"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."