Unpopular Science

Beside him, in a brilliant display of turquoise, was a robed Asian man at least eighty years old. He had a nearly bald head, with just a few threads of yellowing hair around his ears and on his chin. He had the characteristic eyes of a Korean, but his features were almost masked in the deep wrinkles of advanced age, and his flesh seemed too thin, as if the slightest bump or scrape might rip it open.

When the cart stopped at the bottom of the stairs, the old Korean stepped out and revealed himself to be short, almost tiny. A breeze rustled the fabric of his robe, and it was as if the wind might flutter him away like a paper scrap.

But the small ancient man didn’t go anywhere. He glanced at the stairs, glanced at the operator of the stairs and put his hands in the sleeves of his robe. He stood there, completely at ease, and waited.

The cart driver finished loading six lacquered chests into the belly of the aircraft and ran, not walked, to his cart, then steered it away as fast as its tiny electric engine would carry it.

The old man never moved.

“What’s he doing?” Mark Howard demanded.

“I see nothing.” Remo moved to a seat farther back in the cabin and read the air-sickness bag.

“Why isn’t he coming up?” Mark asked.

The stewardess emerged from the galley and peered down the steps.

“He need a wheelchair lift or something?” she asked.

“I think he’s insulted by the sloppy alignment of the stairs,” Mark explained.

“Insulted? I thought you guys were in a hurry.”

“We are. Get the pilot, please.”

Remo tried to ignore it all as the flight attendant demanded to know if Mark Howard was joking, then got the pilot, who phoned the tower, who phoned the terminal management office, who eventually radioed the supervisor of the operator of the stairs.

“Why don’t I just go down and carry him up myself,” the flight attendant demanded at one point. “He’s got to weigh less than my dog.”

“Ix-nay,” Remo muttered out the side of his mouth. “She’ll be ed-day.”

“No, better not,” Mark said. He was irked, yet fascinated by the composure of the man, Chiun, the Master of Sinanju Emeritus and trainer of Remo Williams. The small man was in fact, older than he looked—he was born more than a century ago—but he was also stronger than he looked.

The fact was, Chiun was stronger than anybody had ever looked.

The young man in the driveable stairs snarled into his walkie-talkie then angrily started the stairs, pulled away from the jet, stomped on the brakes to halt it, and yanked it into reverse. He backed it into place, and the alignment with the door was only slightly better.

“Still not good enough for you, old man?” the operator demanded, loud enough for Mark Howard to hear from the jet hatch.

Chiun hadn’t moved a muscle. His face hadn’t ticked when the vehicle came within inches of colliding with him. He hadn’t blinked when the young man spoke to him. He remained stationary, as if meditating and oblivious to the world around him.

The operator was grumbling under his breath. Mark Howard looked desperately at his watch. “We’re in a great hurry!” he called down.

Chiun smiled blissfully, as if awakening from a daze.

“Good day, Prince Howard. It is an honor to be in your presence this morning.”

“We’re in a great hurry,” Mark pleaded.

“Ah. It is your wish that I take the steps necessary to expedite our departure.” Cbiun regarded the stairs. “I shall gladly correct the cause of the delay.”

Mark Howard had a sinking What have I done? feeling, but they were in a hurry. He tried to decide if he should say anything more, but by then it was too late.

The Asian man strolled around the side of the stairs, to the small compartment where the operator was seated, and nudged the stairs with his sandaled foot.

The compartment caved in, crushing the operator’s abdomen at the same time the stairs scraped sideways several inches. The solid rubber tires left black skid marks. Mark Howard noticed that the stairs were now perfectly aligned with the jet hatch.

Chiun put his hands into his sleeves and ascended with the dignity of royalty.

“What’s all the shouting?” asked the flight attendant, who reappeared to see Chiun arrive and bow deeply to Mark. “Oh, my God, the man is hurt!” The flight attendant gestured at the sight of the wriggling, bellowing operator trapped by his crushed stomach in the driver’s seat of the stairs.

“We’re ready to go,” Mark told her.

“We can’t go now!” she protested.

“Somebody will come and help him. Let’s get going,” Mark insisted.

“But the stairs have to be moved!”

The small Asian man had a smile on his face that never wavered, but he seemed to kick back briefly with his foot. The flight attendant was sure she saw him do that.

Another thing she was sure of—at that moment, the mobile stairs rolled across the tarmac with a rattle of failing mechanical brakes and, going faster than they were ever designed to, crunched into the fireproof brick face of the terminal building.