"This is the last time I will look on your face with these failing eyes," H'si T'ang said. "I want to be sure I remember it."

As he studied his pupil, the translucent flesh of his old, old face pulled into a satisfied smile. When he was finished, his fingers slipped from Chiun's chin. Wordlessly, H'si T'ang turned back to his plum tree.

The ancient man resumed his work. Busy nails clipped another small shoot.

Chiun left his teacher to his pruning. With a troubled shadow across his parchment brow he left the plateau.

Only when his pupil was gone did H'si T'ang stop his pruning. Eyes of milk turned to face the shore. The fuzzy blot of the submarine was barely visible in the bay.

"Have a care, my son," the Venerable One said in a voice so low Chiun's sensitive ears could not hear. "While you are racing off to fulfill one legend, do not allow yourself to be blinded to the second."

Laced with foreboding, his words of caution were carried off on the wind. They were lost in the sounds of celebration that still rose from the squalid main street of Sinanju.

Chapter 2

The American looked up with bleary eyes.

He had waited so long that he had passed out from the cold. The villagers had revived him. Someone started a fire. Sitting on the edge of a rubber raft, he leaned near the flames, arms drawn in tight to his chest.

When he saw the old Korean approaching, he stood. There was a hook where his left hand should have been.

"You about ready to go?" he grunted. The collar of his trench coat was turned up in a futile attempt to ward off the bitter Korean cold.

Padding up beside the big man, Chiun aimed his chin toward the water's edge where three steamer trunks bobbed in the frothy water like colorful corks. The trunks had been lashed together with wire from the waiting submarine.