"They're going to be in the chateau any second."
Bob Beasley reached for an insulated lever. "I'll raise the drawbridge."
"Don't bother. I want 'em where I can LOX 'em."
REMO KICKED a kneecap to pieces and stepped over the dropping foe. He paused, turning in place, to orient himself.
The wind was out of the northeast. There was a blockage of dead air in that direction, and only the Sorcerer's Castle was big enough to create it, Remo decided.
He turned, not seeing but sensing the Master of Sinanju.
"Chiun! Shake a leg. The castle is this way."
"I will be along," said Chiun, and the ugly crunch of human bone and brittle plastic came unmistakably. "These evil tools must be destroyed."
"You just don't want to have to deal with Beasley."
"Do not fall into the moat."
"Fat chance," said Remo, running toward the blockage. He smelled the water in the moat, and the scent of the wooden drawbridge, still damp from a recent rain, guided him over the moat and into the castle's cool, gaping maw.
There were no guards. No obstacles. Remo ran with all senses alert for any click, thud or electrical whirring of booby traps or snares.
Surprisingly there were none.
From the last time he had penetrated this place, Remo knew there was a spiral aluminum stairwell going down. From memory, he arrowed toward it. There was an updraft, cool and dank. That helped.
Pausing at the top step, Remo listened a moment. No traps. No human ones anyway.
Remo started down. His skin temperature began to cool in anticipation of what he had to do ....
"DIRECTOR, hostile subject entering Utiliduck."
Uncle Sam Beasley turned to his waiting musketeers. "It's the moment of truth. Who's my brave volunteer?"
Feet shuffled and gazes were averted guiltily.
"Damn you slackers! You work for me!"
"Yeah," a musketeer returned, "but we aren't going up against that guy. Look what he did to the Florida Sunshine Guerrillas."
Uncle Sam made a fist of stainless steel and flexed it several times. It whirred like metallic butterfly wings. "It's not as bad as what I'll do to you bunch if I don't get my volunteers."
"How about we all volunteer?" one asked suddenly.
Uncle Sam blinked. "All?"
"Yeah. That way we'll have a better chance."
"All except the technician," Bob Beasley called over his shoulder. "We need him."
"Good luck, men," said Uncle Sam as the musketeers filed glumly from the room. When the door hissed shut, he turned to his nephew. "Punch up the corridor screens. I want to see this."
On the screen appeared the image of the skinny white guy with the thick wrists and high cheekbones walking down the white approach corridor, his arms swinging with deceptively casual ease.
"Doesn't look like much," muttered Bob Beasley.
"I don't know who he is, but his ass is mine."
At his console Bob Beasley swallowed hard.
"And here come my trusty musketeers," said Uncle Sam.
REMO WILLIAMS SENSED the footfalls of the approaching men. He counted six sets of feet.
They came around a bend in the corridor carefully, their hearts beating hard but not in the high pounding of a preattack rhythm. There was no residual gunpowder smell, so they carried no weapons Remo needed to worry about.
"Out of my way and nobody gets hurt," warned Remo, advancing on them.
"You looking for Uncle Sam Beasley?" a voice asked.
"That's right."
"Three doors down," said the voice.
"On the right," added another.
"Can't miss it," said a third.
"Who are you?"
"Ex-employees of the Sam Beasley Corporation."
"Since when?"
"Since we gave him up just now."
"How do I know it's not a trap?" asked Remo.
"We're supposed to lure you into a trap."
"What trap?"
"LOX room. Liquid oxygen. It's all the way at the end of the corridor."
"You guys are pretty free with information."