"Destroyer - 027 - The Last Temple" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murphy Warren)

"Gold, not platinum," said Chiun. "They only deliver gold. And it is not enough. It is never enough. Do you not remember the terrible devastation that gripped our tiny village just a scant few years ago?"

"It's enough. And that was at least a thousand years ago," said Remo, knowing his protest was not enough to keep Chiun from his umpteenth retelling of the legend of Sinanju, a poor fishing village in North Korea that was forced to hire its people out as master assassins to avoid drowning their children in the bay because of poverty.

And for centuries after, the Masters of Sinanju had done admirably. At least in the monetary sense. Chiun, the present Master was doing the best of all. Even allowing for inflation.

"So you see," finished Chiun, "how enough is never enough, and the seas and sky never change, yet Sinanju stays the same."

Remo tried to stifle a yawn, purposely failed, then said, "Fine. Good. Can I go to sleep now? Smitty is supposed to contact us soon. I need my rest."

"Yes, my son. You can go to sleep. Just as soon as we have taken steps to protect others from this Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman."

"We?" Remo said from the bed. "Why we?"

"I need you," said Chiun, "because there is some stupid trivial menial work involved." Chiun moved over to the desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a piece of paper and pen. "I want to know who is responsible for 'Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman,' " he said.

"I think it's Norman Lear, Norman Lear," said Remo.

Chiun nodded. "I have heard of this man. He has done much to ruin American television." The Master lifted the pen and paper and dropped them onto Remo's stomach. "Take a letter."

Remo grumbled, watching Chiun move to his mat and settle softly into the lotus position. "Are you ready?" the Master inquired.

"Yeah, yeah," said Remo.

Chiun closed his eyes and gently positioned the backs of his hands upon his knees.

"Dear Norman Lear, Norman Lear," he said. "Watch out. Sign it Chiun."

Remo waited. "No sincerely or anything?" he finally asked.

"I will read it tomorrow for accuracy and then you will send it," said Chiun before he slipped into a shallow level of sleep, sitting erect upon his grass mat.

The phone was ringing, and Remo had to know whether it was for him. There were many phones ringing during the night. You could hear them through the walls. You could hear people talk and air conditioners hum, and a mouse that made it through the walls, running desperately through the building's innards. It was pursued by nothing, because there was no other sound moving with it.

There were sounds in the night; it was never quiet. For Remo, it had not been quiet for more than a decade. The meat eaters and the warriors slept with their brains blanketed, but it wasn't sleep. It was unconsciousness. Real sleep, that cool rest of mind and body, floated gently, aware of what was around it. You could no more turn off your mind than you could your breath. And why should you?

Primitive man probably didn't. How could he and live to create modern man? Most people slept like meatloaves. But as Chiun had taught him, to sleep like that was to make oneself dead before one's time, so Remo heard everything as he slept. Like listening to a concert next door. He was aware of it, but not part of it. Then the phone rang. And since he realized it was too loud to be next door, he got up and answered it.

As he lifted the receiver off the hook, he heard Chiun mumble, "Must you let that thing ring for hours before you bestir yourself?"

"Stuff it, Little Father," Remo said. "Hello," he growled at the phone.

"I'm here," said a voice so acerb Remo's ear felt as if it were puckering up.

"Congratulations, Smitty. You've made my night."

Dr. Harold W. Smith sounded disappointed. "I thought by contacting you this early I would avoid the sarcasm."

"The CURE sarcasm service is open twenty-four hours a day. Call again this time tomorrow and see."