Engines of Destruction

For four, freight traffic was booming. Even the Midwest floods and washouts of '93 had not crimped it.

Amtrak, on the other hand, was in trouble. Service cutbacks had begun to bite. Ridership levels were up, but Smith had begun to suspect some of that could be explained by the opportunists looking for a free ride into lifelong insurance benefits if they survived a rail accident. The so-called Railpax, which allowed Amtrak to utilize existing freight lines on a favored-nation basis, was at an end.

With Congress considering terminating funding, Amtrak's future appeared bleak.

But what possible motive would the Nishitsu Industrial Electrical Corporation have for derailing Amtrak?

There was no clear answer. Smith returned to the matter of the murderous teleporting ronin.

Every time one of the phone cards was used, the call was logged by the issuing company's computers. Smith got a readout of the originating call and its destination as they took place. They came up as simple phone charges. In reality they represented the most efficient form of transportation known to man.

And a Japanese company owned it exclusively.

No other Japanese names bubbled up from the ongoing search programs. And every time one of those cards was used, without fail, a rail accident followed within minutes.

Somewhere in the fiber-optic maze of the nation's telephone system, a deadly predator was moving unseen and unsuspected. Soon, Smith knew, the ronin would attempt to send the Sunset Limited tumbling into Bayou Canot.

It was just a matter of time. If only, he found himself hoping, their nameless enemy would strike at Bayou Canot sooner than later. The carnage piling up was horrendous.

THE SUNSET LIMITED first showed itself as a distant gleam of light in the shadowy distance.

"Here it comes," said Remo.

Chiun's head swiveled about, left then right. His sensitive ears were hunting for sounds. "I hear no ronin. "

"Don't forget. If he's dematerialized, we won't hear his heartbeat. Just like in that boxcar."

"If he skulks amid this eerie backwater, my eagle eye will spy him."

Remo nodded. His eyes were also searching.

Foliage rustled. Herons. Somewhere the muscular splash of a restless alligator disturbed the night.

And down the line the gleam of the twin-beam headlight grew to a white, widening funnel. The trestle began to vibrate.

Remo stepped back. He was looking at the trestle supports. If the ronin was going to strike, he would strike here.

A wind picked up. It seemed to be moving ahead of the oncoming train. The light grew, changing the shadows, making them crawl. And lining up on the trestle, the Sunset Limited threw the full blaze of her engine headlight along the bridge, making the rails gleam and sparkle.

The Sunset Limited hit the bridge at a thunderous seventy miles an hour. The bridge vibrated in response. It rattled for barely two minutes to the thunder of the passing train.

Then the Limited was gone. The shadows returned. Night closed in again.

And Remo and Chiun stood at the foot of the bridge and looked at each other.

"Guess Smitty was wrong."

"We must get word to him," said Chiun.

"How? We're in the middle of nowhere."

"Did you not say that trains have telephones now?"

"Yeah. But we're a little late to catch the Sunset Limited. "

"Not if we hurry," said Chiun.

THEY PUSHED THE BOAT into the water and sent it racing down the waterway.

The tracks wound in a serpentine in and out of the bayou. That made it possible to beach the boat at a point down the line before the Sunset Limited reached it.

Taking up positions at trackside, Remo and Chiun waited as the headlights bored toward them.

Gauging its speed, they began to run, ahead of the train and parallel to the track.

The silver train had slowed to fifty miles per hour. Remo and Chiun got up to that speed and held it.

The engine barreled past. They let the forward coaches do the same.

The end car was baggage. Since they were traveling at the same velocity, it was easy enough to hop on at the back, cling a moment, then force the rear door open.

When they worked their way forward to a passenger coach, Remo and Chiun attracted no more attention than normal.

Remo found a rail phone. He activated it with a credit card.

"Smitty. You guessed wrong. The ronin didn't hit the bridge."

"I know, Remo," Smith said wearily. "He has been creating carnage in several other places instead. There are many casualties."

Smith filled Remo in on the new pattern of recreated derailments.

"So why'd he skip this one?" Remo asked. "Some of those other crashes are pretty small potatoes."

"He is building toward something. Perhaps he is saving Bayou Canot. "

"Saving it for what?"

"That," said Harold Smith with an audible grinding of teeth, "is the question of the hour."

"Well, I may have part of the answer."

"Go ahead, Remo."

"We came across a guy laying fiber-optic cable along the tracks. Did you know they're laying cable along rail bed all over the country?"

"Yes. That is how the SPRINT company has created its telephone system."

"SPRINT?"

"It stands for Southern Pacific Railroad Internal Telephone."

"The railroads are in the telephone business?" Remo blurted out.

"Yes. Some."

"Well, now they're laying cable for the information superhighway, too. Mean anything to you?"

"The Nishitsu Corporation is attempting to sabotage our computer links!" Smith snapped. "This has nothing to do with the rail system at all."

"That's how I read it."

"Excellent work, Remo."

"You are both wrong," sniffed Chiun. "The Japanese are envious of American railroads. Their destruction is the insidious goal."

"Tell Chiun that the Japanese rail system is far more sophisticated than our own," Smith said. "And please return to Folcroft immediately."

Hanging up, Remo said; "You hear that?"

"The man is an inveterate rationalist."

"You're just jealous because I was right and you were wrong."

"You are never right and I am never wrong."

Just then the conductor accosted them and asked if they had tickets.

"I entrusted mine to this lackey," said Chiun, pointing at Remo while breezing haughtily past the conductor.

Chapter 23

Dawn was breaking over Folcroft Sanitarium when Remo and Chiun finally got back.

"What's the latest?" asked Remo.

Chiun flew to his steamer trunk, checked the lock to make sure it hadn't been tampered with, then relaxed.

Harold Smith was hollow of eye and voice. "There have been a half-dozen derailments and rail accidents overnight. The loss of life is significant. Almost thirty people."

Remo grunted. "You lose more people in one average plane crash."

"That is not how it will play in the morning papers," said Smith. "The National Railroad Passenger Corporation is known for its comparatively good safety record. This will be seen as a symptom of its decline and unworthiness to continue operating."

Remo frowned. "What's the National Railroad Passenger Corporation?"

"Amtrak."

"How do they get 'Amtrak' out of 'National Railroad Passenger Corporation'?"

Smith declined to reply. He was scanning his computer screen. There had been no movement on the part of the ronin in more than two hours. None of the three fake phone cards was in play.

"Guess he tucked himself in for the night," said Remo unhappily.

"The last location I have for him is Denver, Colorado."

"Want us to go there?"

"Not yet."

Chiun spoke up. "Emperor, where are the katanas of the ronin? I would like to examine them."

Smith pointed to one of a row of ancient oaken file cabinets that occupied a corner of the office. "Top drawer."

Chiun went to the one indicated and extracted the matched katana blades. Remo drifted up.

"A descendant of Odo of Obi forged these," Chiun said firmly.

"If you say so," said Remo. "What I'd like to know is how they rematerialize."

"A timer," Smith said absently.

"Oh, yeah?"

Smith nodded without looking up from his screen. "I discovered a minitimer in each hilt. Once the button is pressed, the dematerialized state is of short duration but can be regulated. That is how the ronin was able to decapitate the Texarkana engineer without entering the cab. He threw the blade through the windscreen, whereupon it rematerialized and decapitated him, then due to the speed of the oncoming train, buried itself in the bulkhead, solid once more."

"So how come it didn't break?" asked Remo.

"It is made of some metal or substance that is highly flexible yet strong. I have not yet identified it."

Remo shrugged. "At least we got some of his arsenal."

"By the way, I cleaned the battery contacts in the dead katana. It is working again. So be careful."

Chiun addressed Smith. "Emperor, might we be allowed time to ourselves?"

"Yes. Just remain within the building."

Tucking the blades under one arm, Chiun said, "Come, Remo. I have much to teach you before we confront the dastardly ronin once more."

"Teach me what?"

"The art of the katana. "

Remo blinked. "What happened to 'weapons sully the purity of the art'?"

"You have no blades to call your own. And there is no time to grow proper Knives of Eternity."

"So you're going to drag me into sword fighting?" Remo said doubtfully.

"It is a dubious exercise, I know. But to fight a ghost, one must employ arcane methods. To fight a ghost with a short-fingered accomplice such as yourself is folly."

Remo thought about that. "I think I've been insulted."

"Come."

Remo folded his arms. "Not a chance. You always taught me to disdain swords, so I'm abstaining."

"You cannot abstain when the honor of the House is at stake!" Chiun flared. He clenched his fists before him.

"Tough. I've taken enough guff for one day. I'm abstaining."

Chiun whirled on Smith. "Emperor, talk sense to this wayward one."

"Remo, please." Smith didn't look up. He continued tapping his illuminated keyboard.

Remo looked at Chiun and purred, "What'll you trade me for cooperating?"

Chiun's eyes narrowed. "What do you wish in trade?" he asked thinly.

Remo glanced at the big steamer trunk with the lapis lazuli phoenixes resting on the office divan. "A peek inside."

"That will not release you from carrying it with you if I so command," Chiun said quickly.

"Damn. I changed my mind. Trade you for permanent release from lugging duty."

"Too late!" Chiun crowed. "You have stated your heart's desire. Learn the art of the katana and I will allow you a peek. But only one."

"Guess you got me."

"Yes. I have you. Now, make haste. And bring my precious trunk."

Hefting the awkward box on his shoulder, Remo followed the Master of Sinanju from Harold Smith's office. On his way out the door, he gave the steamer trunk a surreptitious shake.

The sound made him think of uncooked rice grain, but the box was too light to be full of grains. Toothpicks maybe. Or Rice Krispies. He gave the box another shake. That was definitely a Rice Krispies sound. Therefore, it was not Rice Krispies. There was no reason Chiun would have him lug Rice Krispies all over the place. Rocks, yes. Not rice in any form.

Stepping on the waiting elevator, Remo figured he'd learn the truth soon enough.

AN HOUR LATER, Remo was grinning from ear to ear.

Under Chiun's tutelage, he had learned the Wheel Stroke, the Clearer Stroke, the Pear Splitter and other samurai sword techniques.

"Hey, I'm pretty good at this," Remo said as he deflected Chiun's blade for the third time.

"Too good," spat Chiun, withdrawing.

"How's it possible to be too good?"

They were in the spacious Folcroft gymnasium. It was here that Remo had first met Chiun and where he had received his earliest Sinanju training.

Chiun frowned as deeply as Remo grinned.

"You may have some Japanese blood polluting your veins," Chiun said.

"Not a chance."

"You are such a mongrel, how are we to know?"

Remo grinned. "I'm good. That's all there is to it."

"You had an excellent teacher."

Remo saw his opening and took it. "I did, didn't I."

And Chiun struggled so hard to hide his pleasure at the unexpected compliment that his wrinkled face twitched like a cobweb in a breeze.

"It may be we are ready to meet the ronin in combat," Chiun allowed, his voice stiffening to keep the unseemly warmth from it.

"I know I am. But what about you? En garde!"

And Remo lunged.

Chiun floated into the approaching stroke, katana gripped in two hands. It came up, clashed, parried and spanked both sides of the black blade four times before Remo could complete his thrust.

Fluttering out of the way, the Master of Sinanju said, "Remember who is Master and who is not."

Remo stared at his still-quivering sword blade. "Point taken," he said in a suddenly small voice.

They laid the blades aside.

"I wonder who this guy Batsuka is?" Remo asked after a while.

"A ronin. "

"If he works for Nishitsu, doesn't that make him a samurai? I mean, he's not really masterless if he works for a corporation, is he?"

Chiun frowned in thought. "He does not wear the crest of his clan on his shoulder. Therefore, he is ronin, not samurai."

"Of course he doesn't. He's a saboteur. What's he gonna do? Wear the corporate logo?"

Chiun caressed his wispy beard. "I do not understand."

"It's simple. If he wears the logo, that points directly to Nishitsu. He can't exactly do that, so he leaves it off. Still and all, he is a samurai."

"We do not know this," Chiun said stiffly.

"Every step of the way, he used Nishitsu products."

"He is Japanese. He is comfortable with things Japanese. It is very Japanese to be that way."

"I guess that makes sense," Remo admitted. "Still wonder who he is really. Samurai died out a long time ago."

Chiun's eyes suddenly narrowed. Reaching into one sleeve, he produced the metal bulldozer plate found at the crash site in Mystic, Connecticut. His eyes went to the company symbol, four disks in a circle.

"This is the crest of Shogun Nishi," he muttered.

"Are you going back to that?"

"The crest of Nishi is the sign of Hideo, which is a limb of Nishitsu. Do you not see the significance, Remo? The sons of Nishi must be the shoguns of Nishitsu!"

"I don't think modern corporations have shoguns, Little Father."

"There is more to this than meets the eye," Chiun said slowly. His fists began to clench and unclench. He looked at his broken nail, and his wispy beard trembled.

"It all makes sense now," he said in a low, bitter voice.

"To everyone except me," Remo muttered. "I'll bet when we nail this guy he turns out to be an unemployed chopsocky actor or something."

Chapter 24

For Furio Batsuka, the first step to becoming a samurai involved being beheaded.

The correct term was kubi kiri. In medieval times one's head was literally separated from his neck. But this was modern Japan. And Furio worked for a modern Japanese multinational corporation.

After the so-called Bubble Economy had collapsed, many things were different. Events formerly undreamed of became commonplace. There was crime and unemployment, bank failures and earthquakes. Some called it Japan's Blue Period.

In modern Japan to be laid off was the same as experiencing true kubi kiri. Especially if one were a batter for the Osaka Blowfish.

"I am beheaded?" he had blurted when the team manager broke the bad news to him over green tea, inadvertently using the ironic term.

"You play too aggressive. Too American."

"I play to win."

"It is not always necessary to win. Sometimes a draw is good."

Furio nodded, but not in agreement. Then the manager spoke the words that changed his life.

"The shogun is interested in you. See him tomorrow."

THE SHOGUN WAS Kozo Nishitsu, president of Nishitsu Industrial Electrical Corporation. Furio found himself bowing before him early the next morning behind closed doors.

The shogun spoke without pleasantries. "I would like you to go to America. To play with a farm team we own. Eventually with the Mariners."

Furio could not believe his good fortune. To play U.S. ball!

"Gladly," he said.

"But first you must be trained. For though you will work with the Mariner organization, you will remain in our employ."

"A spy?"

"A saboteur. I have watched your aggression. I like it. It is worthy of bushi. "

And Furio bowed before the deep compliment. The shogun's ancestor's were fierce warriors. The code of Bushido was their way.

"I agree," said Furio Batsuka.

IN THE RESEARCH-and-development wing, whitecoated Nishitsu technicians measured him and then showed him a faceless dummy dressed in classic black samurai armor. On one shoulder rode the four moons of the Nishitsu Corporation.

"I am honored," he told them.

The sharp voice of Kozo Nishitsu snapped, "You will be honored once you have earned the right to don this armor."

And so his training began. He was presented to an old man whose name he was never told. This man trained him in the ways of the warrior. He learned the katana and its sixteen strokes. Archery. Spear fighting. The war fan. jujitsu. But most of all, he learned the code of Bushido, which made Furio bushi-a warrior.

After nearly a year the old sensei brought him again before the armor he coveted. Tears were in his eyes as the shogun spoke.

"The samurai are thought dead. No more. You are the first in generations. I congratulate you, Batsukasan. "

"I am proud."

"But because this is the modern world, you will wear modern armor," the shogun continued.

Sober-faced technicians dressed him. The many layers fit him like gloves for the various parts of his body.

The shogun said, "Years ago our superconductor research enabled us to devise a flexible suit that would alter the molecular vibrations of the human body so that a man could walk silently and safely like a spirit, and like a spirit, pass through solids. We called this the Goblin Suit. That prototype was stolen from us by Russian agents. But we have created a new suit, which you see before you. We call it the Black Goblin."

When the helmet was placed upon his head, the tinted, face-concealing visor dropping into place, Furio Batsuka felt weighted down by generations of pride.

Then someone turned the rheostat at his shoulder. The heaviness vanished. He felt light, like a cherry blossom. And the second phase of his training began.

Furio learned to walk through walls without fear. To place his feet so that he did not fall into the earth forever. And most frightening, to travel through telephone fiber-optic cable like fast smoke through endless straws.

They presented him with modern versions of the katana and other samurai weapons, too, and showed him how to employ their wondrous metal-cleaving blades and phantom properties.

When these things had been learned, too, the shogun told him of his mission. "You will go to America to play ball and undermine their rail system."

"Hai!" Furio barked, bowing his head sharply.

"You will kill many innocents."

"I am a samurai. I obey my shogun."

"You will live in an alien land."

"I am a samurai. I will do anything for my shogun. And to play American ball."

"Well spoken. Now, there is one last thing."

And as Furio stood at attention, the shogun stepped over and removed the four-moon corporate seal from his armored shoulder.

"Why. . . ?"

"You cannot be captured except by misadventure or malfunction. But you may be seen. You cannot be linked to us."

"But I am a samurai. You have made of me a lowly ronin. "

"When you return, your katana red with American blood, you will be a samurai once more," the shogun promised.

And behind his tinted faceplate, Furio Batsuka wept in secret. He had been a samurai for less than a day.

Still, it could have been worse. At least he had a job.

Chapter 25

The morning newspaper lay folded on Harold Smith's desk until after 11:00 a.m., its black headline screaming at him: RAIL MELTDOWN!

Smith had only glanced at the front page when his secretary laid it on his desk hours before. He was too busy trolling the net. The paper was of little value anyway. Printed in the middle of the night with hours-old information, it was already half a day behind the steady stream of bulletins moving on the wires.

A knock at the door caused Smith to withdraw his fingers from the capacity keyboard. Instantly the flat, illuminated keys went dark, fading into the black glass desktop, showing no trace that the desk harbored electronic secrets.

"Come in," said Smith.

The door opened, and Mrs. Mikulka poked her blue-haired head in. "Lunch, Dr. Smith?"

"Yes. The usual. And black coffee."

The door closed.

When Mrs. Mikulka returned, she laid the aqua particleboard tray on Smith's desk. He spread the newspaper on the desk. It was impossible to use the computer and eat. But the paper had one advantage. It was low tech.

So Smith ate and skimmed.

The news was as stale as he expected. The Amtrak derailments received extensive play. Congressional leaders were calling for the entire system to be shut down and abolished. There was a short but vague item on a hazardous-material situation in Nebraska that was obviously the ill-fated MX missile train. Smith made a mental note to deal with that problem later.

Under the fold was the beginning of an editorial that caught his eye. It was headlined US. RAIL SYSTEM TOO OLD?

Smith read along. Analysis always interested him. It was dry stuff. Exactly the kind he preferred. The editorial writer crisply summarized the current state of the US. rail infrastructure and pronounced it dangerously unsafe on account of its age.

Modern, state-of-the-art diesels run on rail beds first laid down during the Garfield administration. The fact is steelwheel technology is a product of the eighteenth century. The recent rash of rail accidents testifies to the dilapidated state of our once-great rail transportation system.

The future lies in bullet trains and magnetic-levitation technology. Clean, capable of speeds rivaling air travel, they are revolutionizing rail transportation around the world. Other nations have them. Why doesn't the U.S.?

The answer is simple. Conversion costs. With thousands of miles of track too run-down to upgrade economically, the only way the U.S. rail system can enter the twenty-first century is through a wholesale replacement of the existing trackage infrastructure. But those costs outweigh the savings of maglev by a factor of more than ten to one. The result-an impossible situation. The US. cannot implement maglev trains because of existing rail conditions. And it can't replace the tracks. Thus, the federal Maglev Initiative has been on the slow track for decades.

With this current spate of disasters, can the United States afford not to replace its rail network? Ask the Japanese, who are anxious to sell its maglev systems. Or the Germans, who have one of their own. Then ask if America, clinging to its historical love of old-style trains, can afford to lose its freight lines, as well as the dying passenger-rail system?

Smith blinked as he absorbed the last paragraph. "Maglev," he whispered.

Clearing his desktop, Smith brought his system up. He typed in the search command, then input, "Magnetic levitation."

Scrolling up came a long string of items. He skimmed them.

In under ten minutes he had absorbed the state of magnetic-levitation technology. It was first developed in the US. in the 1970s, but had been abandoned when a combination of cost and technical difficulties-solved since then-had made it impractical to implement. The Japanese and the Germans virtually controlled the field now, thanks to new advances in superconductor research.

Digging deeper, Smith pulled up the names of the Japanese firms that were in the forefront of maglev development.

He got only one: Nishitsu.

Keying off that, he asked the computer to pull up everything it could find on Nishitsu's maglev progress.

The first item might have hit him between the eyes. He leaned back in his chair.

An AP wire story only two days old, it told of the upcoming Rail Expo '96-to be held in Denver, Colorado-where new train technology from around the world would be on display to the public and industry alike. It was sponsored by an international consortium that included Nishitsu Industrial Electrical Corporation.

Smith frowned. He had heard of air shows where new technology was displayed, but not comparable rail shows.

Initiating a search, he attempted to learn more. There was no more. Then he realized the expo was already taking place. Today was the opening day.

Smith found a contact number and called it.

"Rair Expo '96," a chipper female voice said. It was obviously Japanese.

"Yes. I have just read about your function. Is is possible to fax me additional information?"

"Of course."

"Good." Smith gave her the number, then hung up.

The corner fax machine began beeping and whirring five minutes later. Smith pulled out the sheets as they came out one at a time.

There seemed nothing unusual about the information until the last sheet rolled out.

Smith was trained to pick out individual words or word strings of interest from large blocks of text. It was a speed-reading ability that had served him in good stead down through the years at CURE.

So it was not unusual that the instant his eyes fell on the last page, they jumped on two words that were uppermost in his mind. A name.

Furio Batsuka.

Eyes wide, Smith returned to his desk. He was reading as he fell into his cracked-leather executive chair.

Furio Batsuka, major-league slugger, formerly with the Osaka Blowfish, would be signing autographs all three days.

"My God!" said Harold Smith. "Could it be?"

HAROLD SMITH'S FACE was stark white when he burst into the Folcroft gymnasium.

"I have found the Nishitsu ronin, " he said.

"Where?" said Remo.

"He is signing autographs at the Rail Expo in Denver."

"Oh, that. That's where K.C. was headed."

"Who is K.C.?" asked Smith.

"A sensitive soul," said Chiun.

"A rail nut," said Remo.

Smith said, "According to what I have, Furio Batsuka is his real name. He is a Japanese baseball player who was released from the Osaka Blowfish four years ago. He came to this country and was signed up by a minor-league team. A year ago he joined the Seattle Mariners as a batter."

"Can't be the same Batsuka," said Remo.

"The Osaka Blowfish were sponsored by the Nishitsu company. And Nishitsu owns an interest in the Mariners. Remo, you follow baseball. Why didn't you recognize Batsuka's name?"

Remo grunted. "I haven't paid much attention since the strike."

"Ah-hah," said Chiun. "This explains the inexplicable."

"It does?" said Remo and Smith together.

"Yes. When I first encountered this fiend, he employed a fighting stance I did not recognize as Japanese."

"What stance?"

Chiun demonstrated by laying his katana blade across his shoulder and taking practice swings at an imaginary opponent.

"That's a batting stance, all right," said Remo.

"My God!" said Smith. "It all fits. I last tracked the ronin to Denver. That is where he is now. Signing autographs."

"That still doesn't explain what this is all about."

"I believe I have that answer, as well," said Smith.

They looked at him.

"For years now, the Japanese have wanted to sell the U.S. high-speed bullet and magnetic-levitation trains. But our rail systems are either incompatible or unsuitable for the conversion. It would all have to be replaced. From scratch. They're trying to convince us that our rail system is falling apart."

Chiun hissed, "The philistines! Let them tear up their own rails."

"They have. And now they enjoy bullet trains and maglev systems we can never hope to inaugurate as long as we cling to old steel-wheel technology."

"Well, that explains one thing that's been bothering me," said Remo.

Smith said, "Yes?"

"Now I know why K.C. left Melvis crying in his beer."

Smith looked confused.

"Never mind," said Remo. "Okay, I'll buy it. I guess we head to Denver, huh?"

"Yes," said Harold Smith in a grim, tight voice. "You go to Denver."

Chiun lifted a vengeful fist to the high ceiling. "The fiend will never harm our gracious engines again, O Emperor. Place your trust in us."

"Remo," said Smith.

"Yeah?"

"See that Batsuka is disposed of quietly. And make certain the Nishitsu people understand our deep displeasure with events."

A stricken expression crossed Chiun's wizened face. His beard trembled in shock. "They will be allowed to retain their heads?"

"Be discreet," repeated Smith.

"They get to keep their heads," said Remo. "Sorry."

Chapter 26

The International Rail Exposition for 1996 was destined to be the largest, most ambitious assemblage of railroad rolling stock ever put together in one spot.

An outdoor fairground in the high mountain air of Denver, Colorado, was the site. Trains old and new, ranging from museum pieces to factory-pristine prototypes had been trucked and airlifted in for the event.

Gleaming passenger diesel-electrics stood on static display beside mighty Hudson Locomotives. There were Big Boys and U-Boats and Alcos, Baldwin diesels and Budliners. Narrow-gauge curiosities dwarfed by Challenger 4-6-64s and other titans of the steam age.

Farther in the fenced-off fairground stood the prototypes and the late-model diesels on longer lengths of trackage. They shuttled back and forth, like dumb, throbbing beasts of burden. GM Big Macs. French TGV's. German ICE trains. Swedish X-2000s. Russian diesels and all the latest in bullet trains and magnetic-levitation technology, bright in stealth livery or manufacturer's colors.

Beyond that impressive array, candy-striped fleamarket tents were set up, displaying railroad paraphernalia ranging from massive coffee-table books to videotapes and memorabilia from lines lost to man but still remembered fondly by rail fans-all being snapped up by attendees, who milled about wearing the stunned, beatific expressions normally associated with religious fanatics.

Melvis O. Cupper wore one of those expressions. He was in hog heaven from the moment he paid his twenty-five dollar, one-day admission and walked through the wonderland of Mallets and Big Boys, taking his Stetson off in mute respect to the inert iron gods of steam he loved so dearly.

By the time he got to the dealers' area, he was primed to buy. And buy he did.

Three hours of picking over knicknack tables had filled his arms with treasure and emptied his wallet. He groaned under the weight of the two-place reproduction-Hiawatha table setting, the LeHigh Valley video collection, a Texas Eagle calendar and assorted plastic-model kits. He was happy; he was content. He had everything an honest rail fan could ever want.

Except one absent article.

K. C. Crockett.

Melvis had tried to shove K.C. out of his mind, but strain as he might, he couldn't uncouple her from his heart. That was the long and short of it.

Even with new derailments occurring hourly, and the NTSB shorthanded during this, the traditional vacation month, Melvis had reached his limit.

He'd called in sick, hopped a flight to Denver and practiced what he was going to say the next time he laid eyes on his heart's desire.

There was just one hitch in the rope.

There was no sign of K.C. anywhere. Lot of clues, though.

Whenever a flashbulb exploded, Melvis whirled, his eyes tracking the after-burn. Many times he barreled through the surging crowd, stepping on toes and muttering "Pardon me" until he felt like a weakbladdered penitent at a Baptist revival meet.

But no K.C. gal.

It was as hard to take as sand in the journal box. But Melvis had come a long way, and giving up wasn't in his nature.

"Sure hope she didn't take up with that fool Air Force major," he grumbled as he set down his booty and availed himself of some cool bottled water.

Fanning himself with his hat, Melvis scanned the sea of heads. His chest expanded to see so many rail fans gathered in one spot. These were God's people, he reflected. There weren't truer or more-natural souls trampling God's good green footstool.

"If only I can rope K.C.," he muttered, "I'll be content with my lot in life."

His eyes, scanning the giant outdoor pavilions, rested on the largest of them all. A banner was hung across the entrance: MAGLEV RIDE THE FUTURE OF RAIL NOW

"If she's here, she's in that heathen den of iniquity," Melvis muttered. He swallowed hard. "Guess I just gotta steel myself and sashay into the lion's den," he said, picking up his packages.

Melvis strode toward the sign, his knees growing weak, his heart starting to trip-hammer.

"Steel wheels are my life," he told himself. "But if I gotta eat a little cold crow to catch me a rail-friendly wife, well, I'm man enough to do that, I reckon."

AT THE RAIL Expo entrance, the Master of Sinanju refused to get in line.

"I am Reigning Master," he told Remo. "I will not stand in line with the common peasantry."

Remo looked at him. "So I have to?"

"No, you do not have to. But I will not stand in line."

"This is a co-equal partnership," Remo argued.

"If it is a co-equal partnership," Chiun retorted, "why I am burdened with these?" And he raised the pair of katana blades wrapped in butcher paper to disguise them.

"Because you insisted," Remo shot back.

In the end, Remo stood in line and, when the line finally reached the ticket booth, he waved Chiun to cut in front of him.

At Remo's back a commotion started up.

"Hey! That's not fair!" the customer behind him complained.

"I'm not with him," Remo said.

"You let him cut in front of you."

"No. He cut in front of me. I just didn't stop him."

When Chiun reached the head of the line, he came face-to-face with a slick-haired Japanese ticket taker in a tuxedo.

Their eyes met, and the ticket taker started to say something.

"Pay this Nihonjinwa, Remo," said Chiun, marching through the entrance gate.

Remo dug into a pocket.

"You are with him?" the ticket taker said thinly.

"Only as far as the grave," muttered Remo, handing over a fifty-dollar bill. "What time does Batsucker show up?" he asked.

"Batsuka-san due at one," he was told.

"I can hardly wait."

Inside, Remo found Chiun standing in the shadow of a giant black locomotive.

"Come on."

"What is the hurry?" asked Chiun, examining the wheels.

"We're on an assignment."

"Does that mean we cannot stop to smell the steam?"

"We can smell the steam after we bust the ronin."

Chiun looked up with appealing hazel eyes. "Promise?"

"Scout's honor," sighed Remo.

They walked on. Chiun carried his hands in his silvery kimono sleeves, where his broken nail would go unnoticed.

"Keep your eyes peeled for the Nishitsu booth or whatever it is. That's where Batsucker will be."

"You have peeled-eye duty," Chiun sniffed. "I am entrusted with the katanas, and so with the honor of the House."

They moved through the shifting sea of humanity like two needles passing through coarse-woven fabric on a moving loom. Even people not watching where they were going managed to miss bumping into them.

Remo got Chiun past the old-steam-engines section without too much delay.

Chiun's frown deepened.

"What's wrong?" asked Remo.

"I did not see my heart's desire."

"What's that?"

"A Mikado 2-8-2."

"I think they'll be kinda scarce here."

"I see trains from other nations. Why is the pride of the Kyong-Ji Line absent?"

"After this is over, you can write your congressman," Remo said dryly.

The flea-market tents were the most congested. Chiun insisted upon stopping at every table to ask if they had heard of the Kyong-Ji Line.

Of course, no one had. So the Master of Sinanju took it upon himself to explain it, finishing with a triumphant, "I rode her mighty Mikado 2-8-2 engine in my youngest days."

Soon Chiun had picked up a train of his own, a train of people wearing engineer caps and rail-fan buttons.

Chiun willingly signed autographs for any who asked. He posed for pictures. He charged all but the children under seven years, because they had been admitted free.

To kill time, Remo decided to case the Nishitsu display.

THE NISHITSU PAVILION was the largest of all, Remo discovered when he reached the far end of the Rail Expo grounds. It looked more like a miniature theme park with its own monorail system, except the monorail was flush to the ground at an open side of the pavilion. Something sat on the track, but it was shrouded in blue parachute silk on which the four-moons-in-a-disk logo was emblazoned.

Two Japanese men in royal blue blazers greeted Remo at the entrance. They bowed their heads in his direction and handed him Nishitsu business cards from a big fishbowl of cards.

"Preased that you come to Nishitsu dispray," one said as the other offered his card.

"Thanks," Remo said.

"You have card for us?" one asked.

"Sure." And Remo extracted his wallet, going through his set of ID cards until he found an appropriate one.

One Japanese looked at the name, blinked and took a stab at it. "Remo..."

"Llewell. That's with four l's."

"Rrewerr."

"Llewell. Try touching the roof of your mouth with your tongue on the l's."

The other struggled with it, his voice sounding as if he had a mouthful of peanut butter. "Rrewerr. "

"Keep practicing," Remo said, brushing past them. "I'll be back to check on your progress."

Inside the pavilion, more Japanese suits were milling about, talking up the wonders of magnetic levitation, passing out pamphlets, photocopied newspaper articles and other items designed to tout the benefits of maglev and the horrors of steel-wheel and rail technology. Blowups of past U.S. rail disasters-some dating back to the steam age-stood beside artists' conceptions of pristine maglev trains whizzing safely through farmland and cities.

One greeter drifted up to Remo and bowed once. "You have heard of magrev?" he asked.

"Sure. Make rove, not war."

The Japanese looked blank, so Remo asked, "Batsucker here yet?"

"Batsuka-san wirr arrive shortry. Wirr sign autographs for nominar sum and talk of magrev. You have heard of magrev?"

"You asked me that already. Actually I'm a steelwheel kinda guy."

The man shook his head violently. "Sterr-when technorogy no good. Backward. Trains jump track. Many die. Not good. Come, I show you future of train."

Remo allowed himself to be led through a maze of booths and audiovisual displays. One booth was empty but bore a standing sign.

Seattle Mariners Slugger Furio Batsuka Autographs Only $55.00

"He's charging for autographs?" Remo said.

"Yes. Is very American, yes?"

"Tell that to the irate fans who skipped the All-Star Game."

The Japanese looked blank again, so Remo let it pass. They went to the side of the pavilion that opened to fresh air and blue sky.

The maglev engine sat on an aluminum guideway that belted around in a semicircle. The parachute silk was being pulled off in preparation for a demonstration trial. The engine gleamed white, a manta ray of a thing with an airflow body that sprouted two small, angled fins from its back. There was one passenger car attached, also white as toothpaste.

"There," the Japanese said proudly. "Magrev train."

Remo shook his head sadly. "It'll never fly."

"No. No. Fins for stabirity, not fright. In Japan magrev train convey persons as fast as airprane. Safer than airprane. Arso creaner. No porrution. No unsafe rairs."

"That's 'rails.'"

"Yes, I say that. Rairs."

"What time did you say Batsucker was due?" asked Remo.

"Batsuka-san due ten minute. You wait. He wirr exprain magrev for you. Must go."

And the Nishitsu shill hurried off.

Noticing the time, Remo decided to go find the Master of Sinanju and get the showdown on the road. He had heard enough. Nishitsu was pushing its magnetic-levitation trains.

MELVIS CLIPPER was greeted by two bowing Japanese. At the entrance to the Nishitsu pavilion, one offered his card.

Automatically Melvis offered his back.

They looked at the card and read the words National Transportation Safety Board. Then exchanged nervous glances.

"You here to see Batsuka-san?" one asked.

"Who?"

"Furio Batsuka, Seattre Mariners srugger. You know, basuboru?"

Melvis got bug-eyed. "The guy they call Typhoon Batsuka? He's here?"

"Yes."

"Dang, he's about the only thing in baseball worth spit these days. Point me the dang way."

"Not here yet. Soon."

"Thank you kindly," said Melvis, tipping his hat.

THE LIMOUSINE FERRYING Furio Batsuka pulled up at the rear entrance to the Nishitsu pavilion at exactly two minutes to one. He stepped out, wearing a bland expression and his white Mariners uniform.

Nishitsu employees bowed him into the immense pavilion. Security teams with ear microphones formed a flying wedge and protected him all the way to the autograph booth where he was to appear.

It was all very smooth, extremely efficient-and very, very Japanese.

Furio had missed such efficiency during his mission in America. But soon he would return to Osaka. Yes. Very soon.

There was already a line, he saw as he took the chair and a Nishitsu salaryman picked up a microphone and began announcing his arrival in English and Japanese.

It went with Japanese efficiency. They came up, mouthed crude banalities and handed over crisp dollar bills. Furio signed whatever was offered, charging an extra ten dollars if an eight-by-ten glossy was requested.

It amazed him still, even after three years in America. He was paid a handsome salary, and the very people whose ticket purchases paid his salary willingly exchanged good money for his signature.

It was no wonder, he had long ago concluded, that American baseball was slowly dying.

That and the fact they played it so clumsily. Everyone knew the perfect baseball game was one fought to a draw.

The sixth man in line had a booming, twangy voice that brought Furio out of his reverie.

"Hilly. Name's Cupper. Melvis O. And I'm a right big fan."

The face looked familiar. Then Furio noticed the black letters stenciled on the crown of the white cowboy hat.

NTSB.

I have seen this man before, was his first thought.

His second was I have seen this man in Nebraska only yesterday. And the blood in his veins turned to ice.

"You wish autograph?" he said, steadying himself.

"Sure."

And the NTSB man who should not have been there plucked an eight-by-ten glossy from the stack and laid it before him.

"What is name again?" Furio asked, silver ink pen poised over his own naked face.

"Like I said, Cupper. Melvis O. The O's for Orvis."

A girlish voice suddenly squealed, "Melvis! Is that you?"

Melvis Cupper heard the voice he ached to hear and swallowed hard as his legs got all rubbery.

"K.C.?"

It was her, all right, sashaying up in her hiphugging dungarees and Casey Jones cap. She hadn't changed a lick. That seemed like a right proper opening line, so Melvis availed himself of it.

"You ain't changed a lick."

"Shucks, Melvis. It's only been a day. What did you expect? Wrinkles?" She had her hands on her hips and a skeptical look on her oval face.

"What I expected is what I'm seeing," Melvis said. "K.C. gal, I came all this way to see you" He thrust out a hand, saying, "Here."

"K.C.'s eyes flew wide." Is this what I see?"

"Dang straight. It's the nose herald off an old Chicago ern F-unit. I just bought it. Thought it had your name all over it."

She was hugging the nose herald to her bosom as she said, "Oh, Melvis. I don't know what to say."

"Then let me do the talkin', K.C., I know you think I'm the lowest thing this side of the Red River and a ball-hog to boot from the way I got short with you back in Cornhusker territory, but I can change."

"Melvis, what are you trying to say?"

"I'm talkie' about a lash-up. You and me. Engine and coal car. Rolling inseparable down the main line of life."

"Shucks, Melvis. I don't rightly know what to say."

"Then say yes."

"Will you take a ride in a maglev train with me while I think about it?"

"That's a hard thing for me to do, bein' a confirmed steel-wheeler like I am," Melvis muttered.

"Well, either you can or you can't."

"One second. Let me say goodbye to my good Jap buddy, Batsuka."

But when Melvis looked back to the booth, Furio Batsuka was gone. So was his security entourage.

And Melvis was suddenly aware of all the disgruntled people milling about. One glance from K.C.'s Conrail blue eyes, and everyone else in the universe faded into the background again. The corners of his grin were nipping at his earlobes.

FURIO BATSUKA didn't understand what was going on, but he could take no chances. While the two Americans were busy with their crazy courtship talk, he had his security team usher him out of the pavilion and back into the waiting company limousine.

The limo roared back to the hotel. In the back he punched up a long-distance number on the cell phone.

"Moshi moshi."

"There is a problem," Furio said quickly. "I think my cover has been blown."

The voice of Kozo Nishitsu at the other end became low and furious.

REMO FOUND the Master of Sinanju regaling a group of children with tales of the Kyong-Ji Line.

"There you are," Remo said. "Come on. Get a move on. Batsucker's due any second."

Chiun laid his long-nailed hands on the heads of two boys, saying, "Remember always-Korean steam is the most noble and pure steam of all."

They waved him goodbye, calling him Uncle Chiun.

"Batsucker's not going to be armored up, so this should be a piece of cake," Remo told Chiun as they moved through the crowd.

"It is time for the reckoning that has waited since the days of Kang."

"I thought you were off that ghost-ronin kick?"

"We fight the Nishi clan. There is no doubt of this. Take your katana, Remo."

Accepting the paper-wrapped blade, Remo led the way, Chiun following determinedly.

At the pavilion entrance, they were met by two stiff-faced Japanese greeters.

"You have heard of magrev?" one asked.

"We danced this dippy dance already," Remo said.

"One side, jokebare!" Chiun hissed.

"Senjin!" spat one greeter.

"Chanko!" snarled another.

At that, Chiun stripped his katana of its butcher paper camouflage and sliced their neckties off at the knot.

Faces whitening, the pair stepped aside.

"What's a jokebare?" asked Remo as they ducked into the Nishitsu pavilion.

"The worst thing you can call a Nihonjinwa, " spat Chiun.

Inside, Remo and Chiun found the autograph booth empty and a number of baseball and rail fans jostling about.

Remo collared one. "Where's Batsuka?"

"Ran off. Hardly gave six autographs. I tell you, these ball players have just got too big for their durn britches."

"Come on, Little Father. Something's wrong."

Moving in the direction indicated, they got barely twenty feet when they ran into Melvis Cupper and K. C. Crockett, walking arm in arm.

"Look, Remo! " squeaked Chiun. "It is Melvis and K.C. reunited."

"What are you two doing here?" Remo asked.

"I came to make amends," Melvis said. "We're on our way to ride the maglev, poisonous as that thought may be to a true-blue wheel-and-rail man like myself."

K.C. jabbed him in the ribs, saying, "Watch your mouth, Melvis. Remember that you are on probation."

"Sorry, K.C. What about you two fellas?"

"We're looking for Furio Batsuka," said Remo.

"Hell, you just missed him. I was just talkin' to him, turned my back a minute and he'd lit out slick as greased lightning."

"He saw you?" Remo asked sharply.

"Sure. Walked right up and introduced myself proper."

"Damn. He must have recognized you."

"What's that again?"

"Forget it," said Remo, hurrying on.

THE PAVILION REAR-EXIT door was open, and Remo and Chiun went through it.

Two husky security men with earphones were standing with hands down, clasping wrists in what Remo recognized as the semiofficial bodyguard stance.

"Where's Batsucker?" Remo demanded.

"Are you with Nishitsu?" one asked in impeccable English.

"Are you?" Chiun countered.

"Yes."

"Good," said Remo, taking one by the neck and the other by the throat. "Listen carefully, I'm looking for Furio Batsucker and I am in a very violent rush"

"His name Batsuka," the second man said thickly.

"Thank you for the elocution lesson." And Remo squeezed.

The one whose throat was caught developed a new coloration while the one Remo had by the neck heard the distant sound of his cervical vertebrae grinding.

Both suddenly changed allegiance.

"Hotel. Limo," one gurgled.

"Denver Hirton. That way," the other wheezed, pointing.

"I could use your car keys."

They couldn't get their hands into their pockets fast enough. Remo picked the set with the Mercedes key ring because he was in a Mercedes mood. Then he squeezed their necks to clamp off the last, sluggish blood flow to the brain. They made a sleepy pile.

"Much obliged," said Remo.

The Master of Sinanju pointedly stepped on their faces as he walked over them.

Soon they were burning rubber out of the parking lot.

IN HIS HOTEL ROOM Furio Batsuka was talking into the portable cell phone he had carried up from the limousine.

"Leave Denver immediately," the shogun was saying from distant Japan.

"Hai. "

"Do not drive or fly. And above all, do not go by rail."

"There is only one other path," he breathed.

"That is the path you must take."

"I understand."

"Pick up where you left off. The US. media are doing our jobs for us. We must keep up the pressure. Let Nishitsu Denver promote the product. Now go."

Furio hung up. He had stripped off his Mariners uniform as he talked. For the last time, he knew. Now he stood nearly nude in the G-string undergarment of the samurai.

But he was not a samurai, he thought as he belted on the shigati and obi foundation garments. He was only a ronin. Forbidden to wear the crest of his clan as he performed his work in an alien land.

The armor went on layer upon layer. When it was in place, he donned the Nishitsu-brand nickelcadmium battery-pack belt that powered the Nishitsu vibrating exoskeleton.

The last element was the folding tatami-style helmet. Furio covered his head, the tinted face shield dropping into place. He had taken great care never to be seen. But he wore a famous face and could take no chances even in a large, barbarian nation such as this, where white men saw a Japanese face rather than an individual one.

Going to the closet, he extracted his weapon bag. The loss of two katanas was humbling but not critical. He extracted a heavy battle-ax, thinking this is the proper tool to bring down a trestle bridge.

Attired in the electronic armor that made him more invincible than the mightiest samurai of old, Furio Batsuka dialed a number in Mobile, Alabama.

"Moshi moshi, " a voice replied guardedly.

"Emergency transmission to come. Stand by."

"Hai," the well-trained technician said, instantly hanging up.

THERE was a cellular phone in the Mercedes's front seat, and Remo had Chiun dial it they as raced through the streets of downtown Denver.

Chiun held it to Remo's face when Harold Smith came on the line.

"Smitty. We just missed Batsuka. He got spooked. He's headed for the Denver Hilton. Odds are he's taking the fastest way out of town."

"One moment," said Smith.

The line hummed. Then Smith returned.

"Remo, I just phoned the Hilton. Batsuka is registered in room 14-D."

"We're almost there," Remo said, screeching through a turn.

"Hold the line."

Smith returned shortly. "Remo, a call was just made to Mobile, Alabama, from room 14-D of the Denver Hilton."

"We missed him!"

"Assume nothing. Check the room. If he has not escaped, there may be something I can do on this end."

"What do you mean?"

But Smith had hung up.

Chiun tossed the phone out the window while Remo went into a turn with the gas pedal pressed flat to the floorboards.

FURIO BATSUKA CHECKED his armor. It was very heavy when both armor and wearer were in what was called solid state. He'd been told that the original Goblin Suit had been white and fit the skin like vinyl. The fiber-optic cables were mounted externally and shone with racing golden lights when the suit was activated. This had proved insufficient for stealth assignments.

Furio would rather be a ronin than a goblin, if that were the only choice.

Battle-ax in hand, he reached his mailed fist toward the room telephone. It was time to be on his way. His finger moved toward the Redial button.

Furio heard the hotel-room door smash in with a sound like splintering thunder.

Turning, he saw them. The strange pair from Nebraska. One obviously Korean, the other the white with the thick wrists.

And to his surprise, each brandished one of his Nishitsu electronic katanas.

In that moment of shock, Furio Batsuka knew he had been exposed. He also knew he had time to activate his armor or hit Redial, but not both.

They came at him from two sides. A practical approach. He raised his ono. It was the heavier weapon. They had no chance even if there were two of them. He reached for the shoulder rheostat that would activate his armor.

It happened so fast Furio Batsuka had trouble comprehending it.

A fluttery swish came from one side. The Korean.

Then his battle-ax fell to the floor with a muffled clank.

Furio looked down.

It lay on the rug amid a splash of blood. Around it lay tiny sausagelike objects that seemed very familiar. He recognized them. Then understood that he was looking at his own fingers. The blood pumping from the newly made stumps of his right hand confirmed that stupefying conclusion.

Furio Batsuka had trained and trained for combat. He was a samurai. He was not going to be defeated by anything less than another samurai. And, of course, there were none.

He activated the armor. The lightness came over his body, and he strode to the telephone.

They danced around him, swinging and slashing furiously. Or at least the whirling dervish of a Korean was furious. He went for Furio's head, his ankles, his neck. His Wheel Stroke was quite adroit, amazingly.

The other showed inferior grace. But appeared to have mastered the Scarf Sweep. Furio could almost hear the blade bite through his neck longitudinally.

It was an impasse. As long as he remained in his spectralized state, he could not dial. But neither could he be harmed.

Folding his arms to show his lack of fear, Furio stood resolute.

The blood dripping from his fingers, he noticed, went through the rug without staining. It was a very interesting phenomenon.

They circled him.

"It's all over, Batsuka," the white said. "We're on to you."

"Fingerless ronin," the other shrieked, "you will pay for your temerity. For I am the Master of Sinanju! "

Furio Batsuka heard the word Sinanju. Sinanju? What was it he had heard about a Sinanju? The name sounded Japanese, but the old man gave it a Korean pronunciation. It could be Korean. But Furio could not recall where he had heard of it. A lesser martial art, he thought. There was so many. Anyone could learn kung fu or karate and those other inferior arts.

But in the modern word, there was only one practicing samurai. And his name was Furio Batsuka.

Eventually the old Korean grew tired of the aimless slashing of air. He stopped.

The white stepped around behind him.

Furio decided to ignore him. They could not harm him. And as long as he didn't bleed to death, he was all right.

"You have been exposed, ronin without a face. Your shame is great. Your humiliation is complete."

And kneeling briefly, he picked up Furio Batsuka's fingers and began throwing them in his face in the ancient gesture of contempt.

Furio stiffened. This was the supreme insult. It must be avenged. More importantly he could not allow his samurai fingers to be so desecrated. There was still time to sew them back on.

The idea struck him with unsurpassed brilliance.

There were telephones in other rooms. He could go to them.

And so he turned his back on the annoying pair and melted through the wall as if it were soggy rice paper.

Furio emerged on the other side with ease.

If they behaved logically, they would follow him in. Then he could simply step back, collect his fingers and fax himself to Mobile, Alabama.

The difficulty was, they didn't follow. Furio waited.

Were they struck dumb by his feat of electronic magic? No, they had seen him operate before. It could not be that.

Curious, Furio returned to the connecting wall and shoved his helmeted head through as if into a waterfall curtain.

They stood waiting for him. Or rather, the Korean did.

And he was holding Furio's five fingers in his hands. As Furio watched, he began breaking them like bread sticks.

Eyes widening with horror, Furio started back into the other room.

The initial sensation was of a blow. But of course no blow could harm him in this dematerialized state.

But he looked down anyway.

He was half in and half out of the wall. He could see as far down as his black breastplate. The pain was beneath that. Easing forward, he saw himself coming out of the wall-then saw the ebony hilt of a katana protruding from a seam in his samurai armor.

Furio Batsuka blinked.

How could this be? he thought.

Then he realized that the blade was in its dematerialized state, too.

I have been stabbed by my own blade, he thought. He recognized the thrust. An elegant Thunder Stroke. But who?

And down on the floor crouched the white with an expression on his cruel face that said Gotcha.

Instinct took over then. Furio staggered back into the other room. There the unguarded telephone waited.

He dared not look down. The blade had pierced him through the side, but perhaps the wound was not assuredly fatal. His clan would not allow their only samurai to expire. Not after such exemplary service.

Reaching the phone, Furio deactivated the armor. The weight of it oppressed him. And a sharp twinge convulsed his pierced belly. Through his pain, he stabbed out the number by memory. His eyes began tearing. For the blade was still in his belly.

The line rang once, the connection opened. Escape was his. And if his ancestors were with him, so was life.

Reaching for the shoulder-mounted rheostat, which would retune his molecules into a electronic state that would cause the open line to draw him in, Furio heard a voice.

"Batter up."

His eyes veered to the sound. It came from the door, which was open. The white stood there, one hand completing a sweeping motion. The fingers were splayed, the hand empty.

And before him, turning with a silent speed, was the other katana, making no sound, not cutting, therefore harmless to all things except Furio Batsuka in his current molecular state.

At that moment, the familiar suck and roar of the fiber-optic cable ingesting his spectralized atoms came, and he exulted, "I am safe now."

THE KATANA TURNED solid and bounced off the far wall. Remo went to pick it up, passing through the spot where Furio Batsuka had stood a moment before. His body had been sucked into the phone receiver like black liquid tar into a pipe.

Chiun hurried in, hazel eyes darting about.

He beheld his pupil picking up the katana. And rolling on the rug before him was the black ronin's helmet of Furio Batsuka, the head still inside.

"Where is the rest of him?" Chiun asked, nudging the helmet to a stop. Instantly the rug started discoloring around it.

Remo pointed to a telephone receiver dangling from a desk.

"Went into the phone. Guess we got him, huh?"

"You only vanquished the head."

Remo grinned. "Half a ronin is better than none."

Reaching down, the Master of Sinanju picked up the helmet. He separated head from helmet and held the head up by its hair.

"What are you doing?" Remo asked.

"Some times the head does not die at once."

It looked that way here. The eyes were jerking and rolling about in their sockets. The mouth sagged, shut, then sagged again as muscular strength drained away.

"Looks like he's trying to say something," Remo said.

"Can you hear me, cur of Nishi?" Chiun asked. "I spit upon you."

The eyes suddenly got organized. They seemed to fall into focus on the Master of Sinanju's angry face.

The mouth struggled, then gaped all the way open, as if in surprise.

Chiun spit into the mouth.

FURIO BATSUKA FOUND himself looking into the face of the old Korean. His first thought was How did he beat me to Mobile?

His second was I am taller that he. Why does he seem as tall as I?

Then the room spun and spun, and Furio Batsuka saw the window glass zooming at him, shatter, and enjoyed an exhilarating view of the Denver skyline before his dead head dropped into an open Dumpster, where squirming maggots soon made a temporary home.

BACK AT THE HOTEL Remo picked up the telephone and heard a rush of static. He said, "moshi moshi, " and getting no response, hung up.

"Better check in with Smith," suggested Remo.

Harold Smith's voice was ghastly when Remo got him on the line.

"I assume you were successful?" he croaked thickly.

"How do you assume that?" wondered Remo.

"Because I had all outgoing telephone calls from the Denver Hilton rerouted to my office and I have a headless samurai warrior lying on my desktop," Smith said jerkily.

"Nice catch," said Remo.

Chiun was stamping about in circles, waving the trophy battle-ax in frustration. "It is ronin! Why can you two not get this straight?"

Harold Smith said, "Have you learned Nishitsu's true objective?"

"Yeah. They're pushing the horror of steel wheels on rail on one hand and the joys of magnetic levitation on the other. I think that says it all."

"They cannot be allowed to enjoy the fruits of their scheme."

"We could have some fun with their demonstration model," suggested Remo.

"Do so." Smith hung up.

Remo hung up. "Okay, Little Father. Once we tie up the loose ends, we're done."

Chiun tossed the battle-ax on the bed, but Remo recovered it. He had the remaining katana in hand.

"Can't leave these lying around to give the maid ideas."

They left the room.

"What is this thing called anyway?" Remo asked Chiun, hefting the ax.

"It is an ono. A battle-ax."

"That explains Yoko," Remo said as the elevator door opened to admit them.

Chapter 27

The white-coated Nishitsu demonstration team stood before the waiting maglev engine and its single car, extolling the virtues of magnetic-levitation transportation.

Melvis Cupper heard the words, but he was like a Baptist at a Hindu widow-burning ceremony. He understood the reasoning; he just flat out did not believe in the procedure.

"Magnetic revitation is the future. Magnetic revitation is superior to arr other rair technorogies. The many viorent derairments America now experiencing proves that ord technorogy is no ronger good for America. Nishitsu magrev is the future for America. If this demonstration convinces you, write congressmen and senators. Write White House. Terr them you want safe rair transporation, not train wrecks."

"Man, he is layin' it on thick, ain't he?" Melvis muttered.

K.C. punched him playfully. "Hush, Mel. Open your mind, not just your ears."

"Now it is time to board the Nishitsu Express to future," the corporate spokesman said.

The door hummed open, and they began boarding.

"Man, I hope I got the stomach for this," Melvis said.

K.C. said, "I won't force you, Melvis. You gotta take this step on your own."

Melvis's face scrunched up. "Oh, Lord, give me the strength. What I do, I do for love and not out of disrespect for rail and country."

Closing his eyes, Melvis allowed himself to be guided onto the humming car. He felt like Jonah in more ways than one.

"You can open them now," K.C. prompted.

Melvis did.

It was like being inside a pneumatic tube, he decided. All slicked up, plush, polished and featureless. The seats hardly looked like seats. And they were facing every which way.

"Prease take seats," a crisp Japanese voice said over the intercom.

Melvis waved K.C. into a seat and sat beside her. The car soon filled up.

Melvis noticed his knees were knocking together. He wasn't sure if it was because he had found true love or because he was letting himself be carried off by heathen rail technology.

A sudden increase in the humming warned him the brief trip was about to start.

"Magrev operates on principre of opposing porarity," the intercom voice continued.

"What'd he say?" Melvis asked.

"Polarity," said K.C.

"Sounded like porarity. "

"The train is rifted off the guideway, and froats. Rinier synchronous motor provide forward propursion. "

"Boy, this is way over my head," Melvis lamented. "I'm hearin' words I never did hear before."

K.C. slapped him on the top of the head. Melvis grinned. He liked his women playful.

"We go now," the intercom voice said.

At the last moment, before the doors could shut, two familiar figures jumped aboard.

"Well looky, K.C. gal. There's our good buddies."

"Hi, y'all," K.C. said.

"Sorry there ain't a seat," Melvis said. "Everybody seems to be goin' our way."

"We don't mind standing," said Remo.

"Surprised to see you astride this beast, old-timer," Melvis told Chiun.

"Hush," said Chiun. "I am attempting to think like an elephant."

"Is that a fact?"

Melvis noticed Remo seemed to be doing the same thing.

They closed their eyes. And with a whine, the maglev train engaged.

They felt the lift. A forward bump. And crash! the car dropped back into the guideway. Smoke began pouring from floor vents. Somewhere an electrical short began sparking.

"What happened?" K.C. wailed.

"Off train. Off train," the suddenly frantic intercom voice said. "Marfunction. Off train, prease."

They evacuated the car the way salt leaves a shaker.

White-faced Nishitsu technicians scrambled into the car, wielding dry-chemical extinguishers. They began throwing foam and white chemical everywhere in their panic.

"What happened?" K.C. said, aghast. "Why didn't it go?"

Melvis looked over to Remo and Chiun.

Chiun winked. Melvis winked back.

"If I were writing that up, gal, I'd call it an act of God. Pure and simple."

K.C. melted into tears.

Melvis saw this and, taking her by the shoulders, turned her around. He lifted her head up by the chin.

"Gal, you gotta get this maglev stuff out of your pretty head. Maybe maglev will get going someday. Maybe not. But I know one thing. I hanker to hitch my caboose to your train."

"You think we're gauge-compatible?"

"If we ain't, we'll make some changes. I plumb adore you, and that's that. What do you say to a lashup?"

K.C. threw her arms around his neck, crying, "Melvis, when you talk that way, my boiler gets cooking like something unnatural. I am yours forever and ever!"

"K.C., you and me are a-goin' to honeymoon on the Texas beer train, riding over some of the most traction-motorfryin', coupler-knuckle-bustin' track in all of creation."

"Shucks, I ain't never made it on a train before."

"Your first time's always special."

Suddenly remembering they weren't alone, Melvis turned and gathered up a great big grin on his face. "You fellers hear? We're gettin' hitched."

But there was no sign of the pair.

"Well, four's company, anyhow," said Melvis. "Let's go feast our eyes on some real US. of A. locomotives."

On their way out they noticed a ruckus at the front of the maglev engine.

Someone had plunged a sword and a battle-ax into the nose of the engine-right through the four-moon Nishitsu corporate symbol.

Melvis recognized the ebony handle of the sword.

Flashing his NTSB ID card, he bulled his way through and took possession of the sword saying, "Nice of them boys to remember this here tanaka's NTSB evidence."

And tucking it under one arm, he offered K.C. the other and they strode off into the rest of their lives, grinning.

BACK AT FOLCROFT the Master of Sinanju surrendered the Nishitsu ronin's helmet with great ceremony.

"The dread foe is no more, O Emperor."

"Er, thank you," said Smith, gingerly examining the helmet for its expected contents. Finding none, he looked up quizzically.

"Chiun tossed it into a Dumpster," said Remo.

"The honor of my House is restored," Chiun said stiffly.

"Where is the rest of the samurai?" Remo asked.

Chiun flared. "Ronin! I give you the correct term, and you throw it away like the peel of a banana."

Smith cleared his throat. "Actually Remo is correct, Master Chiun. The samurai was unquestionably a Nishitsu corporate employee. Therefore, he was truly a samurai."

"Impossible. The clans have been scattered to the winds."

"Not so," said Smith. "Several modern Japanese companies are in fact descended from old samurai clans."

"What is this!"

"I have been researching Nishitsu in depth. Its owners trace their lineage back to the Nishi clan. One of their subsidiary brands uses the old clan badge as its corporate logo."

Chiun made two angry fists. "Then our work is undone."

Smith nodded. "Although this is the first time Nitshitsu has used their electronic technology against US. interests, you will recall the former head of Nishitsu was responsible for the vicious military attack on Yuma, Arizona, several years ago. This was explained away at the time as the work of single deranged mind."

"I never bought that," said Remo.

"Neither did I," said Smith. "But now the company has shown its true colors, we are obligated to discourage them from thinking they can strike at U.S. interests with impunity."

Chiun bowed. "We will be pleased to steal into occupied Japan to settle the scores of your house and ours."

"Little Father, Japan isn't occupied anymore."

"It is occupied by Japanese, is it not?"

"Touche," said Remo. A thought struck him. "One thing I still don't get. That cattle-car derailment a year ago. Was it just a coincidence that I happened to be in the area?"

"It would appear so," said Smith.

Remo grunted. "If I kept my eyes open, I might have run into Batsucker last year. A lot of lives might have been saved."

"It matters only that we have emerged triumphant," said Chiun. "Not when."

"So, where did you stash the body, Smitty?"

"The basement coal furnace."

Remo laughed. "Don't forget to stir the ashes before you throw them out."

"I will get back to you on this assignment, Remo," said Smith, looking uncomfortable.

"No problem," said Remo. "Chiun and I have an appointment with a box full of mystery."

IN THE FOLCROFT GYM Remo stood over the silver trunk with the lapis lazuli phoenixes.

"Okay, open it."

Chiun hesitated. "I have told you this box contains sloth and shame."

"Over and over."

Chiun fixed Remo with his thinning hazel gaze. "Your sloth and my shame."

"Never owned a sloth in my entire life. And what do you have to be ashamed of?"

"For as long as I have known the greatness in you, Remo Williams, I have filled this box with the leavings of your stubbornness, your indolence, your-"

"Did you say leaves? This box is full of freaking leaves?"

"No. I said leavings."

"Well, open it."

Chiun frowned deeply. Then, bending, he inserted a long fingernail into the lock and twisted it. The lock clicked. The lid loosened.

"Here it comes," said Remo.

"Once this lid is lifted, your shame will be visible even to my ancestors, who are your ancestors."

"I can take it."

Abruptly Chiun flung the lid upward. Stepping back, he covered his face with his sleeves, saying, "I cannot bear to look."

"Well, I can," said Remo. He knelt.

The box was chock-full. The contents looked like excelsior, except it was a dull white. Old rice and dirty glass shards came to mind next. But the material was none of these things.

Carefully Remo grabbed up a handful. "These look like-"

Yes.

"I don't believe it!"

"Yes. They are yours. Do not deny it."

"You've been saving my fingernail clippings?"

"Since the first time you refused my entreaties to do the correct thing," said Chiun.

"All these years?" Remo roared.

"And now even the great Masters in the Void know," Chiun lamented.

Remo looked at the box with a stunned expression. Chiun peered out from behind one sleeve.

"It is not too late, you know," he said hopefully.

"I am not growing my nails like yours."

"Then all my sacrifices have been in vain," Chiun said sadly, his silk-draperied arms dropping like silvery wings. His head hung low. His eyes sneaked a look up past his sparse fluttering lashes.

Digging into a pocket, Remo pulled out Chiun's broken nail, which he had been carrying since Mystic. "Whose shame is greater, yours or mine?" he asked.

"Mine has been avenged," Chiun returned stiffly.

"What say we take our shame and bury them both for good?"

Chiun made wrinkles along the top of his bald skull. "This is a reasonable suggestion."

"Good," said Remo, tossing Chiun's long nail into the pile and closing the lid. He hoisted the trunk onto one shoulder.

"But remember," Chiun warned, "even when the box is empty, you have not been excused from lugging duty."

"My caboose," grunted Remo.