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emperors.”
    “As you say. Quite so,” said Chiun. “What do you call the person you decide will run the country?”
    “We call him President.”
    Chiun nodded. So that was the American word for emperor. Of course he could not quite believe something so absurd as people selecting their own leaders without an army at their back, but if Harold W. Smith whose gold was good said America chose its emperors that way and not by heredity or by the more reasonable and controlled methods of assassination, then Chiun would not argue. President it was. Democracy chose him, and Chiun was here only to serve. He would be ready when Chiun assisted Democracy in making him the new President.
    “Hail President Smith,” said Chiun. “We will soon remove the usurper from the President’s throne.”
    “On second thought, call me emperor if you have to,” said Smith. “When do you think Remo will be ready?”
    “He progresses extraordinarily well. The question is how quickly can his body learn. After all, he has lived in such a bad environment for so long.”
    “In weeks, what are we talking about?”
    “You want to know in weeks?” asked Chiun.
    “Yes, weeks.”
    “All right,” said Chiun, the longer fingernails working the air as though an invisible abacus lay before it. “If we use shortcuts, if we press the training, if his body performs as it seems to be performing, we can get you an assassin in a quick seven hundred weeks.”
    “That’s fourteen years,” said Smith.
    “You said you wanted the time in weeks,” said Chiun. He looked to the other barbarian. McCleary was rolling on the floor.
    “What can we get in a month?”
    “A month?” Chiun thought a moment. “Nothing you would want to carry your name to glory.”
    “Could we get a man for a job in a month?”
    “I wouldn’t if I were you. He shows promise. But a promise is not a deed. You could well kill him if you use him too early.”
    “A year?”
    “Well, he has started late. A true assassin should begin at seven years of age. Still, he is a fast learner and I have given the best of Sinanju to his meager body.”
    “We’ll double the gold payment if you can do it in a year,” said McCleary. Smith shot him a dirty look.
    “In a year, you will have your first head on the wall. The payment will be delivered by your undersea ships?”
    Smith cleared his throat. “Yes.” he said. He hated to waste money, and he knew McCleary knew it.
    “Let me explain, we are a democracy, as I said. And our organization assists that democracy in working,” said Smith. “We are secret. Therefore we need the natural kill. We need Remo to know how to do that so at crucial times, no one will know it is even a death.”
    “Of course,” said Chiun. “Assist democracy.” He had known it all along. Some future emperors were often hesitant about stating their goals, usually because their advancement involved the death of a parent.
    An assassin had to know these things, be able to handle the delicate wording of them. A natural or accidental kill had made so many princes into kings. If Smith wanted, Chiun could even provide him, for modest extra cost, the most appropriate statements of grief he would most naturally make on hearing of the untimely death of the current emperor, in America called President.
    “Yes,” said Smith. “You understand. McCleary, you see he understands.”
    Chiun bowed. Smith nodded. McCleary wondered.
    Smith got back to work immediately. The normal procedures to access certain government files were not working. It was that defense thing again. But now Smith was not only certain something was wrong, he was sure that it was wrong on purpose.
    Private Anthony D’Amico pulled the trigger on the new AR-60 assault rifle, Grove Industries’ latest offering for the defense of America. The AR-60 could shoot more accurately, faster, and under more difficult conditions than any other personal weapon in the history of warfare. That’s what the