"See that telephone pole we just passed?"
"No."
"That's because it's lying on its side. That's the fifth toppled pole we've gone by."
"And?"
"You know how Indians used to snap branches to leave trails through the forest? Chiun is leaving a trail for me to follow."
"The little guy did that?" Robin said, pointing to a dramatically leaning telephone pole coming up on their right.
"Without even trying. My guess is he spotted the Krahseevah while you were playing chicken and took off after him."
"And I suppose he just happened to forget to bring his car along?"
"Chiun doesn't like cars much. He says they're too slow."
"I'll believe it when I see it," Robin said huffily, folding her arms. She winced. Her ribs hurt. And her breasts felt like two humongous throbbing bruises.
Noticing her reaction, Remo asked, "You think you're up for this?"
"I'll be fine once I catch that Russian."
The lights of a desert community appeared up ahead. And in the solemn glow, a palm tree abruptly shook, shivered, and fell over.
"We're getting close," Remo said, pushing the accelerator to the limit.
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Rair Brashnikov slowed down when he approached the town. Once he had changed his flat tire, he did not plan to stop again until he reached Los Angeles International Airport, but neither did he wish to attract the attention of the California authorities by driving too fast.
A neon sign on the left side of the road caught his eye. It said "Orbit Room Motel." As Rair drove past it, he saw that it was a low stucco building with an attached bar. The bar was dark but in the window rows of fine liquor bottles gleamed invitingly. Good American liquor was at a premium on the Russian black market.
Rair drove more slowly. Checking the rearview mirror, he saw no sign of pursuit.
He executed a careful U-turn and pulled into the Orbit Room parking lot, thinking: What harm could there be in it?
The Master of Sinanju left the palm toppled and sprinted on down the highway toward the lights of a town. He hoped that Remo was behind him. He could not understand what had happened to him.
Back at the place where they had waited for the Krahseevah, Chiun had been sitting in the car, his eyes keen and unwavering. He did not see the Krahseevah enter the building that for some reason was called by whites a plant, and did not see him leave it.
But it happened that his magnificent eyes spied his pupil, Remo, atop a building away from his post. Chiun recognized from Remo's crouching body language that he was stalking someone.
That was enough for the Master of Sinanju, who burst from the car like a blot of blackness. He circled the building, searching with his eyes.
The faint glow of the Krahseevah became visible crossing an open stretch of highway. Hearing the sound
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of a car motor start up, Chiun knew that the Russian was going to attempt escape by vehicle.
Seeing Remo sprint for the car, Chiun decided that Remo had the situation in hand. But just in case, he would take the low road and be prepared to join Remo in the chase.
Chiun waited in the middle of the road, his sleeves linked, his face resolute, for the big car to turn the corner.
It never did. Instead, its headlight glow swept above Chiun's head and past him. The Cadillac had taken the ridge road.
Annoyed that Remo had allowed this to happen, Chiun flounced around and, sandals slapping the blacktop silently, streaked after it. He stayed on the low road, knowing that the two roads ran parallel for several miles before diverging.
When the ridge road flattened, Chiun saw the Cadillac moving rapidly. There was no sign of Remo. Chiun frowned. What could have happened to him?
Chiun crossed over a strip of desert to the other road and fell in behind the Cadillac. He maintained a decorous pace, keeping the car's taillights always in view, but never allowing his night-black kimono to be visible. Every few hundred yards he paused to fell a telephone pole.
Now the Cadillac was slowing as it came to the city limits. Dawn was turning the east pinkish-orange.
And as Chiun rounded a turn in the road, he saw the Cadillac pull into a combination motel/bar called the Orbit Room Motel.
Chiun dropped to a trot, and his arms ceased their steady pumping. He glanced over his shoulder. But there was still no sign of Remo. It was puzzling.
As Chiun drew up to the neon Orbit Room sign, he was no longer running. He was flitting from mailbox to palm tree, a patch of shadow that no human eye could perceive.
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Chiun saw the Krahseevah leave the big car. He wore an overcoat so that only his white boots showed. He carried the car battery and the collapsed bladder-like helmet under one arm. The tiles were not in his possession. He went around to the back of the bar.
Chiun drifted up to the Cadillac. He peered into the interior. There was a cardboard box in the back seat. The door was locked, but that did not deter the Master of Sinanju. He tapped his fingernails against the rear window. He tapped steadily, insistently, until the glass suddenly radiated cracks. It crystallized into nuggetlike pieces. Laying his palm against it, Chiun pushed in the window glass like a piece of soft cardboard. It plopped onto the seat with a mushy sound.
Chiun extricated the cardboard box and undid the flaps. The box contained over a dozen black tiles. Pleased, Chiun took the box to a mailbox and sent it sliding down the chute for safekeeping. He did not want them damaged in the conflict to come.
Then he marched for the front door of the bar. He vowed to himself that this time he would leave no walls for the Krahseevah to conceal himself in.
Remo almost drove past the Orbit Room Motel without noticing the parked Cadillac.
He finally spotted it when he executed a sharp U-turn and pulled into the parking lot.
"I hope this doesn't mean what I think it means," Robin Green said unhappily. She was looking at the motel's stucco face. Or rather, what was left of it.
For the Orbit Room Motel looked like a piece of white cheese that had been nibbled on by rats. Scablike chunks were falling from great holes even as Remo pulled into a spot. When he got out, his car door banged the one parked next to his. Remo noticed that it was a Cadillac. He checked the rear license plate. It matched the number of the Krahseevah'^ machine.
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But Remo didn't have time to consider that. He had spotted the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun leapt from a gaping cavity in the stucco corner. Whirling, he attacked the face of the building, his long fingernails working like scores of high-speed clippers. Stucco flew like broken teeth.
From the entrance, hotel personnel and guests in their nightclothes and underwear poured out screaming. They piled into cars and drove off in a mass exodus of confusion.