They intercepted the apparition at the same time.
The ronin had no chance to draw his blade. Remo and Chiun were on him.
They each threw a blow, Remo directing the heel of his hand at the flat, blank face, intending to turn it to jelly. The Master of Sinanju came around spinning, one sandaled toe seeking a fragile kneecap.
Both connected. Remo struck the featureless face dead center. Chiun's foot bisected the knee joints. And passed through.
Encountering no resistance, Remo found himself plunging through the black, solid-looking form.
The Master of Sinanju spun past him, his flashing toe nearly catching Remo on the fly.
Recovering, Remo reversed. He brought an elbow back. It sank into the back of the samurai's flanged helmet.
The ronin strode on unconcerned.
Hissing like an angry cat, the Master of Sinanju recovered from his wild spin and stamped his feet hard. "Ronin! Hear me!"
The ronin may have heard, but he walked on, arrogant, purposeful, sword flashing from its sheath. He waved it from side to side to warn any other challenger he meant business. He looked like a batter warming up.
Major Grimm thought he was seeing things. But it had happened so fast he couldn't be sure. Appropriating an M-16 from a stupefied airman, he lined up the muzzle on the samurai's advancing chest. "Halt or I will shoot."
The samurai declined to halt. Or so his body language indicated.
So Major Grimm opened up.
The bullet track was noisy but abbreviated. There was no way he could have missed.
In fact, the boxcar directly behind the menacing figure began collecting more bullet indentations.
The samurai kept coming, unfazed by the noise and the hammering lead.
"Hand me another," Grimm called.
Another rifle was clapped into his hands. He raised the weapon, planted his feet wide apart and laid the sight on the precise center of the shielded face.
Grimm waited until they stood nearly toe-to-toe, then opened fire. The clip was only half-full. Still, sufficient rounds snarled out to obliterate the head, helmet and all.
The samurai walked into the still-chattering muzzle. Major Claiborne Grimm saw the last muzzleflashes disappear into the black face. The muzzle sank all the way in as the samurai came on. It looked as if he was deliberately and contemptuously swallowing the weapon.
Major Grimm was brave. Not to mention stubborn. He held his ground. Right to the point when the samurai walked into his body.
Then he fainted on the spot.
Grimm missed the rest of it.
Remo and Chiun got in front of the ronin, once more blocking its way.
They rained blows, punches, snap-kicks and, in the case of the Master of Sinanju, assorted invective on his unperturbable head.
The ronin didn't so much as flinch from any of it. He just walked on, swinging his blade with slow menace.
Chiun followed him, kicking at the back of his knees with strenuous fierceness, while Remo settled for taking the occasional swipe.
"You know what this reminds me of?" Remo complained.
"I do not care," said Chiun, kicking out again and again.
"Wonder what's in that sack?" said Remo.
"It is a kubi-bukuro. It is for carrying captured heads."
"Looks full to me."
"Just take care that your head does not join his collection," spit Chiun, shaking his fists in the ronin's glassy face.
The ronin trudged on, head lowered like a striding bull.
Eventually they had to give up trying to arrest him.
WALKING BEHIND the ronin, Remo and Chiun lowered their voices.
"You see, Remo?"
"Okay. It's just like you said."
"The House is haunted."
"If the House is haunted, why is he walking away from us?"
"That is not the question. The question is where is the Nihonjinwa walking to?"
The answer developed before very long. The ronin, ignoring them with a pointedness bordering on insult, swinging his blade from side to side, looked east, then west. He was looking for something.
But all that lay ahead was the still-smoldering MX missile and the unending cornfields of Nebraska.
"This is starting to look like Field of Dreams in reverse," said Remo.
"What do you mean?" demanded Chiun.
"Once he gets into the corn, he's going to be tough to stay with."
Chiun hitched up his kimono skirts resolutely. "We cannot let him get into the corn."
"Any idea how to stop him?"
"We must draw him into battle."
"Feel free."
Suddenly the Master of Sinanju hurried up. He got in front of the ronin. Blocking the way, he set his hands against the waist of his kimono and made his face fierce.
"Jokebare!" he thundered.
The ronin slowed.
"Jokebare!" Chiun repeated, then launched into a bitter stream of invective Remo had trouble following. Some of the words sounded vaguely Korean, but most did not. Probably Japanese, he decided. The two languages shared a lot of words in common.
To Remo's surprise, the ronin stopped dead in his tracks.
He stamped one foot into the ground. The ground didn't respond. Not with sound or a trembling of dirt.
Lifting his katana high, he laid it across one shoulder, then the other.
"What's he doing?" called Remo.
"I do not know," Chiun said, low-voiced. "I am not familiar with this stance."
"Well, he's gotta be doing something."
The ronin was. On his third draw back, he suddenly swung his blade all the way around. His squat upper body turned with it. When he let go, the katana unexpectedly flew toward Remo.
Remo's eyes saw it coming. His other senses detected nothing. It flew fast, going into a methodical spin like a helicopter blade winding up.
"Remo! Take care!" Chiun called.
Normally Remo could dodge bullets blindfolded by sensing the advancing shock waves. There was no wave here. According to his senses, the sword didn't exist. But his eyes read it coming. His Sinanju training, receiving conflicting signals, told him to dodge and not dodge at the same time.
Since to his heightened senses, it was all happening in slow motion anyway, Remo studied the phenomenon.
The blade was coming on a horizontal spin, exactly at the level of his neck. It meant to behead. But a blade that could not slice air had no hope of cleaving flesh.
Remo folded his arms.
The blade spun closer.
Chiun voice was a high, batlike squeak. "Remo! Remember the finger!"
So Remo flipped the ronin the bird.
The spinning blade was only inches away now.
At the last possible moment, something changed. The air roiled not an inch from his face. A swishing sound reached his ears. Strangely it started in midswish.
And as the first warning signals reached his brain, Remo started to duck. It was pure instinct. He was going down before his brain started processing the incoming information.
A meaty smack sounded just above his head.
That was Remo's first indication that the blade had struck something.
But what?
Fading back and to the side, Remo straightened.
There stood the Master of Sinanju. He was holding the katana by its ebony hilt. His other hand joined the first, and he lowered the blade resolutely.
Remo blinked. "What happened?"
"I saved your worthless life."
"No way. I had already ducked."
"I arrested the blade before it could separate your dull melon of a head from the magnificent body I have trained."
"Not a chance," Remo said, returning Chiun's side.
The Master of Sinanju held the blade firmly in both hands, the blade tip touching the ground, making a dent. It was real. It had weight.
Then they remembered the ronin. Remo and Chiun turned their heads in unison.
A vile greenish black smoke was boiling out of the downed missile. The flames were dying down, but the smoke was thickening. It rose into the sky like a black dragon in the throes of its death torment.