The surrounding flatlands were hazy with chemical smoke. The wind was blowing away from them, but the haze in the air started to sting their eyes anyway.
There was no sign of the ronin anywhere in the haze.
"He's in the corn," said Remo.
"No, he walked into the fire," insisted Chiun.
"Why would he do that?"
"Because he can with impunity," said Chiun.
They ran to the burning MX missile.
"No tracks that I can see," said Remo as they approached.
"Of course not. Ghosts do not make tracks. Except when they wish for devious purposes."
"If he's a ghost, shouldn't his blade be a ghost, too?"
"Do not split hairs with me, Remo. We must find him."
They didn't.
The poisonous smoke from the destroyed MX missile prevented them from getting too close. Moving upwind, they examined it from every angle with searching eyes.
If the ronin had walked into the smoking missile, there was no way to tell.
"I say we try the corn," said Remo.
"One of us must stay to see that he does not emerge from the smoke."
"I'll go."
"No, you will only gorge yourself on corn."
"Okay, you go."
"Yes, I will go. See that he does not not escape under your very nose."
And Chiun flashed into the corn.
Remo watched the smoking missile, one eye on the corn.
The tall ears waved in a soft breeze but otherwise didn't move or rustle. Chiun was slipping through the rows with such stealth the ronin would never see or hear him coming.
THE MASTER of SINANJU plunged into the lurid forest of corn. Its scent called to him. Its golden allure whispered of forbidden pleasures. He ignored them all. He had one goal, one purpose.
Unfortunately he also faced many paths. North or south? Perhaps west. His hazel eyes raking the ground discovered no tracks. His ears heard nothing of his foe. And the only scent on the wind was the maddening reek of uncooked corn, which swayed like brazen harlots with long yellow hair.
In the end it was the overwhelming numbers, not his illusive foe, that defeated him. Holding his nose, he raced through the cornrows back in the direction he had come.
AFTER FIFTEEN MINUTES, the Master of Sinanju emerged, looking unhappy.
"No luck?" Remo asked.
"Luck has nothing to do with what has happened in this riceless land," Chiun spit. "He is not in the corn."
"In other words, you lost him."
"Pah! My senses were dazzled by the malevolent miasma of raw corn."
By this time Melvis Cupper trotted up. "I seen it all and I deny it ever happened," were his first words.
Remo looked at him. "You're a big help."
"It ain't my idea. That major woke up and said that was the way it was going to play. I see no reason not to oblige him."
"You know as well as we do that a samurai caused both train wrecks."
"I don't know what you're talkin' about. I got only one wreck. This here's a haz-mat situation. No derailment. No striking train. No cars in a ditch."
"What about the missile?"
"I don't do missiles. I'm strictly a high-iron-and-steel-wheel man." Melvis lowered his voice. "Somebody should drop a dime in the general direction of the EPA, though."
"So what are you going to report caused the Amtrak collision?"
"That? That was suicide. Yessir, naked suicide."
"Homicide is more like it," said Remo.
Melvis puckered up his weather-beaten face. "Tell you what. We'll split the difference. Let's say for the sake of sayin' there was these two sexually confused persons. One gave the other AIDS. The infected party takes the head off the party of the second part and then goes out in a blaze of diesel and glory. End result-homo-suicide."
"That's bull and you know it," said Remo.
Melvis put on a crooked grin. "You knew I was weak from the first time you laid eyes on me."
Chapter 20
They waited until the MX Peacekeeper missile burned itself out.
A cursory examination of the white-hot slag heap that remained led to one inescapable conclusion.
"Looks like he went into the corn after all," said Remo.
"Pah," said Chiun.
The Master of Sinanju paced back and forth before the slag, face tight, eyes squeezed to slits that reminded Remo of the seams of uncracked walnuts. He shook his fists at the ascending smoke.
"We're going to have to report this to Smitty," he reminded.
"I do not care."
"We're going to have to get our stories straight."
Chiun frowned like a thundercloud getting ready to rain. "I no longer care. I have been twice bested by a mere ronin. My ancestors are surely weeping tears of blood over my shame."
K. C. CROCKETT WAS waiting for them at the helicopter. She gave them a nervous corn-fed smile as they approached.
"Thought I'd guard your box for you," she said sheepishly.
Chiun bowed in her direction without saying anything.
"You didn't catch your spook, did you?" she asked.
"No," said Melvis. "It was the durnest, dangest, most spiflicated thing you ever did see. And I take my hat off to the Almighty that I don't have to write it into any report."
"Just as well. It ain't good to catch spooks."
"We're going to need a lift back to Lincoln," Remo told Melvis.
"Suits me fine." Melvis showed K.C. his Sunday smile. "Don't suppose I could interest you in a ride goin' my way?"
"Thank you kindly, but I'm bound in the opposite direction. The Denver Rail Expo awaits."
"I might be persuaded to fly thataway. Eventually."
"Mighty neighborly of you. If I don't get a passel of pictures for my magazine, it's back to the farm for me."
"Gonna shoot a lot of steam, are you?"
"That, too. But my assignment's to get all I can on the new flock of maglev trains."
Without warning, Melvis staggered back as if hit on the head by a falling steer. "Maglev!" he barked. "Why you have to go fool with that heathen crap?"
"Maglev's not crap!" K.C. flared. "It's the future."
"In a pig's ass!" Melvis roared. "How can you be for steam and maglev both? It's like prayin' to Satan and St. Peter."
"You are a close-minded old reprobate, you know that?"
The two glared at one another. There was blood in Melvis's eyes and disappointment in K.C.'s.
"Guess I can forget about that lift, huh?" K.C. finally said in a soft, dejected voice.
Melvis looked as though he wanted to bawl. He squared his shoulders manfully. He yanked down the brim of his Stetson to shadow the pain in his eyes.
"I'm a steel-wheel man. I don't hold with maglev. It's against the laws of God, man and nature. I'm sorry, but you and I have got to go our separate and distinct ways."
"Guess it wasn't meant to be. I'll just hafta hitch a ride on that there Desert Storm train."
"Adios, then," muttered Melvis, turning away.
"See y'all," K.C. said to Remo and Chiun. Pulling the bill of her engineer's cap low, she loped off, shoulders slumping.
Walking back to the helicopter, Remo asked Melvis, "What was that all about?"
"That," spit Melvis, "is the chief reason Hank Williams sung so lonesome and died so young. And if you don't mind, I can't talk about it no more. I'm plumb heartbroke."
Glancing back at the Master of Sinanju for understanding, Remo saw Chiun brush a vagrant tear from the corner of one eye before averting his unhappy face.
HAROLD SMITH was feeling better. He no longer smelled mulch when he exhaled. His coughing had almost abated. He had traded the hospital wheelchair for his comfortable executive chair. And his secretary had brought him two containers of his favorite lunch-prune-whip yogurt.
He was deep into the second cup when his computer beeped, and up popped a report of a head-on collision between the California Zephyr and an unidentified engine in the Nebraska flatlands.