"Good afternoon, Emperor Smith," Chiun said as he padded into the big room in the company of Conrad MacCleary.

This was the title the old Korean had decided on the previous night.

Smith reluctantly accepted it for the time being. On consideration, he realized that it wouldn't cause too many raised eyebrows given the mental state of many of Folcroft's patients. And there would be plenty of time to convince the Master of Sinanju to drop the honorific, assuming things worked out the way MacCleary seemed to think they would.

Ever punctual, Smith was standing alone in the gym reading the day's newspaper. He fully expected MacCleary to be late. After all, he usually was. Assuming it was the Master of Sinanju who had held Conn MacCleary to the preordained time, Smith folded his paper and tucked it neatly up under his arm as the men stopped before him.

MacCleary had been drinking. Smith could smell the stale booze on the big man. Not enough to be drunk. Just an eye-opener to steady the nerves for what lay ahead.

"You're going to be amazed, Smitty," Conn assured him.

Smith reserved judgment. He calmly placed his newspaper on a small shelf near a wall-mounted black phone. Crossing his arms, he waited near the door for MacCleary to set up for the demonstration.

He was surprised when MacCleary eschewed the floor mats that were rolled in the corner of the gym. Smith assumed that this Sinanju martial art was like all the others. Given the reputation of the House of Sinanju, he thought Chiun might be faster than other martial artists, but he assumed a demonstration would still involve a lot of tumbling, shouting and breaking of boards.

The CURE director knew he was in for something different when the old Oriental padded to the far side of the gym.