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 g
reat 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."
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