"For example, Wing Chun traces its immediate origins to the mid-seventeen hundreds. The tradition from which it springs may be a millennium older. Shotokan, I believe, was founded less than a century ago. The Japanese master Funakoshi derived it from several Okinawan styles, among them Shorin-Ryu, which in turn grew from China. Tae Kwon Do was also developed from Shorin-Ryu, but more recently.

"Historically speaking, Mr. Axbrewder, karate is the young son of a much older father."

Directly below the dais, the man I tracked passed a younger guy, so close that they brushed shoulders. I was too far away to make out details, but the younger man had lank blond hair hanging onto his forehead and wore an open gi top over a black T-shirt with large white letters that said, "NO FEAR." I didn't see him give anything to the heavyset man. But my target's right hand slipped quickly under the flap of his bag and out again.

Now I was sure. He was the drop. The younger man was another pick.

I had to admire the sheer effronterv of a hand-off rieht under the noses of everyone at the head table Sue Rasmussen, Stern-way, the record-keeper. But the dignitaries were too busy to notice.

"So why was Wing Chun developed?" I asked T'ang Wen. Obliquely I worked my way toward the subject of the chops.

"What was wrong with the tradition?"

He treated me to a smile that revealed nothing.

"That is an important question, Mr. Axbrewder. I will answer briefly.

"Because of their richness and complexity," he explained, "the older forms of ch'uan fa often required decades of dedicated study. As an example, forty years is not considered an unusual span for the mastery of Tai Chi ch'uan. In the early seventeen hundreds, however, the Manchurian Qing dynasty challenged the Shaolin temples, which supported the Ming family. This demonstrated the need for a combined style which could be mastered more easily, and therefore be disseminated more widely. Wing Chun was developed at the Northern Shaolin Temple from five older systems for that purpose.

"You may be interested to know that it was devised by a woman, Ng Mui, a Buddhist nun who escaped the Qing destruction of the Temple. This is relevant for obvious reasons. A style intended to be taught easily and widely could not rely on strength or weight for its effectiveness.

Rather it required quickness, flexibility, and timing rather than force. With Wing Chun, a small woman might well defeat a large man."

While T'ang spoke, my target passed the display and ambled through the crowd across from me. Reflexively I concentrated on him too hard to see anything else. But when I remembered to widen and blur my awareness, I noticed a matronly woman in a blowzy flower print housedress headed for him. Despite the blur or because of it I saw her dip toward a gear bag as if she'd stumbled. Then she righted herself with a bulge in her fist. Two steps later, she nearly collided with the drop. He adjusted the flap of his bag. When she went on by, her hands were empty.

I hardly heard the yelling of the contestants, or Rasmussen's announcements. The events in front of me might as well have been invisible. Tension and worry throbbed in my temples. I had a hard time following T'ang Wen's answers.

I abandoned subtlety. My next question sounded disjointed, but I didn't care.

"Where do the chops fit in all this history?"

Some of the students behind me shifted uncomfortably. T'ang's tone sharpened, giving his voice an undercurrent of anger.

"Our traditions hold that Ng Mui first taught her new system to a young girl named Yim Wing Chun, who had need of its advantages. Subsequently she taught Ng Mui's system to her husband, Leung Bok Chow. When he was convinced of its effectiveness, he began to disseminate the new style, calling it "Wing Chun' in honor of his wife.

"One of Leung Bok Chow's first students was Leung Len Kwai, a gifted artist. Our traditions say that he carved the essential stances and techniques of Wing Chun into a set of ivory chops in order to preserve the system from later misunderstanding.

"We are Chinese," T'ang Wen finished with a hint of vehemence.

"We revere our traditions. For that reason, the chops are priceless to us." Then he added scornfully, "If they are genuine."

Hong Fei-Tung gazed impassively at everything and nothing, as if he'd been sculpted in terra cotta.

My target had stopped moving. A quick check told me that his three picks had done the same. Apparently they'd all decided to watch the tournament. Or they were waiting for a signal A signal from their spot. Keep working, or cut and run.

Uncertainty whetted my sense of disaster to a cutting edge. The phone seemed to burn in my pocket.

"Priceless,"

" I echoed because I had to say something.

"And Nakahatchi has them."

Tangible disapproval poured down from Hong's students.

"They do not belong to him," T'ang Wen stated coldly.

"He cannot appreciate them. They are Chinese. I do not question the value of Shotokan. But Nakahatchi sensei is Japanese. He lacks the centuries of tradition and study from which true appreciation grows."

Out on the floor, Ned Gage adjudicated a dispute between a couple of contestants and the refs. Neill watched nearby, but didn't intervene.

Down at the end of the hall, a group of karate-ka swung long staffs in elaborate patterns, presumably warming up for a weapons event. Sammy Posten hovered uselessly near the displayed chops. Sternway remained at the head table, master of all he surveyed. He held his right arm crossed over his chest, his right hand on his left shoulder as if to rub a sore muscle.

I gripped the phone in my pocket. During the past half hour, the heat had climbed ahead of the AC. Now it felt stultifying. My arm ached where I'd been kicked yesterday.

Forgetting transitions, I asked roughly, "How do you account for all this misunderstanding of the Chinese and their traditions?"

Alarm made me sound less than sympathetic. Several of the students behind me murmured angrily. T'ang Wen lost his smile. Nevertheless he kept his poise.

"Like the West," he informed me coldly, "Japan has an imperialistic culture. You have more in common with them than with the Chinese. In addition, you have no heritage yourself, and therefore see no value in it. Western practitioners are drawn to that which seems natural to them. You have only to look about you to see the truth of this."

Under other circumstances, I would've asked, And you don't think your contempt for people like us has anything to do with it? Scratch a man who thinks he's being sneered at, and you'll uncover someone who enjoys sneering himself. But I couldn't concentrate on T'ang Wen any longer.

I'd run out of time.

Applause spattered the hall as one of the hard style events ended. From the gallery, spectators waved their arms or fists. Rasmussen pointed toward the registration table or the main doors. Sternway lowered his arm. Neill turned away from Gage and the dispute, throwing up his hands in apparent disgust. Pos-ten beckoned like he wanted Bernie's attention, but Bernie ignored him.

Casual as ever, my target moved again. So did his picks. The girl continued the way she'd been going, but both the young man in the NO FEAR T-shirt and the matronly woman changed directions.

They'd seen a signal. They were heading for the doors.

"Excuse me," I murmured to T'ang brusquely.

"Something's come up." As I strode away, I snatched out the phone.

Signal, hell. I'd seen a dozen of them. Somehow I wasn't doing my job.

The phone rang interminably before Max answered. The line clicked interminably as Max connected me to Bernie's radio. I'd nearly rounded the corner of the hall by the time Bernie's head jerked toward me.

"Yeah?" he rasoed.

"They're leaving," I told him urgently.

"The drop and three picks. Someone warned them off, I don't know who."

As fast as I could, I described them. My target had almost reached the main doors when I finished.

Bernie didn't hesitate.

"I'll take the drop. You get the rest."