"Your turn," Remo prompted.
The Master of Sinanju came out of his seat like smoke from a hookah. His hands reached up to intercept the blade. It gleamed along its edge.
With both hands, Chiun reached around the wicked edge to grasp the pirate's cutlass arm by the wrist. He exerted little obvious effort, yet the arm, sword and all, came free, trailing multicolored wiring. It fell into the water and sank.
He returned to his seat and he and Remo ducked under the plank.
On the other side, they looked back to see the pirates hissing words at them.
"Fuck you! Fuck you!"
"Such language," Chiun sniffed.
"They're pirates."
"They swear like presidents."
"Huh?"
"Never mind. Look! Up ahead."
Remo's gaze followed Chiun's indicating finger. Ahead, bathed in a dancing red radiance, was a scene called FREEBOOTERS IN HELL, according to a crude sign.
Here, the pirates were getting the worst of it.
They were shoveling coal into mock fires, and being prodded by pitchforks wielded by plump green imps and a scarlet Lucifer figure.
"Looks like they got what they deserved," Remo said.
"I see no guns," Chiun pointed out.
"That's a good sign. They can't shoot us."
But they could throw pitchforks and hot coals-which they proceeded to do.
Standing up, Remo caught the pitchforks easily. He collected a handful with no more effort than if they had been stickball bats.
He sent them back the way they had come, impaling devils and the damned alike. Sparks snapped. Wires uncoiled, hissing.
The Master of Sinanju plucked the coals that fell into the thwarts of the boat with nimble fingers. A quick pinch with his fingernails and they sank hissing into the water.
"Nice try," Remo called back.
"Blow me," a pirate hurled back mechanically.
"Is it not 'Blow me down,' Remo?" Chiun wondered.
"Maybe they are buckaroos, after all," Remo said lightly.
"I will be glad when we come to the end of the trail," Chiun sniffed.
"No sweat. These guys aren't even in our class."
"The ride's not over yet," a raspy voice called out. "Remo!" Chiun squeaked. "Who spoke?"
"One of the marionettes."
"That did not sound like a marionette."
"I don't hear a heartbeat."
The Master of Sinanju listened. Among the echoing sounds-the whine of hidden motors, and the buzz and click of relays-there was no gulping pump of a human heart.
But there was a raspy breathing.
"I hear lungs laboring," Chiun said thinly.
Remo listened. "Yeah. Me, too. But no heartbeat."
"How can there be lungs where there is no heart?"
"Maybe we nailed a real pirate, and he's on his way out."
"The voice that spoke did not sound dispirited in that way," Chiun pointed out.
"You're right," Remo said, looking worriedly about. "It is kinda spooky, at that. And the voice sounded familiar somehow."
Chiun narrowed his eyes to slits. "Beware, Remo. I sense great danger."
"I hear you," Remo said. He was standing up, his hands loose at his sides. His thick wrists rotated absently, an unconscious habit he had in situations like this.
Chiun pointed past the bow. "Look, Remo! There he is!"
Remo had been watching their wake. He turned, saying, "Who?"
"It is Uncle Sam. We have found him at last."
Remo narrowed his eyes.
Where the false rocks piled up, a lone figure stood balanced on a shiny peg leg. He wore a green felt sea captain's longcoat. His hat was a black tricorne, made rakish by a purple ostrich plume and a white skull-and-crossbones staring back from the upturned brim. He wore an eye patch.
Other than the costume and patch, he was the spitting image of Uncle Sam Beasley, right down to the frosted brush mustache and twinkling grandfatherly eye. He offered a folksy smile.
"It is him, Remo," Chiun said in a hushed voice.
"It's another marionette," Remo shot back. "Beasley's long dead. I told you that."