Fu Antos’ feeble hand gestured me to silence. His fingers though hardly more than papered bones gnarled by arthritis, were so expressive that I understood him perfectly. “Wait,” they told me. “I will attend to you in due course.”

  After Diago killed him? Something prickly crept up my back and tugged at the short hairs of my neck.

  “The ninjas would not kill him,” Pedro said, evidently reading his own message in the moving fingers. “They knew that either he would die, leaving them without their honored teacher, or he would reincarnate in too strong a form, depriving them of their way of life.”

  I nodded. I knew the Buddhists did believe in reincarnation, with the soul occupying a new body after the old one had passed, until through right living it became purified and joined Buddha in nirvana, that ultimate state of unity.

  “And it is against his religion to commit suicide,” I said, reading those amazing fingers for myself. “Leaves a burden on the soul. So he will help us only if we render this necessary service.” I stopped short, hearing my own words. “But how can a dead man help anybody?”

  There was a noise behind us. I whirled, and saw more ninjas in the passage.

  “Do not fear,” Diago said. “Those are the remaining guardians, who were with their families in the neighboring villages. They could not travel swiftly enough to join the battle on the mountain, so followed us here. They dare not intrude upon this holy chamber.”

  “Not while Fu Antos lives,” I muttered darkly. “But if we are fools enough to—”

  “I must do it,” Diago said, still reading the fingers. “He promises me release, the right to stay here with him.”

  “Stop!” I cried, whirling on him. But he had already set down the pike and approached the 0-Sensei, and I was powerless to prevent him. It wasn’t the ninjas outside, or even my own wounds; rather, something within me bade me abide what came.

  Diago gave his kiai, half-stunning us all. I found myself propped against the wall, while Makato stood shaking his head somewhat stupidly and Pedro sat ignominiously on the floor. The ninjas beyond the door were in a tumble of bodies and weapons. But Fu Antos merely smiled, showing blackened gums bereft of teeth, and made a gesture signifying a creditable performance by a promising pupil. He had not been affected by the yell, perhaps because of his deafness.

  Diago, dismayed but not finished, got down on his knees behind the seated man and applied a respiratory strangle, the Hadaka-jime. He placed his left forearm around the front of Fu Autos’ thin neck and caught his hand on his own right upper arm. His right arm went back so that his right hand was braced behind the old man’s head.

  Fu Antos was old and weak, surely near death already. This strangle would be effective against even a robust athlete. I knew it would be over soon. Then what?

  Diago tightened his hold, pushing the bald head forward as his left forearm pressed firmly against the throat. Fu Antos did not even attempt to resist. I was sickened at this calculated murder of a helpless oldster, yet still could not bring myself to interfere. Those fingers were still moving, as though nothing of consequence were happening.

  Strange. Fu Antos breathed easily, while Diago became red in the face and began gasping. His eyes bulged, the veins in his forehead throbbed, and the four stripes down his face made by the tiger claws were burning bright. Diago had taken a beating on the way here, but I had not realized that he was this far gone. He seemed about to pass out himself.

  Suddenly Diago let go. He panted as if the strangle had been on him, not the other man, and fell to the floor. Yet Fu Antos sat unmoved. Diago’s attack of faintness had prevented him from ever putting on real pressure.

  Diago recovered in a moment, however, and shook his head. There was a red mark on the front of his neck, perhaps a welt just rising from the monkey attack.

  Now Diago knelt in front of Fu Antos and tried a sanguineous

  strangle. He put both hands on the man’s neck, fingers to the back and thumbs to the front, a bit to the side. The neck seemed almost too small for a decent grip. He probed until he found the carotid arteries throbbing under his thumbs, then gently applied pressure against them. Still Fu Antos did not resist. This strangle would knock out an ordinary man within five seconds, for it cut off the supply of blood to the brain.

  One, two, three, four, and inexplicably Diago desisted, letting his hands fall limply as he sagged. He had not applied enough pressure to make the old man waver, yet the 0-Sensei’s thin hands were talking again in that marvelous way of theirs, congratulating Diago on an excellent try.

  Diago, with what must have been a supreme effort, recovered again and set up for a third strangle. He seized the lapels of the old man’s kimono at both sides, his thumbs inside and his fingers outside, then twisted both hands so that the knuckles were pressing into the neck. This was the nerve strangle, eri jime, forbidden in normal competition because it was extremely dangerous. He found the spot on each side of the neck, a little below and to the front of the ears, and bore down savagely.

  There was a cry of anguish and Diago fell again. He was not breathing.

  “The ninja poison!” I exclaimed, suddenly realizing. “They are experts at poisoning! On the tiger’s claws!”

  Pedro stared at me. “Poison! Of course! And he knew it! That was why he insisted on cleaning my wounds so carefully. The dog’s teeth could have been coated too. I wondered why I felt so weak and ill.”

  “Why didn’t he say something!” I cried. “He must have felt it working on him, yet he—” But by his own admission Pedro had felt the effects too. Why should a man burden others with his weakness? Both had kept silent.

  Fu Antos gestured benignly to Makato. I gazed upon the scene with helpless horror: the decrepit old man, the unmoving boychild, the fallen Diago. Those parchment fingers speaking in intricate patterns, saying that our friend was now at peace and inviting the karateka to kill the O-Sensei next.

  I had my second awful realization. Those fingers—they were not just talking in unique polylingual sign language. This was kuji-kiri—the ancient ninja hypnotic exercise. Fu Antos was not sitting passively, he was actively hypnotizing us all. That was why we were unable to move, and had to attempt to kill him at his directive, when in the normal course our reactions would have been quite different.

  My respect for the O-Sensei’s powers increased considerably, but my comprehension of his motives diminished. Surely he had no need of our services, when he possessed the ability to control men this way. And why should he want to die?

  No, I could answer the last question myself. Confined to a decaying body, unable to leave this bare chamber or to read or listen or walk. To be isolated from all meaningful experience was to be condemned to hell.

  “Not so,” those fingers said to me. “There is no greater experience than Zen!”

  I shut my thoughts up, abashed. I had to believe either that he was telepathic, or that I was losing my sanity.

  Now Makato approached. He made a formal bow to Fu Antos, who merely inclined his head in response, those fingers still weaving their intricate tapestry in air. Diago might have been poisoned, but Makato remained strong. He stood over the seated man, setting his stance as he might for a difficult karate exhibition. Then Makato cried “Saa!” and brought his terrible fist down in the punch that smashed ten concrete tiles simultaneously—and struck the O-Sensei’s head.

  I blinked. Makato was falling, his head bloody. Fu Antos sat unharmed.

  “It’s supernatural!” Pedro exclaimed, unconsciously crossing himself.

  Now the thin finger gestured to me, and I felt something. “No!” I cried to Pedro. “It is the ki!”

  For the old man had ki like Hiroshi’s, but much more powerful. Now I knew: poison had not killed Diago; God had not fractured Makato’s skull. Fu Antos’ appalling power of ki had done it all. Now that compulsion was directed at me, and I had to set my torch in a niche and respond.

  I walked up to the mystic and bowed. This man had been the greatest warrior of his age, when he was young, and he remained so today. No man proficient only in the physical martial arts could ever overcome him. The little touch of ki Hiroshi had loaned me once had made my flesh invulnerable; Fu Antos had a hundred times that power.

  Why hadn’t he used that phenomenal ki to control his own illness? The answer had to be that he had. He could be much older than we had guessed, salvaged from the grave decades ago by that force of personality. Now his body was rotting about him, but that same ki would not permit his vitality to abate. So he had to be helped to die—though all of us might perish attempting to implement that need.

  Those hands spoke again. “As you do to me, so I to you,” they said. “Grant me freedom from my bondage.”

  “But I came here to save a life, not take it!”

  The hands shrugged. The inscrutable ninja.

  “He uses ki to change!” Pedro cried, openly terrified. “Diago strangled himself! Makato stove in his own skull! We can’t touch him any more than the ninjas could.”

  “Ki and hypnotism,” I agreed, contemplating the 0-Sensei. To attack him was to die, yet he insisted on being killed. He had set us an impossible task!

  I turned to peer through the doorway at the waiting ninjas. Some held drawn swords; others had more exotic devices of murder. One had several caltrops: spiked objects to pierce the feet of the unwary. No hope there.

  How would Fu Antos’ death help us? I did not know, but perhaps he was wiser than we. Was it possible to kill him?

  With a new shock of horror, I realized that there was one in credible technique, that no one had ever tried before. Did I have the courage?

  What choice did I have? Anything I visited on the O-Sensei would react against me. To leave this room with the job undone would be suicidal, because of the ninjas. Even if Pedro and I fought our way to freedom, the delayed action deathblow would still bring me down at its own convenience. So three of my four choices meant death.

  The fourth . . . was also fatal

  “Pedro,” I said. “I will need your help.”

  He was standing nervously near the door. The lordly confidence he had affected as master of his estate in Nicaragua was gone now, and he was a pitiful figure of a man, more crippled than he had been in the wheelchair. “It won’t work,” he whined. “If we attack him together, we’ll both die!”

  I concealed my disgust at his cowardice. He had done well until Fu Antos had unnerved him. To cover my own fear I demanded brusquely “Are you familiar with the ritual of seppuku?”

  “Hara-kiri. Japanese suicide. Yes, I know it. But—”

  “Good. You have the katana. When the time comes, strike off my head.”

  He stared. “Dios mio, Striker, at least die fighting the ninja! Are you such a coward?”

  He accused me of what he felt himself. “Seppuku is hardly cowardice,” I said, though there was a tight cold knot in the pit of my stomach. “It is an honorable procedure, if the ritual is properly executed. But you must witness, and perform, the todome, the coup de grace.”

  “Striker, you are crazy!”

  I found a small, ragged tatami, a Japanese straw mat, in the corner and hauled it to the center of the room. “What direction would you say the Imperial Palace is from here?”

  “South.” He saw I was serious. “Striker, don’t do it! You’re not even Japanese! Don’t leave me like this! I am weak from the poison, I must get to a hospital, I could never do it by myself.”

  I set up the mat before Fu Antos, who was facing north. I knelt, my eyes meeting the blind orbs of the O-Sensei. From his open mouth came a stench like that of a sewer. I brought out my dirk. It was a wakizashi, or Japanese short sword, with razor-sharp edge and point and a blade nine and a half inches long. The ninjas carried good weapons.

  “Striker,” Pedro started again. “Amalita must have someone to take care of her. Florecita, tender flower that she is. If I don’t get back—”

  “Please don’t interrupt my concentration,” I said, annoyed. “Just be ready with that sword, because I sure don’t want this botched at the end! You don’t get a second chance on this sort of thing.”

  Pedro stuttered into silence. I saw the suggestion of a smile on Fu Antos’ brittle lips. Did he comprehend my strategy?

  The Japanese ritual of seppuku, disembowelment, was a special form of suicide, difficult to perform correctly. The lowbrow term for it was hara-kiri, “belly-slitting”—an unkind but accurate description. The person who successfully performed seppuku established his innocence of the charges against him, or his rightness of cause. If I succeeded, would I win my suit?

  I had forgotten one important detail. I stood up, set down the knife, and stripped away my jacket, sweater and undershirt until I was barechested. I loosened my belt and slid my trousers down somewhat, exposing my abdomen. The air was cold, perhaps forty degrees, but I was sweating.

  I took up my white shirt and wrapped it about my middle. It was not a proper band for this purpose, but like the dagger and mat it would have to do. The spirit of Seppuku was far more important than the trappings. Then I kneeled again and took up the wakizashi, holding the point toward me with both hands.

  Now it was time. If my blood stained the tatami, I was vindicated. Perhaps. I bowed my head, staring at the small sword poised before my tensed belly. My arms quivered.

  I thrust the blade deep into the left side of my abdomen, sidewise. Pain exploded in my body, yet somehow stopped short of my brain. I was aware of it intellectually, but my thoughts and perceptions were clear. An excellent beginning.

  I drew it slowly across my stomach to the right. Then, before I could faint, I turned the blade in the wound and jerked the point up. This was the motion of kappuko, and very few could complete it, even among the pure Japanese. I was rather proud of my performance.

  I drew out the knife and my blood poured out, soaking over my trousers and overflowing across my thighs, red and pure. With dazed gratification I saw it drip onto the tatami. Now the pain was up to my brain, but I reached in with one hand and drew my entrails out from the gaping wound, and I was falling over.

  But it was not finished. I fought to recover my posture, to sit erect. Where was Pedro? You wanted to kill me, I thought fiercely at him. Now strike, strike! But all that came from my mouth was the agonized rasp of air. I stretched out my neck.

  Then I saw it coming: that bright, beautiful sword. It flashed toward my neck, true and sharp, with Pedro’s terrified face behind it. Contact!

  Pain abated abruptly. I was lying on the stone floor, my eye near a thin spattering of blood. I stood up slowly and saw the severed head lying where it had rolled to the corner. Clumsy; the decapitation should have been incomplete, so that the head remained fastened to the body by a strip of flesh and did not roll away. Pedro was sobbing like a woman, the gore-encrusted katana behind him on the floor.

  The corpse of Fu Antos sprawled across the mat, headless. His belly had been slit open gruesomely by some hand stronger than his own, and he had been truly disemboweled. I was physically untouched.

  “You have succeeded, and you shall have your reward,” a voice said. It was high-pitched but resonant: the voice of one born to command.

  I turned to face the source. The small boy stood there, no longer immobile or blank of gaze. His fingers worked in the kujikiri technique, and there was now a dominating quality about him, a nobility.

  “O-Sensei Fu Antos,” I said, inclining my head.

  He nodded with the bare acquiescence of high rank. “Released from the bondage of age,” the child said with that astonishing timbre of maturity. “Restored to youth and sight and hearing and mobility, given lease on another century of improvement and meditation. A few more months, and this body would have grown too old and set for the transfer, and the ninjas would have prevented me from acquiring another. But you came. Give me your hand.”

  Amazed, I held out my hand. His small fingers took it, and I felt that same vibrant force of ki that Hiroshi had shown me. “There is nothing I can do for you,” he said.

  “I—but my—”

  “You have cured yourself,” the child sensei continued. “Your act of seppuku expunged the curse visited upon your heart, and you shall live. In two weeks you will feel a momentary pain and your heart will skip, making you faint for a few seconds only. By that token will you know that the threat is over; the embolism broken up.” He paused, and when he resumed his voice was more compassionate. “The American jury will rule you killed in self-defense. Yet might you better have died.”

  He turned to Pedro. “You have not lived an exemplary life, and you may not return to it. But that which you craved has been granted.”

  Pedro lifted a streaked face to him. “Does that mean I’ll die? I have to take care of—”

  “She will bear your child,” the boy said.

  And I saw that Vicente Pedro had, indeed, been granted his ultimate desire. Not life, but an heir.

  “Diago, Makato—” I mumbled. “They did not deserve—”

  The boy stooped to touch Diago. “This man remains with me.” He moved on to Makato, stepping with uncommon grace, and laid his hands on the fractured skull. “You abused your power when you conspired to kill for money,” the sensei said to the karateka. He withdrew his hands and resumed the finger-motions of kujikiri. “Ki is denied you. Return to your world, your accounts balanced.”

  Makato rose, his head miraculously clean again. No language could portray the mixed relief and hopelessness of his countenance. I knew he had heard Fu Autos’ message in Japanese. He had sought absolution from his crime, so that be might master ki. Now he had that absolution, at the price of losing any hope of achieving ki.

  “Leave me to my meditations,” the boy said. He sat on the mat I had used, crossing his legs in the posture of Zen meditation, oblivious to the gore of his former housing.

  Makato and Pedro and I departed. There was nothing else to do. I could not even tell whether Diago was sleeping or dead; either way, he would remain here, and perhaps this was the place he had subconsciously searched for all his life.