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stunned, beatific expressions normally associated with religious fanatics.
Melvis O. Cupper wore one of those expressions. He was in hog heaven from the
moment he paid his twenty-five dollar, one-day admission and walked through
the wonderland of Mallets and Big Boys, taking his Stetson off in mute respect
to the inert iron gods of steam he loved so dearly.
By the time he got to the dealers' area, he was primed to buy. And buy he
did.
Three hours of picking over knicknack tables had filled his arms with treasure
and emptied his wallet. He groaned under the weight of the two-place
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reproduction-Hiawatha table setting, the LeHigh Valley video collection, a
Texas Eagle calendar and assorted plastic-model kits. He was happy; he was
content. He had everything an honest rail fan could ever want.
Except one absent article.
K. C. Crockett.
Melvis had tried to shove K.C. out of his mind, but strain as he might, he
couldn't uncouple her from his heart. That was the long and short of it.
Even with new derailments occurring hourly, and the NTSB shorthanded during
this, the traditional vacation month, Melvis had reached his limit.
He'd called in sick, hopped a flight to Denver and practiced what he was going
to say the next time he laid eyes on his heart's desire.
There was just one hitch in the rope.
There was no sign of K.C. anywhere. Lot of clues, though.
Whenever a flashbulb exploded, Melvis whirled, his eyes tracking the
after-burn. Many times he barreled through the surging crowd, stepping on toes
and muttering "Pardon me" until he felt like a weakbladdered penitent at a
Baptist revival meet.
But no K.C. gal.
It was as hard to take as sand in the journal box. But Melvis had come a long
way, and giving up wasn't in his nature.
"Sure hope she didn't take up with that fool Air Force major," he grumbled as
he set down his booty and availed himself of some cool bottled water.
Fanning himself with his hat, Melvis scanned the sea of heads. His chest
expanded to see so many rail fans gathered in one spot. These were God's
people, he reflected. There weren't truer or more-natural souls trampling
God's good green footstool.
"If only I can rope K.C.," he muttered, "I'll be content with my lot in
life."
His eyes, scanning the giant outdoor pavilions, rested on the largest of them
all. A banner was hung across the entrance: MAGLEV RIDE THE FUTURE OF RAIL
NOW
"If she's here, she's in that heathen den of iniquity," Melvis muttered. He
swallowed hard. "Guess I just gotta steel myself and sashay into the lion's
den," he said, picking up his packages.
Melvis strode toward the sign, his knees growing weak, his heart starting to
trip-hammer.
"Steel wheels are my life," he told himself. "But if I gotta eat a little cold
crow to catch me a rail-friendly wife, well, I'm man enough to do that, I
reckon."
AT THE RAIL Expo entrance, the Master of Sinanju refused to get in line.
"I am Reigning Master," he told Remo. "I will not stand in line with the
common peasantry."
Remo looked at him. "So I have to?"
"No, you do not have to. But I will not stand in line."
"This is a co-equal partnership," Remo argued.
"If it is a co-equal partnership," Chiun retorted, "why I am burdened with
these?" And he raised the pair of katana blades wrapped in butcher paper to
disguise them.
"Because you insisted," Remo shot back.
In the end, Remo stood in line and, when the line finally reached the ticket
booth, he waved Chiun to cut in front of him.
At Remo's back a commotion started up.
"Hey! That's not fair!" the customer behind him complained.
"I'm not with him," Remo said.
"You let him cut in front of you."
"No. He cut in front of me. I just didn't stop him."
When Chiun reached the head of the line, he came face-to-face with a
slick-haired Japanese ticket taker in a tuxedo.
Their eyes met, and the ticket taker started to say something.
"Pay this Nihonjinwa, Remo," said Chiun, marching through the entrance gate.
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Remo dug into a pocket.
"You are with him?" the ticket taker said thinly.
"Only as far as the grave," muttered Remo, handing over a fifty-dollar bill.
"What time does Batsucker show up?" he asked.
"Batsuka-san due at one," he was told.
"I can hardly wait."
Inside, Remo found Chiun standing in the shadow of a giant black locomotive.
"Come on."
"What is the hurry?" asked Chiun, examining the wheels.
"We're on an assignment."
"Does that mean we cannot stop to smell the steam?"
"We can smell the steam after we bust the ronin."
Chiun looked up with appealing hazel eyes. "Promise?"
"Scout's honor," sighed Remo.
They walked on. Chiun carried his hands in his silvery kimono sleeves, where
his broken nail would go unnoticed.
"Keep your eyes peeled for the Nishitsu booth or whatever it is. That's where
Batsucker will be."
"You have peeled-eye duty," Chiun sniffed. "I am entrusted with the katanas,
and so with the honor of the House."
They moved through the shifting sea of humanity like two needles passing
through coarse-woven fabric on a moving loom. Even people not watching where
they were going managed to miss bumping into them.
Remo got Chiun past the old-steam-engines section without too much delay.
Chiun's frown deepened.
"What's wrong?" asked Remo.
"I did not see my heart's desire."
"What's that?"
"A Mikado 2-8-2."
"I think they'll be kinda scarce here."
"I see trains from other nations. Why is the pride of the Kyong-Ji Line
absent?"
"After this is over, you can write your congressman," Remo said dryly.
The flea-market tents were the most congested. Chiun insisted upon stopping at
every table to ask if they had heard of the Kyong-Ji Line.
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