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sidewalk.
As he walked away, he thought about yellow scarves.
And he thought about how much he missed Chiun, and wished more than ever that
the Master of Sinanju were still around.
If the yellow strangling scarves and the cold feeling deep in his stomach
meant anything, Remo needed the Master of Sinanju as he had never needed him
before.
But Chiun was gone. And Remo walked alone. And there was no one to protect him
if his worst fears proved true.
Chapter 10
Remo walked the humid streets of Washington, D.C., with his hands crammed into
his pockets and his sad eyes on the endless pavement unwinding under his
feet.
He tried to shove the fear into the deepest recesses of his mind. He tried to
push the ugly memories back into some dark corner where he could ignore them.
"Why now?" he said, half-aloud.
Hearing him, an alley-dwelling wino lifted a paper-bagwrapped green bottle in
salute. "Why not?" he said. He upended the bottle and chugalugged it dry.
Remo kept walking.
It had been bad before, but if what he suspected was true, Remo's life had
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just taken a turn toward catastrophe. He considered, then rejected, calling
Smith. But Smith would not understand. He believed in computers and balanced
books and bottom lines. He understood cause and effect, action and reaction.
Harold Smith did not understand Sinanju. He would not understand Remo if Remo
attempted to tell him the true significance of the yellow silk scarves. Remo
could not tell him. That was that. Smith would only tell Remo that his story
was preposterous, his fears groundless, and his duty was to America.
But as Remo's feet carried him toward the Capitol Building, he thought that
his responsibilities were also with the inhabitants of Sinanju, who, when the
Master of Sinanju failed them, were forced to send their babies home to the
sea. Which was a polite phrase for infanticide. He owed Smith only the empty
grave somewhere in New Jersey. To Chiun, and therefore to the Masters of
Sinanju who had preceded him, Remo owed much, much more.
Were it not for Chiun, Remo would never have achieved the full mastery of his
mind and body. He would never have learned to eat correctly, or to breathe
with his entire body, not merely his lungs. He would have lived an ordinary
life doing ordinary things and suffering ordinary disappointments. He was one
with the sun source of the martial arts. For Remo, nothing was impossible.
He owed Sinanju a lot. He had just about made up his mind to go back to the
village when Smith had called. Now he had more reason than ever to head for
Korea.
In Korea, he might be safe.
But if he returned, would it be because he was too afraid of the yellow
scarves? Remo wasn't sure. In twenty years of working for CURE, Remo had known
fear only a few times. Cowardice he had tasted once. Years ago. And even then,
he had not feared for his own safety, but for others'.
And now the terrible unknowable power that had once made of Remo Williams an
utter slave to its whims had returned.
Remo found himself on the steps the Pantheon-like National Archives Building.
On an impulse, he floated up the broad marble steps and into its quiet,
stately interior. He had been here before. Years ago. He glided on soundless
feet to the great brass-and-glass repository housing the original Constitution
of the United States in a sandwich of inert gas.
It was, of course, where he had last seen it. Remo stepped up to the
encircling protective guardrail and began reading the aged parchment paper
that struck him as looking a lot like one of Chiun's scrolls, on which he
faithfully recorded the history of Sinanju.
A guard came up to him after only a few minutes.
"Excuse me, sir," the guard began in a soft but unequivocal voice, "but we
prefer that tourists not loiter here."
"I'm not loitering," Remo said testily. "I'm reading."
"There are brochures available out front with the entire text of the
Constitution printed on them. In facsimile."
"I want to read the original," Remo said, not turning.
"I'm sorry, but-" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]