"He might come in handy."
He did. They rounded a corner into a wider stretch of river and as the "Bucket of Blood" song swelled in their ears, they were surrounded by pirates.
They were stamping their feet to a mechanical fiddler crab sawing on a real fiddle, waving their muskets and flintlocks merrily. The weapons spat sparks and noise, but not balls.
"These creatures do not look like buccaneers," Chiun muttered. "Where are their half-pint hats?"
"I told you, you've got buccaneers mixed up with buckaroos. These are freaking buccaneers."
Suddenly the robots gathered themselves and, in synchronization, brought their weapons into line with the slowmoving boat and tracked it.
Remo brought the pirate head up in both hands and, from a sitting position, let it fly, like Wilt Chamberlain trying to sink a set shot.
The head struck the pirate captain in the face. Then there were two heads flying in two directions. Each struck another head, which in turn caromed off another. Within seconds the cavern was a chain reaction of mechanical heads rebounding in every direction.
Without their heads, the mechanical buccaneers and corsairs fired randomly, peppering the flimsy rocks and one another with grapeshot and lead ball.
A solitary head flew by their boat, forcing the Master of Sinanju to weave out of its path. It plopped into the brownish water.
"Not bad, huh?" Remo said with a grin, as they left the carnage behind them.
"One almost struck me," Chiun complained.
"It's been a while since I was on this ride," Remo said dryly.
Chiun made a wrinkled face. "This is terrible."
"You can fix them when we're done, okay?"
"That is not what I meant."
Remo lifted an eyebrow. "No?"
"This ride is a death trap. Therefore, impossible as it is to believe, what you have told me is true."
"Why is it so impossible that the Beasley Corporation is the culprit? They're Big Business. Anything's possible, when that much money's involved."
"It is not that."
"No?"
"It is that you were right," Chiun sniffed.
"Gee, when has that ever happened?"
"I do not recall," the Master of Sinanju said vaguely, as the tow cable pulled them from a stretch of darkness to another mechanical display.
This time, it was a depiction of a plank-walking. The plank jutted out in their path. Perched on the wavering tip was a fat merchant, his hands lashed behind his back. A freebooter in a red costume was prodding him with a cutlass. The merchant swiveled his head fearfully, his mouth agape.
As they came within hailing distance of the ship, every figure, including that of the terrified merchant, turned to regard them with unseeing glass eyes.
The freebooter took a step back and lifted his cutlass.
"Your turn," Remo prompted.
The Master of Sinanju came out of his seat like smoke from a hookah. His hands reached up to intercept the blade. It gleamed along its edge.
With both hands, Chiun reached around the wicked edge to grasp the pirate's cutlass arm by the wrist. He exerted little obvious effort, yet the arm, sword and all, came free, trailing multicolored wiring. It fell into the water and sank.
He returned to his seat and he and Remo ducked under the plank.
On the other side, they looked back to see the pirates hissing words at them.
"Fuck you! Fuck you!"
"Such language," Chiun sniffed.
"They're pirates."
"They swear like presidents."
"Huh?"
"Never mind. Look! Up ahead."
Remo's gaze followed Chiun's indicating finger. Ahead, bathed in a dancing red radiance, was a scene called FREEBOOTERS IN HELL, according to a crude sign.
Here, the pirates were getting the worst of it.
They were shoveling coal into mock fires, and being prodded by pitchforks wielded by plump green imps and a scarlet Lucifer figure.
"Looks like they got what they deserved," Remo said.
"I see no guns," Chiun pointed out.
"That's a good sign. They can't shoot us."
But they could throw pitchforks and hot coals-which they proceeded to do.
Standing up, Remo caught the pitchforks easily. He collected a handful with no more effort than if they had been stickball bats.
He sent them back the way they had come, impaling devils and the damned alike. Sparks snapped. Wires uncoiled, hissing.
The Master of Sinanju plucked the coals that fell into the thwarts of the boat with nimble fingers. A quick pinch with his fingernails and they sank hissing into the water.
"Nice try," Remo called back.
"Blow me," a pirate hurled back mechanically.
"Is it not 'Blow me down,' Remo?" Chiun wondered.
"Maybe they are buckaroos, after all," Remo said lightly.
"I will be glad when we come to the end of the trail," Chiun sniffed.
"No sweat. These guys aren't even in our class."
"The ride's not over yet," a raspy voice called out. "Remo!" Chiun squeaked. "Who spoke?"
"One of the marionettes."
"That did not sound like a marionette."
"I don't hear a heartbeat."
The Master of Sinanju listened. Among the echoing sounds-the whine of hidden motors, and the buzz and click of relays-there was no gulping pump of a human heart.
But there was a raspy breathing.
"I hear lungs laboring," Chiun said thinly.
Remo listened. "Yeah. Me, too. But no heartbeat."
"How can there be lungs where there is no heart?"
"Maybe we nailed a real pirate, and he's on his way out."
"The voice that spoke did not sound dispirited in that way," Chiun pointed out.
"You're right," Remo said, looking worriedly about. "It is kinda spooky, at that. And the voice sounded familiar somehow."
Chiun narrowed his eyes to slits. "Beware, Remo. I sense great danger."
"I hear you," Remo said. He was standing up, his hands loose at his sides. His thick wrists rotated absently, an unconscious habit he had in situations like this.
Chiun pointed past the bow. "Look, Remo! There he is!"
Remo had been watching their wake. He turned, saying, "Who?"
"It is Uncle Sam. We have found him at last."
Remo narrowed his eyes.
Where the false rocks piled up, a lone figure stood balanced on a shiny peg leg. He wore a green felt sea captain's longcoat. His hat was a black tricorne, made rakish by a purple ostrich plume and a white skull-and-crossbones staring back from the upturned brim. He wore an eye patch.
Other than the costume and patch, he was the spitting image of Uncle Sam Beasley, right down to the frosted brush mustache and twinkling grandfatherly eye. He offered a folksy smile.
"It is him, Remo," Chiun said in a hushed voice.
"It's another marionette," Remo shot back. "Beasley's long dead. I told you that."
"I detect lungs."
Remo listened, interested. "Okay. Lungs. But where's the heart? It's a marionette. The lungs must be a bellows."
"The sound is coming from Uncle Sam."
"It's a bellows. Maybe he's getting ready to exhale poison gas."
"Why would he do that?" Chiun asked.
"Remember last year, when they had to close this ride? Stuff got in people's lungs. I'll bet this guy's the culprit."
"Very astute," said the pirate, in a cold voice.
Chiun's eye went round. "He answered, Remo!"
"Crap," said Remo. And as they watched, the pirate slowly lifted a hand to peel off his eye patch. It revealed a dark cavity like the orbit of a skull.
"What is this?" Chiun asked uncertainly.
"Offhand, I'd say a buccaneer who doesn't know his right from his left."
Without warning, the dark socket exploded in a flash of searing light.
Remo and Chiun were caught unawares. The light seared their eyeballs. It was no mere flashbulb. Their pupils irised down protectively, saving their sight. Still, the pain was excruciating. It sent synaptic needles into their brains.