When the ammunition was spent, MacCleary finally rolled out some of the practice mats. Chiun padded up to join him.

Conn MacCleary was a powerful man. Not only had he never backed away from a good brawl, Smith knew from experience that he was generally the one to instigate them.

MacCleary stripped down to his T-shirt before turning to face Chiun in the center of the largest mat. It was ridiculous, comical. Here was Conrad MacCleary-all six foot two and two-hundred-plus pounds of him-towering over a five-foot, ninety-pound Korean. There was a hint of animal anticipation on MacCleary's rugged face. For his part the Master of Sinanju was an imperturbable pool. When MacCleary lunged, Chiun seemed to be studying the treetops visible through the gym's high second-story windows.

MacCleary knew any hopes he might have had of catching the old Oriental off guard were dashed the instant he saw the dull blue exercise mat racing up to meet him. He struck the hard padding with a lung-depressing thump. Stale air burst from his mouth.

He hadn't even seen Chiun move. Nor, apparently, had Harold Smith. Unlike with the bullets, this time the CURE director hadn't seen even a hint of movement.

"Amazing," Smith said, eyes wide behind the spotless lenses of his rimless glasses.

"Such is it for those employers who wisely stock their armories with the silent sword that is Sinanju," Chiun said. "A bargain at twice the price."

On the floor MacCleary had gotten his breath back. "Cram the sales pitch," he snarled.

He tried to take down Chiun with a sweeping foot. For the next half hour, MacCleary was bounced and tossed like a sweating beanbag all around the skidding blue mats.