"Ronin."
"-is responsible for these derailments and let him take the ball from there?"
"He is emperor. His wisdom will guide us."
Remo settled back into his seat. "I can hardly wait to hear his reaction."
HAROLD SMITH LOOKED at the short sword as it was laid on his tinted-glass-topped desk at Folcroft Sanitarium.
Behind him a picture window let in afternoon light. Long Island Sound danced placidly. There wasn't a cloud in the sky or a shadow on the water.
The sword was ebony of handle and black of blade. Smith extracted a pearl gray handkerchief from the breast pocket of his gray suit.
Lifting the sword, he dropped the handkerchief onto the upraised edge. The gray cloth settled, hanging over each side. Reaching under, Smith grasped the dangling ends and gave a firm but gentle tug.
With a faint popping, the linen handkerchief parted like old cheesecloth.
"This is a genuine katana, " Smith pronounced.
Remo grunted in surprise. "You know that from the sharpness of the blade?"
"Of course. I spent time in occupied Japan after the war."
Chiun favored Remo with a silent look Remo read as How does he know of this and you do not?
Remo shrugged in response.
"You say you found it in the locomotive?" asked Smith of Remo.
"It went through the bulkhead in back of the cab and embedded itself in the engine block. I had a hard time pulling it out."
"Impossible."
"Why do you say that?"
"For this blade to have sliced into the engine block is impossible. If possible by some freak of chance, it would have been hopelessly mangled upon impact, if not melted by engine heat."
"Look, I'm just telling you where I found it."
"We found it," corrected the Master of Sinanju.
"Right," said Remo. "There's more."
Laying the blade on the desktop, Smith looked up expectantly.
"You start," Remo told Chiun.
Smith's gray eyes tracked to the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun stood with his hands in the sleeves of his kimono, his favored position when at rest. "What I am about to relate may strain your imagination, O Emperor."
"Just tell it plainly," invited Smith.
"On the previous night, in the place correctly called Mystic, I came upon footprints that came from the sea," said Chiun.
"Yes?"
"I followed these and encountered a ronin, a masterless samurai, as I have told you."
"How do you know this was a ronin, not a samurai?"
Chiun's wispy eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"Er, I looked the word up after we spoke last," Smith admitted.
Chiun eyed Remo as if to ask, Why do you not ask such intelligent questions?
Remo pretended to be checking the shine of his shoes.
"I know him to be a ronin because his armor bore no mark of his allegiance upon his shoulder."
"No clan crest, in other words?"
"Yes. No Bode -jirushi. Thus, a ronin, not a samurai."
"Continue, Master Chiun."
"As I stalked this wave-tossed one, so-called because that is the meaning of ronin, not because he emerged from the sea, I spied the bite of a katana blade in the bole of an alien tree."
Smith's eyes eyes flicked to the katana on his desk.
"Coming upon the ronin in question, he challenged me and I him. We battled. His blade cleaved the air in mighty thrusts, but to no avail, for I am the Master of Sinanju."
"Of course," said Smith.
"Alas, he got away."
Frowning, Smith steepled his bony fingers. "How?"
Chiun made a dismissive gesture. "He was exceedingly crafty. No craftier foe have I encountered. Ever."
Smith's puzzled expression indicated that he wasn't satisfied with the answer.
"Tell him about the fingernail," said Remo.
"What fingernail?" asked Smith.