When the Fasten Seat Belt sign came on, Remo tied his seat belt about his flat stomach like the sleeves of a sweater. Out the window the ring of mountains surrounding the Valley of Mexico loomed up like a jagged earthen wall.
Almost at once the plane shook as if buffeted by turbulence. Remo knew from past experience this was normal. Thermal updrafts from the valley below were constant.
But the buffeting grew violent. The Azteca Airlines plane dipped on one wing, and through the sealed window ports everyone could hear a thunderous rumble and roar.
"It is another terremotol" a man screamed.
"That means earthquake, " Chiun translated for Remo's benefit.
"Don't be ridiculous," Remo said. "Earthquakes shake the ground, not the air."
"It is an airquake!" the panicked passenger insisted.
"No," said the Master of Sinanju. "It is a volcano."
No sooner had the old Korean spoken the word than a cloud seemed to swallow the aircraft. The sky outside the window became a hideous smoky brown.
The emergency lights came on. Overhead compartments sprung open. Yellow plastic oxygen masks dropped down on their flexible tubes.
Chiun grabbed his, and Remo decided it was a good idea, so he followed suit.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the captain said in a fearstrangled voice. "I regret to inform jou that Mount Popocatepetl has erupted. We must divert to another airport."
The plane's engines began laboring and straining.
The 727 flew and flew through a realm of roiling denseness, like boiling liquid excrement. Nothing was visible beyond the portholes. Not even the winglights.
"Remo!" Chiun squeaked. "The wings are gone."
"If the wings were gone, Little Father, we'd be in a tailspin by now."
"Perhaps they are awaiting the most treacherous moment. Wings are sneaky that way. One never knows when they will choose to fall off."
"Remind me never to fly this airline again," Remo muttered.
"It is all the fault of NAFTA," the stewardess who had slid the length of the cabin said as she adjusted her foundation garments through her disheveled uniform.
"How is this NAFTA's fault?" Remo asked.
"NAFTA has angered the gods of old Mexico," she spit out the words with venom.
"That's ridiculous," said Remo.
Chiun laid a quieting hand on Remo's bare arm.
"Hush, Remo. Lest the gods of old Mexico hear your blasphemous words and wrench the wings from this mighty craft in their malevolent spite."
"Not you, too?"
"There is an old saying in my house. 'One may slay a king, but the wise assassin avoids treading on the bunions of the gods.'"
Remo lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "The bunions of the gods?"
Chiun arranged his kimono skirts absently. "That is the saying. I did not make it up. I merely report it."
All at once daylight broke. The plane emerged from the roiling brown clouds of ash to broad daylight as if passing from the twilight zone of dusk and dawn.
On either side the wings shone as if scoured clean by the hot ash.
"Good thing these windows don't open," Remo muttered, removing his oxygen mask.
Chiun nodded sagely. "The gods are not displeased with us. Good."
The captain came on the intercom again.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your capitan speaking. I am informed by the Mexico City tower that it is inadvisable to land for some time. We will divert to another city. I will now entertain offers as to the most popular city of your choice."
"What did he say?" Remo asked Chiun.
"Quickly! Offer him as much as is necessary to take us to our destination."
"Are you kidding?"
Looking back to where the other passengers were hastily pooling their funds in order to bid on the destination of their choice, Chiun hissed, "Hurry. Lest we are marooned in some godforsaken place."
"Godforsaken," said Remo, coming out of his seat, "just about describes every part of the Mexican experience."
Remo beat two businessmen and a nun to the cabin and shut the door behind him for privacy.
Recognizing Remo, the captain and copilot clapped their hands over their ears in self-defense.
Instantly the yoke tipped forward, and the aircraft went into another dive. Remo reached across, hauled it back and pried the captain's fingers from his ears.
Guiding by the wrists, he forced them to curl around the control wheel again.
"What is your wish, senor?" he gasped.
"I'm thinking of San Cristobal de las Casas."
"San Cristobal de las Casas is an excellent destination. Do jou not think so, Vergillio?"
The copilot, Vergillio, sat unhearing. Remo pried a hand off an ear so the captain could repeat his statement.
"St. San Cristobal de las Casas is very excellent. But we must allow the other passengers to make their offer. It is the democratic way."
"It is the way of Mexico," agreed the captain.