In the long shadows of the rising sun they spied peering, semi-human faces. Flat, too-round eyes seemed to regard them. Unreasonably large paws reached around gingerbread corners. Or clutched assorted weaponry.
"What say we split up?" Remo suggested. "Maybe get to whoever's giving the orders faster?"
"Let no harm come to Mongo Mouse, Remo," Chiun admonished.
"What if he's the ringleader?"
"Take him prisoner. One as famous as he will surely fetch a bountiful ransom."
"Gotcha," said Remo, thinking that he couldn't hurt Mongo Mouse, no matter what. Once he had been the roundeared rodent's biggest fan. They went in opposite directions.
Chapter 17
"Director, they're splitting up."
"Damn!"
"And Wacky Wolf is down."
"Process his mangy carcass according to park guidelines. And burn his timecard. He did not show up for work today."
"Yes, sir."
The Director turned in his chair. The overhead screens were cutting from monitor to monitor, scanning for the intruders.
The Director heaved himself out of his chair and clumped over to Captain Maus's station.
"Relinquish your chair," he snapped. "I'm directing this damned production from now on."
"Yes, Director."
The Director clumped over and eased himself into the warm chair, taking care with his sterling-silver left leg. His hands went to the control-button array. He began calling up cameras.
It was a frustrating search. The greeters stood out like marshmallows in a coal bin. The two intruders might as well have been invisible.
Once, the Director caught a glimpse of a fugitive rag of black slipping behind a polyurethane candy cane. When he called up a different angle, there was no sign of the owner of the ebony garment.
But Screwball Squirrel lay on his back, impaled by his own umbrella.
"Damn! The Squirrel is down, too."
"I assure you we have the two unknowns outnumbered," Maus said from his station.
The Director worked his cameras impatiently. There was Dingbat Duck, his pride and joy, crouching at the edge of the Phantom Lagoon, his beady crossed eyes alert.
"The hell!" he snarled suddenly.
"What is it, sir?"
"Will you look at that idiot quacker! You can see the seam at his neck. Pull him out of it. I want my people looking like their inspirations, damn it!"
"At once, sir."
Captain Maus went to a console and spoke into a microphone mounted on a flexible steel stalk.
"Overseer. Withdraw the duck. He's out of character. Repeat: The duck is out of character."
The Director moved on, knowing his orders would be carried out to the letter. It was like the Jesuits used to say: "Give me a boy at seven, and I will show you the man."
It was his second favorite saying.
The first was: "The Mouse means revenue. Shield the Mouse, and you protect the revenue."
A roving camera mounted near the Tom Thumb Pavilion happened to pick up the top of someone's head. The hair was brown and human.
"Got one!" he exulted.
As if the owner of the hair had somehow heard him remotely, the brown-haired head stopped, turned, and looked up. And the deadest eyes the Director had ever seen were looking directly at him.
"He's by the Tom Thumb Pavilion," he snapped to Maus.
"Acknowledged." Maus began issuing orders into the mike.
And on the screen, the owner of the dead eyes lifted two splayed fingers and poked them in the Director's direction.
The screen spiderwebbed and went dark.
"Damn!" spat the Director, punching up another camera.
"Sir. The overseer reports the duck is down."
"Not Dingy?"
"Afraid so, sir. That seam? When the overseer went to check, the quacker was in a crouching position and refused to respond to vocal commands. He pulled the Duck's head off to reprimand him."
"And?"
"Nothing but a stump where the neck ended."
"That's it! We're changing tactics. Sweatbox them!"
"Yes, sir!"
"We're at Threatcon Gumpy. Go to Threatcon Spooky. I want the entire park on a military footing. All pavilions and attractions convert to combat readiness. Now!"
"Executing."