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.