Only when the communist boats had gone did the hatch open. A lone man left the submarine and found his way into the village to the Master's house, there to seek an audience with the Reigning Master. Hours later that same man now waited at the shore for the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun would go to him shortly. But there was one stop he had to make first.

The hillside became a plateau. At the top yawned the mouth of a deep cave. Around its entrance grew three trees-a pine, a bamboo and a plum blossom. Moving among the trees was a lone figure. Although Chiun had seen nearly eighty summers, the old man on the hilltop had obviously lived many more than that.

He was heavyset and bald. Age had whitened his skin. The flesh was pulled taut over knots of fragile bone.

He didn't incline his head Chiun's way. His back to the bay, the aged figure seemed oblivious to his visitor. Yet as Chiun approached, the ancient man spoke.

"There is no beauty to that sailing vessel," the old man said. His voice was thin and quavered with great age. With yellowed fingernails he clipped a sucker from the plum tree.

He nodded back over his shoulder. Only the very tips of the Horns of Welcome were visible this high up. Pincered between the tops of the curved rocks was the submarine.

"A ship should have sails," the elderly man said. "In my day some still had them. Now none do. It is sad that you live in this age without having experienced at least some of the last, young Chiun. It was a magnificent time."

At this the old man finally turned.

When he beheld the ancient man's face, Chiun was forced to mask his deep sadness.

Once bright eyes were clouded with puffs of white. The blindness was recent and had come on rapidly. It grew worse with each passing day. It would only be a matter of months before he was completely blind. If his failing vision bothered the older man, it didn't show. The heavy man offered Chiun a knowing smile.