"I have no idea. It was all dark. I thought I was dead. I was caught in traffic. But the cars weren't moving. They weren't there. I mean, they were there, but they weren't. It was just like a 'Far Side' cartoon. 'Traffic Jam of the Damned.' I think one of them struck me. Because I was flying through space."
Cheeta Ching squeezed her almond eyes shut and her whole body shuddered so violently that matte finish, like old paint, flaked off her smooth features.
"Never mind." Remo moved back into position. With any luck Chiun would be along any second now. But several seconds passed. Then a minute. And the minute became three.
Delpha had gone to Cheeta's side to offer comfort. She called to Remo.
"I sense great conflict below. The wise old one has joined in mortal battle with Baphomet. He has made the Great Horned One vomit up his victims. Now he must become demon vomit himself if he is to live."
"Crap and double-crap," Remo muttered.
Delpha's deep voice rose. "Beware! The fiends below grow in power. They will demand payment for your blaspheming them."
Disgust on his face, Remo returned to the fallen light pole and walked along it back into the lobby.
He called down, "Chiun!"
There was no answer. His eyes were hot and dry, as if the tears of remorse had evaporated before they could escape his tear ducts.
Remo looked up. On either side of the brass-and-marble atrium lobby, potted trees formed a sentinel row. At the far end, water drooled down the wall. The water made no sound. Remo realized it must be the famous eight-million-dollar waterfall. It looked more like a main break.
There was a magnificent brass clock on one wall. It read three minutes past seven. Remo decided that if he got no sign from Chiun by five past, then he would jump in himself.
No matter what the consequences were.
The Master of Sinanju grew tired of waiting for his pupil.
There was darkness all around him. Darkness and shadows. Vehicles. They were as insubstantial as smoke, for when he moved near one, no vibrations were given back.
Chiun found that he could walk through these shadowy machines. His face was screwed up in unhappiness as he did so. He could not wait forever.
His path took him finally to a solid form. In the darkness it was impossible to tell what the form was. It gave back coldness and the dank smell of the tomb.
Earth. It was the earth.
He put his hands into the wall and he felt dirt, closely packed and firm. He inserted a forefinger deep into it. The dirt crumbled, surrendered, and tumbled loosely out of the wall.
Using both hands, the Master of Sinanju began to dig a horizontal hole.
He could only imagine where it might lead. But any other hell was to be preferred to this hell of ghost machinery.
The lobby clock read five past.
Remo set himself.
Then, through the intangible lobby glass, Delpha's voice came.
"I am warned of an approaching presence."
Remo whirled.
"Where?"
"It is near, and drawing nearer."
Delpha's eyes were closed. She held the hand of glory high. Its fingertips each burned a sickly green. Remo could see them tremble. Delpha's drooping, cobwebby sleeves trembled too.
"It is very near!" she cried.
Without warning, the pavement under the opposite end of the lamp pole on which Remo stood cracked. It heaved up. The lamp pole, balanced precariously, began to tilt downward.
Remo hesitated, his brain thinking furiously.
Then the lamp fell into the lobby floor, taking him with it.
He had a momentary sensation of falling through darkness and shadow. The disorientation was sudden and absolute. But his racing brain repeated only one thought: There's gotta be a rational explanation for all this.
Chapter 10
Randal T. Rumpp lost the pursuing pack at the tenth floor.
It had all happened so fast, his brain was still trying to process everything. He had walked all twenty-four floors to the lobby, confident that he was about to give the greatest interview of his business career.
He had been smiling as he stepped into the stunning wonder of the Rumpp Tower's six-story atrium. It was a concession he had been forced to make to the city, in order to get the zoning variance that would enable the tower to go up in the first place. In private, he complained bitterly to his architects that it was costing him a fortune of retail footage, and instructed them to make it as small and narrow as possible. Every optical trick was employed to create the illusion of space that wasn't there. And to dazzle the smart ones, a garish, eye-repelling Italian marble was layered over every exposed surface.
In public, Randal Rumpp hyped it as the greatest thing to hit New York since the toasted bagel.
It had been one of his favorite scams, and he always smiled when he entered the arcade.
His smile had collapsed to a surprised pout when he turned a corner and came upon his would-be interviewer, silently sinking into the marble he had personally scoured Italy for.
Randal Rumpp had only had time to wet his pants in fear before he'd doubled back for the safety of the stairwell. It was too late. He had been spotted by a group of shoppers, tourists, and Tower residents.
"That's him!" they shouted. "It's his fault! He built this monstrosity!"
They had pursued him like the villagers from Frankenstein, shouting that he was to blame for their plight.
Randy Rumpp didn't exactly disabuse them of that notion. He knew that if he survived the sprint to his office, word would spread. He wanted credit for the whole crazy mess. It would help him pull off the greatest deal of his life.
Or it would land him smack in a federal penitentiary.
Eventually, the stamina he had gained from endless games of tennis paid off. The pack thinned, fell back. By the eighteenth floor, he had outlasted them. And he was barely winded.
Randy Rumpp burst in on his executive assistant.
"Let nobody in," he huffed. "No matter what."