Warren Murphy: Engines of Destruction

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.