"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, barbari
an 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.
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