Warren Murphy: Engines of Destruction

"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.