"Anybody trapped below when the ground fell in didn't have a prayer," Remo said quietly.
Smith asked, "Can you find the section where you emerged from underground?"
Remo led them to the disposal building that masqueraded as a fun house. It was in a quadrant of the park that was not as deeply sunken. They stepped in cautiously.
"We came up this tube," Remo said, indicating the pneumatic mechanism.
Smith peered down unhappily. "I am not sure I can negotiate this."
"No sweat. We'll give you a hand." And Remo cheerfully tucked a protesting Harold Smith under one arm. Paling, Smith closed his eyes.
Smith experienced a brief sensation of descent as Remo climbed downward. Then he found himself being set on his feet, as the Master of Sinanju stepped off the broken handholds in the side of the pipe.
Remo grinned. "How was that?" he asked, leading the way.
Smith straightened his coat and followed stiffly. He almost stepped on the body of Leopoldo Zorilla, but the Master of Sinanju assisted him around the tangled form.
At the broken end of the pipe, Smith endured the ignominy of being lowered by both hands to the polished white-tile floor, now shrouded in darkness.
He still clutched his briefcase, and from it he extracted a penlight. It whisked light about the long tunnel curiously.
"Remarkable," he said.
Remo and Chiun dropped lightly to his side. Remo said, "Follow me."
They walked.
Remo looked around. "Funny, this part isn't crushed flat like the rest."
"These walls are heavily reinforced," Smith said carefully. "It is my guess that this is not Utiliduck, but a secret wing."
"This is perfectly sensible," Chiun murmured.
"It is?" said Remo.
"All ducks have wings. Heh heh heh."
Remo rolled his eyes in silence.
They came to a sealed door. It resembled the guillotinelike entrance portal-a slab of steel plate, set in the grooves of a massive stainless-steel frame.
Smith's tiny ray found a magnetic keycard slot.
"Without a passcard, we cannot enter," he said.
"Wanna bet?" said Remo.
He placed his hands against the door, balanced himself on his feet, and pressed inward.
Nothing happened for some moments. Then Remo moved his flattened palms upward.
Smith clapped his hands over his ears to protect them from the interminable scream of tortured metal. The portal lifted, seemingly impelled by nothing more than the surface tension of Remo's flat palms.
When he had the door halfway up, Remo turned and said, "Slide under. I can't hold this thing forever."
Smith ducked under and in. The Master of Sinanju swept after him.
Remo gave the door a final lurch upward and rolled under the descending portal, which came roaring down behind him with a harsh, ringing clang.
The room was a nest of electronic equipment. Video monitors were lined up on overhead racks. Most were dead or filled with static. Tape spools gleamed. The console chairs were empty. There were no bodies to be seen, either.
Idly, Remo stabbed a button labeled TOM THUMB PAVILION.
To his surprise, a red light winked on and a set of reels began to turn.
Over the loudspeaker, a song warbled.
"It's a short, short life, don't you know?"
"It's a short, short life, don't you know?"
"That is not right," Smith murmured.
Remo snapped the tape off, growling, "Tell me about it. Just when I got that thing out of my mind."
"What?"
"Never mind. It's been a long day."
Smith found another door. It was marked ANIMATION.
"Odd," he said. "I did not know the cartoonists worked underground."
They entered the door. It opened easily.
The room looked more like the War Room of a military base than an artist's studio.
In the center of a long table lay a topographically exact scale model of the island of Cuba.
"Here's your proof, Smitty," Remo said, indicating the walls with a wave of his hand.
Smith used his penlight. His brow furrowed at what he saw. Almost every square foot of wall space was covered with sheets of paper. Each sheet contained a drawing of some sort. They formed long rows of continuously depicted action.
"Odd," Smith said. "These appear to be storyboards."
"What?"