And then there would be time for the American who said he was from Sinanju, Sinanju. What was it anyway but a foolish legend?

The Wa moved silently up the stairway of the empty house, his light footfalls making no sound on the thick carpeting. He walked down the center of the hall. His belt of knives was slung low around his hips, in the way Wa assassins had carried their weapons from the time of the very first Wa.

He paused in the center of the hallway. He heard only one sound, that of Wesley Pruiss breathing. It was a soft low sipping of air, the kind of mouth breathing most Americans inflicted on their bodies.

There were no other sounds in the building. He continued walking down the hall, then paused. The door to Wesley Pruiss's room was open.

He reached behind him and took one of the red-handled knives from his leather belt. He held it at his side, then stepped forward, and took two steps into the room.

Wesley Pruiss was propped up on pillows, looking toward the door. His eyes were confused, frightened. The Wa smiled. He extended the knife before him.

He opened his mouth to speak.

And then a voice echoed through the room.

"I have waited for you," said the voice, a strong voice, deep as rolling thunder, and it sent a chill down the spine of the assassin.

He looked toward the right side of the room. Stepping from behind a large wardrobe chest was the aged Oriental, his powder blue robe swirling about him, a thin smile on his parchment face.

He stared at the Wa and the power of those eyes seemed to burn into the assassin's skull. The Wa blinked once, as if to release the bond that connected them, then wheeled toward the aged intruder.

"It is all right, old man," he said. "Now my knives will have two instead of one."

"Fool," intoned Chiun. "I am the Master of Sinanju. My ancestors banished you to far-away lands, and now I banish you to death."

The Wa reached behind him with his left hand to withdraw another knife. Even as he was reaching, his right hand raised up over his head, and the knife flashed across the room toward the open, inviting throat of Wesley Pruiss.

But then, as quick as a spark, the old Oriental flashed across the room. His open fingertips touched the blade of the knife, just a split second before it opened Pruiss's throat, and the knife fell to the floor. The Oriental lay across Pruiss's body, and the Wa saw this was his chance. His left hand came above his head and then down, with all the power in his slim, conditioned body. The knife flew toward Chiun.

It made one slow half-turn and then the point reached the old man's chest. And then, as the Wa watched in horror, the old man's right hand moved down with a speed so blurring it was beyond speed, and he caught the tip of the knife between his fingers, short of its target. He rose to his feet, still holding the spent weapon by its point, and with a smile, extended it toward the assassin. Then he took a step toward the slim young man.

The country club looked quiet and peaceful as Remo rolled the ambulance up to the front of the building. He was out of the vehicle before it finished rocking on its springs. The house looked peaceful but death, he knew, was a peaceful thing. Only amateurs made noise.

As Remo started up the steps of the house, the front door flew open and the Wa assassin raced out. He saw Remo and vaulted the small railing alongside the porch and ran around behind the ambulance to the practice putting green.

Remo looked after him. Chiun appeared at the upstairs window and saw Remo.

"It is all right, Remo," he called. "I saved him for you."

"Thank you, Little Father," Remo said. He walked slowly behind the ambulance to the putting green.

The Wa assassin, his breath coming nervously in short puffs, watched as the American stopped ten feet away from him and waited, hands on hips.

"It's all over, peanut," Remo said.

Not yet, the assassin thought. He had missed upstairs, something that had never happened before. But that was no guarantee that he would miss now. The young white man stood facing him, offering up his body to the assassin's knives, and with both hands at once, the Wa ripped knives from his belt, and flew them toward the waiting victim.

Remo posed, hands on hips, until the knives were almost on him, and then his hands moved. His left hand slashed against the handle of the knife aimed at his throat and knocked it harmless to the ground. His right hand moved only a few inches upward, just barely touching the knife aimed at Remo's eyes, but enough to veer the knife off course. It soared over the white man's head and travelled ten feet more before it buried itself deep into the trunk of a fat tree.

The Wa turned to run. Panic overcame pride in him and he fled. But as he reached the stand of trees, suddenly, there was a movement alongside him, and then the American was standing in front of him, smiling at him.

The Wa turned away. He ran back, across the putting green toward the trees on the other side. But again he saw a flash of movement from the side of his eyes, and then there was the American again.

He was beckoning the Wa to come on, to come closer.

The assassin stopped. In bitter desperation, he cried: "Who are you? Who are you two?"

"Tell your ancestors about us," Remo said. "They'll know who we are."

The Wa reached desperately for one last knife on his belt. One final chance. Even as he reached he knew it would not work, but his hand closed around the red leather grip and he slipped the knife from his belt and raised it up over his head, and then he felt the white man's hand close over his. The Wa's knife moved downward, but the white man held the Wa's hand closed, and the knife, instead of releasing and flashing forward, kept moving down, and then he felt a burst of pressure against his hand, and the knife drove itself into the assassin's stomach.

So this was how it felt, he thought, and then the knowledge that he had a knife buried in his stomach came fully to him, and so did the pain, and it hurt. It hurt terribly.

Remo stepped back and looked at the assassin. Their eyes met.

And then the Wa's eyes began to glaze over and a dumb, puzzled look came over his face, and he fell forward onto his own knife. But he no longer felt any pain.

Remo looked down at the body for a moment, then up at the window of Pruiss's room. Chiun was in the window, shaking his head.

"No grace," he said. "Awkward with no grace."

"That's what I thought, too," Remo said. "I thought he was kind of clumsy."

"I didn't mean him," Chiun said bitterly, and turned from the window.

Remo confronted Chiun inside Pruiss's room.

"All right," he said. "So you get word that the assassin's around and maybe I'm in trouble, and you don't even come to see if you can help me," Remo said. "Fine partner you are."

Chiun folded his arms. "I knew you were in no danger," he said.

"How'd you know, hah? How'd you know?"

"Must we really do this?" Chiun asked.

"Just answer the question. How'd you know I wasn't in any trouble?" Remo demanded.

Chiun sighed.

"When the woman who thinks like a man called, and told me to come to save you, I knew it was a lie," he said.

"How?"

"Because she is not to be trusted. Did you not see when we were at the place of airplanes that she knew a boom..."

"Bomb," Remo said.

"...was going to explode?" Chiun looked at Remo. "No," he answered himself. "You did not see that."

He turned toward the window. "And of course you never asked yourself why the Wa assassin missed the first time. He missed because he was ordered to miss. But who would benefit by keeping this publisher person alive, but damaged? No. You did not ask yourself that either."