"Meaning we're lost," Remo said, crumbling the rock to dust.

Chiun shrugged. "What does it matter? If one is not in Sinanju, it makes no difference where one is."

"It does if you're in the middle of the Gobi desert."

Chiun clucked. "The Gobi. Only a white man would take this for the Gobi. Have you taken no notice of the flora?" He pointed to a patch of white near the eastern horizon.

"That's not flora," Remo said. "It's the bones of some poor sucker caught out here after seven A.M. That's fauna. Dead fauna."

"Complaints, complaints." The old Oriental adjusted his crimson satin robe and tossed Remo another rock.

"How long do I have to keep doing this?"

"You do not have to keep doing anything. Just do it once. Then we may progress."

"Progress where?"

"To the jungle, I think. You could use more jungle experience."

"Oh, great. Just great. I suppose you'll want me to squeeze rocks in the jungle, too."

"Don't be foolish. Anyone can get water from a rock in a jungle."

"Yeah, I know. It takes imagination to get water from a rock in the desert."

"It is not a matter of imagination," Chiun snapped. "It is a matter of timing. Hold the rock downward, so that the moisture cannot evaporate before you see it." He demonstrated.

Remo held out his hand, imitating the old man, weighing the rock between his fingers. "Like this?"

"Yes," Chiun said crisply. "Of course, it is no good now that I've had to tell you."

"Hey, it's working." Remo felt the faint accumulation of moisture on his skin. He opened his hand, and the dry dust blew away in the wind. He rubbed his fingers together.

"This isn't water," he said.

"Oh? And what is it, o knowledgeable one? Camel dung?"

He sniffed his fingers. "It's oil."

"Oil? Desert oil?" His eyes glinted. "Worth many millions in gold?"