And before Remo could zero in on the source of the sound, something flared white-hot, and the tunnel turned the whitest white Remo had ever beheld. He knew before his eyes could completely shut he had been blinded. The searing pain stabbing deep into his optic nerve told him that. The pain went straight to his toenails, and deep in the pit of his stomach he experienced a growing and alien fear ....

  THE MASTER of SINANJU was moving through a tunnel of glass whose sides felt slick to his touch. It was like nothing he had ever before encountered, and he therefore resolved to write of this in the scrolls that were passed down from Master to Master for the edification of future Masters of the House of Sinanju.

  Chiun had come to a place where the tunnel swelled, forming a dome where the air was especially foul. Standing there, hands in the sleeves of his kimono, he stepped around, his hazel eyes taking in the strange sight of ordinary objects and cockroaches floating unmoving in cooled glass.

  A moment's scrutiny assured him that no skulker lurked in this chamber of glass, so Chiun turned to retrace his steps.

  At that moment, the glass to one side flared brightly, and through the tunnel came the wordless scream of his adopted son.

  "Remo! My son!"

  Throwing back his kimono sleeves, the Master of Sinanju flew back through the surreal tunnel of rehardened glass toward the sound of his pupil's scream of soul-searing pain.

  Chapter 8

  The Master of Sinanju emerged from his tunnel just as a strange figure backed out of the glass tube into which Remo had gone.

  The figure was not Remo Williams.

  From the back, the Master of Sinanju discerned a bulky gray quilted suit of armor that made him think of Chinese warriors of the old Qing Dynasty. But the style was not Chinese. The head was encased in a featureless bullet of some dull silver material.

  "Turn and face your doom, Man of Mars," Chiun thundered.

  The creature turned, sweeping a long rod of some white metal that glowed red at the tip before him. It sought him with its evil glimmerings. But no warrior of this or any world was equal to a Master of Sinanju.

  Closing his eyes protectively, Chiun twisted his pipestem body, lifting one foot high while pivoting on the opposite toe.

  Turning in midair, he spun a complete circle. It looked like a slow-motion windup to some ferocious stroke, but as the turning toe reached a point horizontal with the Master of Sinanju's chin, it accelerated to an unreadable blur.

  The toe struck the side of the bullet head just as the square black panel of glass that hid the fearsome foe's face finished turning in Chiun's direction.

  The black top of Chiun's sandal connected just as the red rod emitted a burst of pristine white light so pure it shocked Chiun's eyes, even though they were tightly sealed by his papery eyelids.

  Chiun felt the impact, recoiled from it and recovered as the body of his foe went whump on the floor of the air pocket at the heart of the BioBubble.

  Only when the rattle of death reached his ears did the Master of Sinanju open his eyes and face the defeated one.

  Carefully Chiun padded up to the bulky shape on the floor.

  The body lay like a bloated starfish, limbs splayed to the four quarters. Where the head should be was an empty space.

  That sight satisfied Chiun, who then flew down the tunnel, seeking his pupil.

  He found Remo leaning against a glassy wall with one hand. The other was groping at his face. His eyes were open, but they were sightless, the pupils contracted to shocked pinpoints, the whites shot with angry scarlet threads.

  For a moment, the Master of Sinanju paused, stricken by the paralyzed expression on his pupil's formerly proud countenance.

  Then, steeling himself, he stepped forward. "Remo! What is it?"

  Remo's reply came in a squeezed voice. "Chiun, II can't see."

  Chiun's wrinkled visage flinched like a web touched by a stick. "What do you see in this condition?"

  "Everything is white."

  "Not black?"

  "No. White."

  "This is strange. If you are blind, you should see blackness."

  "That guy was in here. Be careful."

  "I encountered him. He is no more, Remo. You have been avenged."

  Remo hesitated before replying in a thick voice. "Thanks, Little Father."

  "I would do the same for any other adopted son, if I had one."

  Remo waved a helpless hand in Chiun's direction. "Give me a hand."

  Chiun took three quick steps, then halted. No, this was not the time or place to coddle Remo.

  "No," he said.

  "No? What do you mean, no?"

  "If you are blind, you must learn to use your other senses."

  "Look, just give me a hand out of here," Remo said angrily.

  "No. You know the path that you took to the place of your downfall. You have only to retrace your foolhardy steps."

  Remo made a stiff face. He looked to be on the verge of losing his temper. Then, straightening his spine and composing his face, he oriented himself using only his senses of hearing and touch.

  At first he employed the tips of his fingers to guide him along the glassy walls. As confidence returned, his hand dropped free and he used his supersharp ears. No doubt the beating of the Master of Sinanju's heart guided him.

  Chiun willed his heart to be momentarily still. It did not stop. It merely beat with exceeding slowness, a technique that, if prolonged, would result in a catalepsy that simulated death.

  "No fair," Remo complained. "I can't hear your heartbeat."

  Chuin said nothing. He was holding his breath. He stepped backward with exceeding caution, his sandaled feet making no sound on the glassy floor. He moved aside to allow Remo to pass him unsuspecting.

  Without tripping or stumbling, Remo made it down the glass tube and into the central air pocket, where he immediately fell over the body of the defeated one.

  "Is this him?" Remo asked, feeling the padded body.

  "Yes," said Chiun, allowing his heart and lungs to function normally once more.

  "I don't feel any head."

  "Proof of its undeniable Martianness. For it has none."

  "I saw him. For just a second. It had a head."

  "A helmet. I removed it. But no head lay beneath it.

  Remo felt the shoulders, then brought his hands together.

  "Feels like there's a stump."

  Frowning, Chiun went to the bullet helmet and lifted it up.

  Shaking it vigorously, he got a head to fall out with an audible bonk.

  "Was that what I think it was?" asked Remo, getting to his feet.

  "Yes," returned Chiun thinly. "The head."

  "What's it look like?"

  "Ugly."

  "How ugly?" asked Remo, drawing near, his face curious.

  "Exceedingly ugly."

  "What color skin?"

  "Yellow."

  "The Martian is yellow skinned?"

  "Yes. With hideous eyes and a flat nose."

  "Better save it for Smith, then."

  "Of course," said Chiun, dropping the head into its helmet and carrying it like a baseball in a catcher's mitt. "Now it is time that we leave this place of shame."

  Remo fell in behind the Master of Sinanju, his face and voice dazed and dull. "I only caught a glimpse of him-it," he said thickly. "I was moving on him, and everything went white."

  "You see whiteness still?"

  "Yeah. What does that mean? Anything?"

  Chiun frowned. "I do not know. Perhaps because you are white, this is normal."

  Remo shook his head and felt for the stepladder top rung with his feet. "Blind people see darkness. Everybody knows that."

  Chiun said nothing in response. His eyes were clouded and troubled.

  Remo descended with careful movements. Chiun followed. They worked their way back through the underground kitchen to the camouflage trapdoor and emerged into the hot Arizona air once more.

  "Follow me," said Chiun.

  Remo did. He said nothing. His face was loose with a kind of dull shock. Several times he licked his lips as if he wanted to say something, but instead compressed them. The color of his face was very, very pale. His breathing was out of rhythm.

  Chiun let these things pass. There was no danger here, so it was not important. No danger. No future, either. Not for Remo. Not for the House.

  They came upon Amos Bulla and Tom Pulse near the collapsed BioBubble.

  "Something happened inside the BioBubble," Pulse said when he saw them.

  "It is not important," Chiun said thinly.

  "The whole thing shone white for a moment. It was like a big light bulb. Or a flying saucer about to take off."

  "Yeah," said Amos Bulla. "I saw it with my own eyes."

  Chiun's voice climbed to the sky. "What! You saw?"

  "Yeah."

  "You were blind."

  "My eyes cleared up."

  Turning, Chiun cried, "Remo, did you hear that?"

  "Of course. I'm not deaf. Just blind."

  "And you are only blind for now. For the affliction is not permanent."

  "Whew!" said Remo in relief.

  "He got you, too?" Bulla asked.

  "Yeah, but we got him," said Remo, sitting down to wait for his sight to clear.

  Bulla and Pulse gathered around the Master of Sinanju.

  "Is that what I think it is?" Bulla asked, indicating the silver helmet in Chiun's long-nailed grasp.

  "Yes. It is his head."

  "How'd it come off?"

  "It was loose. A mere tap unbalanced it."

  "Martians must be made of flimsy stuff," Bulla said, avoiding the sight of the head in the helmet.

  "I don't believe in men from Mars," said Remo, not wanting to be left out of the conversation even if he couldn't see what was under discussion.

  "It has a yellow visage and horrible, catlike eyes," said Chiun.

  "Yeah?"

  "Truly."

  "Hey!" said Remo suddenly, "I think I'm starting to see again." He stood up. Blinking his eyelids, he waved his fingers before his face. After a while, his features brightened and the pinpoint pupils slowly relaxed to normal size.

  "I can see again. I can see again!"

  "Clearly?" asked Chiun, concealing his joy with a stern tone.

  "No, just my fingers. They're a blur. But it's coming back."

  "Try closing your eyes. That'll help some," said Bulla.

  Remo did.

  "When the whiteness becomes red, you'll know you're okay," Bulla offered.

  "It's starting to happen," said Remo.

  "Open your eyes, Remo," Chiun instructed.

  Remo obliged. The whites of his eyes had already lost much of their thready redness. His Sinanju-enhanced system accelerated the healing process.

  He found himself looking at the Martian's dead face. "That's the Martian?" he blurted.

  "Yes. Is his countenance not terrible to behold?" said Chiun.

  Frowning, Remo took the head in both hands. "This Martian looks suspiciously Chinese."

  "I have always wondered about the Chinese. They seem unsuited for this planet," Chiun sniffed.

  "This guy is Chinese," Remo exploded.

  "There's something written inside this helmet," Pulse said.

  "What's it say?" asked Remo, striding up.

  " 'Property of FORTEC.'"

  "What the hell is FORTEC?" asked Amos Bulla.

  "It's the Foreign Technology Department of the U.S. Air Force," Tom Pulse supplied.

  "Never heard of it," Bulla scoffed.

  "It's ultrasecret. People say it investigates alien technology."

  "Space aliens?" said Remo.

  "That's the rumor. The truth is they're interested in exotic technology. Foreign to the US. Unusual propulsion systems. New laser applications. That sort of thing."

  "So they could investigate flying saucers if they took a mind to?" Bulla asked.

  "It's in their mission. Technically."

  "This Chinese guy is one of ours?" Remo asked.

  "He is not one of mine," spat Chiun, dropping the head back into its helmet and kicking the gleaming shell away.

  From the cell phone in their rented car, Remo put in a call to Harold Smith at Folcroft Sanitarium, the cover for CURE.

  "Ever hear of FORTEC?" Remo asked Smith after the call was rerouted through sixteen states and scrambled to avoid eavesdropping by National Security Agency monitors.

  "Yes. You have FORTEC credentials yourself, and have used them in the past."

  "I can't keep track of all my covers," Remo growled.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "They sent one of their guys out here. He blinded me with something that looks like a flashlight."

  "Laser blinding technology is under development by the Army."

  "He was wearing some kind of quilted spacesuit," added Remo.

  "A high-tech battle suit also under Army development."

  "Why wear combat gear on an investigation?"

  "Perhaps because he is not certain what he will encounter," suggested Smith. "You could ask him."

  "I could, but Chiun knocked his block off. So to speak."

  Smith groaned. "Are there witnesses?"

  "Not to the act, but a crowd is gathering around the head."

  Smith groaned again. "Pull out," he ordered.

  "We haven't got anything. Unless you like Chiun's theory."

  "Which is?"

  "A sun dragon. It's Korean for 'comet.'"

  "The Korean word for 'comet' is hyesong, " returned Harold Smith.

  "I stand corrected," Remo said dryly.

  "If you have nothing better," said Smith, "pull out."

  "The BioBubble PR head is here."

  "Find out who is backing the project."

  "That should be easy. Hold the line."

  Remo walked up to Amos Bulla and said, "We found the big kitchen under the BioBubble."

  "I'm only director of public relations. I don't handle logistics or supply."

  "But you're not supposed to have any kitchen," Remo persisted.

  "You'll have to take that up with the the project's angel."

  "Angel?" said Chiun.

  "Another word for financial backer."

  "Who is he?"

  "No clue. I was hired by telephone. His name is Mavors. Ruber Mavors. That's all I know. I don't know who he is or how to reach him."

  Chiun narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You have never met this Ruber Mavors?"

  "No. He's just a voice on the telephone who gives me my instructions."

  "He tell you to install a full kitchen?" asked Remo.

  Bulla wiped sweat off his face. "If there's a kitchen, it was built before my tenure. I came in after the Mars-colony scam-I mean phase-went belly-up. The whole Mars colony project was supposed to be a joint U.S.-USSR space mission. Neither country could do it alone. Folks thought it would be a great way to encourage superpower cooperation. Then the Soviets up and died, and the project went bankrupt. That's when Mr. Mavors came in, hired me and bailed the project out. It's been an ecological-research station ever since."

  "This man called Mavors," said Chiun, fingering his beard, "does his voice fall strangely upon your ears?"

  "Yeah. He kinda sounds like Rod Serling, if you really want to know the honest truth." Bulla squinted at the Master of Sinanju. "How'd you know that?"

  "Yeah, Little Father," said Remo. "How did you know that?"

  "Because," intoned Chiun, "in the Latin of old Rome, Ruber Mavors means 'Red Mars.'"

  "That's as phony a name as I've ever heard," said Remo.

  "It's the name he gave me," Bulla insisted.

  "He is telling the truth," Chiun confirmed.

  "Yeah, I can hear," said Remo disappointedly.

  "Hear what?" asked Bulla.

  "Your heartbeat. If it accelerated, that would tip us off. It didn't, so you're telling the truth."

  Bulla touched his heart as if to make sure it was still beating.

  Remo went back to the telephone and filled in Harold Smith.

  "A dead end," said Smith when Remo was through. "I will search through Bulla's telephone records. Something may turn up. You and Chiun leave immediately."

  Hanging up, Remo rejoined the others.

  Amos Bulla was kicking at the red sands of Arizona disconsolately. "Well, if that's the end of EPA's investigation, I guess I'm out of here-and out of a job, too. Unless Mavors wants to start from scratch." Bulla shot a sick parting glance at the flattened dome of rehardened glass. "Sure would like to know what caused this flop, though."

  Everyone took a final look at the BioBubble, baking in the Arizona sun like a candy-glass flapjack.

  "A sun dragon," intoned the Master of Sinanju. "Mark my words. A sun dragon is loose in the heavens and will strike again."

  No one disputed him this time. The sheer size of the destroyed research station beggared any better explanation.

  Chapter 9

  The bad news came by e-mail:

  To: RM@qnm.com From: R Subject: Possible product failure Staff here in R t the situation in Arizona may be a by-product of current testing, which at first appeared to suggest product failure, but which now appears to be the result of a bug in the software.

  Long pale fingers hesitated at the keyboard and, after a moment, typed a furious reply while rain beat a steady tattoo on an office window.

  To: R From: RM@qnm.com Subject: Your mail Explain software glitch. The reply was not long in coming:

  To: RM@qnm.com From: R Subject: Your mail Probable cause is defective Platinum chip unknowingly installed in guidance system.

  Pale fingers typed swiftly.

  To: R From: RM@qnm.com Subject: Your mail. Defective chip installed where?

  To: RM@qnm.com From: R Subject: Your mail In working prototype.

  And the pale hands went paler. They shook as they pecked out a response.

  To: R From: RM@qnm.com Subject: Ozone layer

  Does product failure have any impact on ozone layer?

  The reply: "Why do you always ask that?"

  To which, the pale fingers shot back: "None of your damn business. Answer the question."

  "None." The reply made the pale fingers relax.

  Color slowly returned to the poised fingers. The owner cracked his knuckles and attacked the keyboard with renewed energy.

  To: R From: RM@qnm.com Subject: Your mail I am on vacation. I have been on vacation for two weeks. Erase this e-mail and all previous electronic communications. I will do same. Project ParaSol is defunded this date. Furlough all nonessential personnel. Remember-loose lips sink careers.