the old man said. "He should be."

And he said no more.

They were at the sub. Conn had never been so grateful to see American sailors in his life. The young men reached down with helping hands from the ladder of the Darter.