"Leave Denver immediately," the shogun was saying from distant Japan.
"Hai. "
"Do not drive or fly. And above all, do not go by rail."
"There is only one other path," he breathed.
"That is the path you must take."
"I understand."
"Pick up where you left off. The US. media are doing our jobs for us. We must keep up the pressure. Let Nishitsu Denver promote the product. Now go."
Furio hung up. He had stripped off his Mariners uniform as he talked. For the last time, he knew. Now he stood nearly nude in the G-string undergarment of the samurai.
But he was not a samurai, he thought as he belted on the shigati and obi foundation garments. He was only a ronin. Forbidden to wear the crest of his clan as he performed his work in an alien land.
The armor went on layer upon layer. When it was in place, he donned the Nishitsu-brand nickelcadmium battery-pack belt that powered the Nishitsu vibrating exoskeleton.
The last element was the folding tatami-style helmet. Furio covered his head, the tinted face shield dropping into place. He had taken great care never to be seen. But he wore a famous face and could take no chances even in a large, barbarian nation such as this, where white men saw a Japanese face rather than an individual one.
Going to the closet, he extracted his weapon bag. The loss of two katanas was humbling but not critical. He extracted a heavy battle-ax, thinking this is the proper tool to bring down a trestle bridge.
Attired in the electronic armor that made him more invincible than the mightiest samurai of old, Furio Batsuka dialed a number in Mobile, Alabama.
"Moshi moshi, " a voice replied guardedly.
"Emergency transmission to come. Stand by."
"Hai," the well-trained technician said, instantly hanging up.
THERE was a cellular phone in the Mercedes's front seat, and Remo had Chiun dial it they as raced through the streets of downtown Denver.
Chiun held it to Remo's face when Harold Smith came on the line.
"Smitty. We just missed Batsuka. He got spooked. He's headed for the Denver Hilton. Odds are he's taking the fastest way out of town."
"One moment," said Smith.
The line hummed. Then Smith returned.
"Remo, I just phoned the Hilton. Batsuka is registered in room 14-D."
"We're almost there," Remo said, screeching through a turn.
"Hold the line."
Smith returned shortly. "Remo, a call was just made to Mobile, Alabama, from room 14-D of the Denver Hilton."
"We missed him!"
"Assume nothing. Check the room. If he has not escaped, there may be something I can do on this end."
"What do you mean?"
But Smith had hung up.
Chiun tossed the phone out the window while Remo went into a turn with the gas pedal pressed flat to the floorboards.
FURIO BATSUKA CHECKED his armor. It was very heavy when both armor and wearer were in what was called solid state. He'd been told that the original Goblin Suit had been white and fit the skin like vinyl. The fiber-optic cables were mounted externally and shone with racing golden lights when the suit was activated. This had proved insufficient for stealth assignments.
Furio would rather be a ronin than a goblin, if that were the only choice.
Battle-ax in hand, he reached his mailed fist toward the room telephone. It was time to be on his way. His finger moved toward the Redial button.
Furio heard the hotel-room door smash in with a sound like splintering thunder.
Turning, he saw them. The strange pair from Nebraska. One obviously Korean, the other the white with the thick wrists.
And to his surprise, each brandished one of his Nishitsu electronic katanas.
In that moment of shock, Furio Batsuka knew he had been exposed. He also knew he had time to activate his armor or hit Redial, but not both.
They came at him from two sides. A practical approach. He raised his ono. It was the heavier weapon. They had no chance even if there were two of them. He reached for the shoulder rheostat that would activate his armor.
It happened so fast Furio Batsuka had trouble comprehending it.
A fluttery swish came from one side. The Korean.
Then his battle-ax fell to the floor with a muffled clank.
Furio looked down.
It lay on the rug amid a splash of blood. Around it lay tiny sausagelike objects that seemed very familiar. He recognized them. Then understood that he was looking at his own fingers. The blood pumping from the newly made stumps of his right hand confirmed that stupefying conclusion.
Furio Batsuka had trained and trained for combat. He was a samurai. He was not going to be defeated by anything less than another samurai. And, of course, there were none.
He activated the armor. The lightness came over his body, and he strode to the telephone.
They danced around him, swinging and slashing furiously. Or at least the whirling dervish of a Korean was furious. He went for Furio's head, his ankles, his neck. His Wheel Stroke was quite adroit, amazingly.
The other showed inferior grace. But appeared to have mastered the Scarf Sweep. Furio could almost hear the blade bite through his neck longitudinally.
It was an impasse. As long as he remained in his spectralized state, he could not dial. But neither could he be harmed.
Folding his arms to show his lack of fear, Furio stood resolute.