By the time he got to the dealers' area, he was primed to buy. And buy he did.
Three hours of picking over knicknack tables had filled his arms with treasure and emptied his wallet. He groaned under the weight of the two-place reproduction-Hiawatha table setting, the LeHigh Valley video collection, a Texas Eagle calendar and assorted plastic-model kits. He was happy; he was content. He had everything an honest rail fan could ever want.
Except one absent article.
K. C. Crockett.
Melvis had tried to shove K.C. out of his mind, but strain as he might, he couldn't uncouple her from his heart. That was the long and short of it.
Even with new derailments occurring hourly, and the NTSB shorthanded during this, the traditional vacation month, Melvis had reached his limit.
He'd called in sick, hopped a flight to Denver and practiced what he was going to say the next time he laid eyes on his heart's desire.
There was just one hitch in the rope.
There was no sign of K.C. anywhere. Lot of clues, though.
Whenever a flashbulb exploded, Melvis whirled, his eyes tracking the after-burn. Many times he barreled through the surging crowd, stepping on toes and muttering "Pardon me" until he felt like a weakbladdered penitent at a Baptist revival meet.
But no K.C. gal.
It was as hard to take as sand in the journal box. But Melvis had come a long way, and giving up wasn't in his nature.
"Sure hope she didn't take up with that fool Air Force major," he grumbled as he set down his booty and availed himself of some cool bottled water.
Fanning himself with his hat, Melvis scanned the sea of heads. His chest expanded to see so many rail fans gathered in one spot. These were God's people, he reflected. There weren't truer or more-natural souls trampling God's good green footstool.
"If only I can rope K.C.," he muttered, "I'll be content with my lot in life."
His eyes, scanning the giant outdoor pavilions, rested on the largest of them all. A banner was hung across the entrance: MAGLEV RIDE THE FUTURE OF RAIL NOW
"If she's here, she's in that heathen den of iniquity," Melvis muttered. He swallowed hard. "Guess I just gotta steel myself and sashay into the lion's den," he said, picking up his packages.
Melvis strode toward the sign, his knees growing weak, his heart starting to trip-hammer.
"Steel wheels are my life," he told himself. "But if I gotta eat a little cold crow to catch me a rail-friendly wife, well, I'm man enough to do that, I reckon."
AT THE RAIL Expo entrance, the Master of Sinanju refused to get in line.
"I am Reigning Master," he told Remo. "I will not stand in line with the common peasantry."
Remo looked at him. "So I have to?"
"No, you do not have to. But I will not stand in line."
"This is a co-equal partnership," Remo argued.
"If it is a co-equal partnership," Chiun retorted, "why I am burdened with these?" And he raised the pair of katana blades wrapped in butcher paper to disguise them.
"Because you insisted," Remo shot back.
In the end, Remo stood in line and, when the line finally reached the ticket booth, he waved Chiun to cut in front of him.
At Remo's back a commotion started up.
"Hey! That's not fair!" the customer behind him complained.
"I'm not with him," Remo said.
"You let him cut in front of you."
"No. He cut in front of me. I just didn't stop him."
When Chiun reached the head of the line, he came face-to-face with a slick-haired Japanese ticket taker in a tuxedo.
Their eyes met, and the ticket taker started to say something.
"Pay this Nihonjinwa, Remo," said Chiun, marching through the entrance gate.
Remo dug into a pocket.
"You are with him?" the ticket taker said thinly.
"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.