"Really?" shouted Cheeta Ching over the rotor churn. The BCN news helicopter was rising into the Halloween sky. It was very dark now. The hunter's moon hung in the black sky like a sphere of shaven ice.
"Without doubt," said Delpha, arranging her gown. "This hair is called shade. In the old days, those who persecuted my Craft depowered witches simply by shaving their armpits."
"No!"
Delpha nodded. "Yes, Shade has many uses. Tied in a silken bag, it makes an infallible love potion. Thus, if you wish to succeed in love and in life you must let your natural hair grow."
Cheeta Ching was looking at Remo when she asked, "Would that explain why certain people don't succumb to my obvious charms?"
Remo avoided Cheeta's pointed glance. He watched the darkened Rumpp Tower floors drop away, frowning.
"Yes," returned Delpha. "In ancient days females went bare-breasted. It wasn't until men made them cover their natural breasts that the breast became an erotic icon. However, underarm hair has always been one of the most erotic sights a man can see. And one of the most intimidating."
"Is that why they made us shave them?" Cheeta asked.
"Yes. "
"The beasts!" Cheeta huffed.
Seated in the rear, Remo turned to the Master of Sinanju. "Is it just me, or are those two making even less sense than usual?"
"It is you," Chiun sniffed, arranging his kimono skirts absently.
"Did I ask you how the current contract negotiations are going?" Remo asked the Master of Sinanju, knowing the rotor noise would prevent their conversation from being overheard. Even by the cameraman seated beside them.
"You have not."
"So, how are they going?"
"Slowly. Smith is holding my most recent bargaining ploy against me."
"You mean the time when you were going to quit to become Lord Treasurer of California, but your candidate turned out to be a Central American dictator in disguise?"
Chiun made a face. "You are just like Smith. Distorting the truth to further your own designs."
"How else do you explain what happened?"
"I was duped. I would never have allied myself with that villain's court had not Smith exiled us to California in the first place."
"We were not exiled," Remo pointed out. "We were on an assignment. How was Smith to know that the guy we were supposed to protect turned out to be a potential hit?"
"He is emperor," Chiun squeaked. "He is supposed to know these things. And none of this would have happened except for your own negligence."
"Old news," Remo said, changing the subject fast. "When you go round again, put in my request for a new permanent residence. I'm tired of living out a suitcase."
"Do not worry, Remo," Chiun said frostily. "I intend to hold the loss of our precious home against Smith during the final discussions."
Remo folded his bare arms. "Good. I want to settle down again,"
"Too late," Cheeta called back. "I'm already married. And pregnant."
"My hopes are dashed forever," Remo said sourly. "Guess I'll junk my hope chest."
The helicopter reached the serrated roof of the Rumpp Tower. Here, the top-floor apartments had unique, two-sided views of the city. Randal Rumpp had sacrificed floor space for the dual windows. It was considered a bad move, but Rumpp had the last laugh. He simply hyped the view and charged triple rent. Tenants gladly paid extra for an improved view, even with their square footage reduced. Once again, the fantasy had sold.
The lights were out all over the Tower. Still, in the dying light of the sun, they could see people in their apartments, some apparently oblivious to their situation as cosmic prisoners.
"Rumpp's office is on the twenty-fourth floor," Cheeta was telling the pilot.
"So?"
"Take us to that floor."
They began counting down from sixty-eight. When they reached twenty-four Cheeta said, "Go to the south side."
The pilot sent the chopper canting around. It twirled like a yo-yo in expert hands, then hovered in place. He said, "I don't see him."
"Who cares? Just fly in."
"Miss Ching?"
"Did you leave your balls at home? I said, 'Fly in'!"
"But we'll crash!"
"Like hell, we will," Cheeta said, grabbing the joystick. She sent the helicopter diving into the side of the Rumpp Tower like a flying buzzsaw.
The pilot's scream was no louder than the rotor noise. It just sounded that way.
Randal Rumpp was sitting with his back to the south facade, trying to put his pants on both legs at a time. Too many people had taken to saying that Randal Rumpp put his trousers on one leg at a time, like everybody else. Rumpp couldn't stand being compared to what he called "the chump in the street." As soon as he had mastered the trick, he would call in a news crew to film the myth-making technique.
Then it happened.
There was no sound. No warning. No nothing.
His first impression was of being swallowed by a monster bird with furiously whirling wings.
One second he was sitting at his desk, trying to draw his five-hundred-dollar button-fly pants over his monogrammed socks, the next he was enveloped in a fast-moving cocoon filled with people.
It happened in an instant. Enough time for him to dive to the floor. He rolled and rolled, wreaking minor havoc on his high-maintenance haircut. Only when he had gotten disentangled from his pants did he get a glimpse of something that made sense. Or almost made sense.
The sight of a helicopter's tail rotors, slipping into the wall separating his office from his assistant's, caused Randal Rumpp's eyes to go very round.
"Are they crazy?" he shouted. "I could have had a heart attack!"
He picked himself up off the floor, calling, "Dorma! Did you get the number of that chopper? I want to sue those jerks!"