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thought。 When he was a policeman in his twenties； he would have been puffing if he ran a block； and probably would have had to engineer a desk job by thirty five or face a heart attack。 It was nice then。 Just walk into any bar you wanted when off duty。 Have a pizza for supper if you wished。 Get laid when you had a chance。
But that was when he was alive。 And when he was officially alive； there were no such things as peak periods with rice and fish and abstinence。 Actually； he didn't really have to follow the regimen。 He thought about that often。 He could probably do very well at less than full capacity。 But a wise Korean had told him that deterioration of the body is like a stone rolling down a mountain。 So easy to start； so hard to stop。 And if Remo Williams couldn't stop； he would be very dead。
He lowered his shoes to the rim； getting the feel of its grip into the backboard。 If you know the feel of objects； the feel of their mass； their movement and their strength； you could use that as your strength。 That was the secret of force。 To not fight it。 And to not fight it was the best way to fight people when you had to。
Remo stood up on the rim and gathered the where of the floor into his balance。 He should have changed the height of the hoop； because sooner or later he would be performing muscle memory instead of proper use of balance and judgment。 When he had first learned the exercise； he watched a cat for a day and a half。 He had been told to bee the cat。 He had answered that he would prefer to bee a rabbit so he could get laid； and how long was this dingaling training going to go on？
〃Until you are dead；〃 he was told。
〃You mean fifty years。〃
〃It might be fifty seconds； if you are not good enough；〃 said the Korean instructor。 〃Watch the cat。〃
And Remo had watched the cat and for a few moments thought； really thought； he could bee the cat。
Now Remo Williams indulged his own private little joke which signalled the start of the exercise。
〃Meow；〃 he whispered in the silent； dark gym。
He stood on the rim； straight up； and then his body fell forward； shoes gripping the rim by pressure； head going forward； shoes flipping up； rim adding force； body heading straight down； hair and head aiming straight at the floor…like a dark knife dropping into a dark sea。
His hair touched the varnish of the floor and triggered a body trunk flip； the dark form in the blackened gym spinning in space； the sneakers ing around quick… rocket fast…arching and down steady standing on the wooden floor。
Blat。 The sound echoed in the gymnasium。 He had held for the last hair…touching instant and then let the muscles take over； the muscles of a cat which shifted the body in。air and put the feet on the floor。 An exercise the body could do only when the mind was trained； trained to steal the balance of another animal。
Remo Williams had heard the blat in the gym； the sound of his sneakers hitting the floor。 He was not purring。
〃Shit；〃 he mumbled to himself。 〃The next time it'll be my head。 That dumb bastard is gonna get me killed yet； with his goddam peak period。〃
And he returned to the balcony and the backboard； this time to do it right。 Without a sound when his sneakers hit the floor。
CHAPTER THREE
The sun reflected on the scales of the fish and played on the water and warmed the covered wood …pier of Giuseppe Bresicola's wholesale fish market which jutted out into San Francisco Bay like dirty toy sticks on a blue plate。
Bresicola's did not smell of fish： it breathed of fish and sounded of fish； from the splat of mackerel piled on mackerel to the scrape of steel across scales。 Entrails in giant barrels in seconds began the inevitable decay。 Fresh seawater sqnooshed over the scale…caked wood。 And Bresicola smiled because his friend was again visiting him。
〃I no tella you the orders today； Mr。 Time…Study man。 Not today。〃 He made a playful stab at his friend's head。 How nice this boy moved。 Like a dancer。 Like Willie Pep。 〃You don't get the orders today。〃
〃What do you mean； not today；〃 asked the friend who was six feet tall and husky。 He scraped his brown shoes playfully on the wood； a small dance without motion。 They were good shoes； 50 shoes。 Once he had bought ten pairs of 100 shoes and then heaved them out into the Bay； but the next day all he did was draw money from his account and buy new shoes。 So； he had gotten that out of his system and throwing shoes away meant only that you had to take the trouble of buying more。
〃It's abalone；〃 said Bresicola。 〃We got another order from New York。 Just now。〃
〃So？〃
〃So the last time I tell you about abalone； I no see you for a month。〃
〃You think abalone has something to do with my work here？〃
〃You think maybe Giuseppe is stupid； Mr。 Time…Study man？〃
〃No。 Many people are stupid。 Especially back east。 But not you； paisan。 Not you。〃
〃It's something maybe to do with the stock market； yes？〃
〃If I said yes； you wouldn't believe me。〃
〃I believe anyting you say。 Anyting。〃
〃It's the stock market。〃
〃Not for a minute does Giuseppe believe that。〃
〃I thought you said you'd believe me？〃
〃Only if you makea sense。 Stock market makea no sense。〃
〃Abalone makes no sense？ Time studies make no sense？〃
〃Nothing makes no sense；〃 Bresicola insisted。
Very good； thought the time study man； because now was no time to be giving out signals。 It would be a very nice way to get oneself killed。 First； loss of your vibrations； then your awareness； then your balance； and before long； you were just a normal； cunning； strong human being。 And that would not be enough。 Not nearly enough。
He shared with Bresicola a glass of sharp red wine； made plans for dinner with no definite date； and when he left； had decided it was long past time to eliminate the time…study man。
He would exist until a plane ticket had been purchased with his American Express card and until 800 in travelers' checks were cashed。 He would exist all the way from San Francisco to Kennedy Airport in New York City。 He would walk into the men's room closest to the Pan American counter； look for a pair of blue suede shoes indicating that the wearer was reposing on the mode； wait till the room was clear； then mention that the urinals never worked and that he hoped some day the Americans could learn plumbing from the Swiss。
A wallet would e out from under the closed mode door and the time…study man's wallet would go in as exchange。 The man inside would not open the door to see who got the wallet。 He had been told that to open the door was to lose his job。 There was even a better reason。 If he should even glimpse the man who got the wallet； he would lose his life。
Remo Williams flipped the time…study man's wallet into the hand ing from beneath the door and snatched the other wallet in a motion so fast the person in the mode only knew there had been a switch by the change in the shade of the leather。
So much for the time…study man。 Remo Williams left the men's room for a small cocktail lounge on the second level； from which he could look back down to make sure the blue suede shoes left the terminal without looking around。
The bar was dark； hiding the afternoon； a perpetual womb； a dispenser of nerve killers that Remo Williams was not allowed to have because he was on peak。 He ordered ginger ale； then checked the wallet。
The seals were unbroken。 He checked the credit cards and the wallet flap for the needle he had been assured would bring instant death。 With the credit cards was a small card with phone numbers that were not phone numbers。 By adding the numbers in the series； Remo learned that：
1） The Reach…Me…Urgent was the same。 A Chicago dial…a…prayer。 （That would have to be changed because of deteriorating phone service。）
2） The next training checkout with Chiun； his Korean teacher； was scheduled six weeks later at Plensikof Ps Gym on Granby Street； Norfolk； Va。 （Dammit； Chiun could stay alive long。）
3） The assignment meeting was at the Port Alexandria at 8 p。m。； a face…to…face； with…oh no…Harold W。 Smith himself。
4） He was now Remo Pelham。 A former policeman。 Bora and raised in the Bronx。 DeWitt Clinton High School； where he remembered only the football coach； Doc Wiedeman； who would not remember him。 An M。 P。 in Vietnam。 Chief of industrial security at a Pittsburgh mill。 No family。 No furniture； but books and clothes would be arriving in two days at Brewster Forum； which had just named him director of security at 17；000 per year。
He scanned the sheet and mitted it to memory。 Then he folded it up and dropped it into the remnants of his ginger ale。 In ten seconds； it had dissolved； making the drink murky。 It had been the intention of someone that Remo should be able to dispose of the paper by swallowing it。 There were two reasons he would not swallow it…one； it tasted like glue； two； he didn't swallow things sent to him by anyone。
He took a cab into New York City with a woman who didn't like New York City； didn't know why she was visiting it and would never visit it again。 So many people with only one thing on their minds。 Not like Troy； Ohio。； Had Mr。 Pelham heard of Troy； Ohio？
〃Yes； I know Troy； Ohio；〃 said Remo Pelham。 〃It has an i