Then, using both hands, he levered the base of the pole in a line with the main entrance and began to shove it in.

  Remo kept pushing until he felt the other end beginning to tip. He pulled back about a foot of the pole and, certain of its balance, jumped on.

  Hands held out to his sides, Remo began to walk the pole like a log bridge. He passed through the glass entrance and found himself balanced over what looked like solid marble flooring, although he knew it wasn’t.

  His dark eyes said it was solid. His other senses told him otherwise. If he fell, he knew he would be in deep trouble.

  While people gathered around, shouting with their mouths but emitting no audible sounds, Remo got down on his knees. He dropped a hand into the flooring.

  His hand vanished up to his thick wrist. He felt around experimentally. Nothing.

  Remo shouted, “Little Father! Chiun! Can you hear me?”

  No sound came back.

  He brought his hand back and cupped it over his mouth.

  “Chiun!”

  Then he heard something. Faint. A voice. Thin. He couldn’t make out the words.

  “What?”

  A single word was repeated. It sounded like “fetch.”

  “Fetch?”

  A “no” came back. It was clear enough. The faraway voice was saying “no.”

  “Not ‘fetch’?” Remo called down.

  The word that sounded like “fetch” was repeated.

  “Louder!” Remo yelled at the marble. “I can’t make it out!”

  Then, something jumped out of the floor.

  It happened so fast and was so unexpected that Remo’s reflexes barely warned him to get out of the way in time.

  A man came sailing up in a long arc. The parabola of the arc carried him through the second-level atrium floor and out into the street.

  He began to fall.

  Remo moved then. He flashed along the fallen lamp pole and out onto Fifth Avenue. Getting under the man, he raised his arms.

  Remo had no idea if he could catch him. There was no question he’d be in the right place at the right time, but there was no way of knowing if the man would land in the upraised cushion of his arms...or fall through them and into the unforgiving pavement.

  Remo set himself for the worst.

  The man struck his hands like a bony sack of potatoes. Remo felt the impact bring him to his knees. It knocked the breath out of the man, but Remo’s arm bones survived without shattering. He laid the man out.

  “Who are you, pal?” Remo asked.

  The man who had been ejected from the phantom skyscraper seemed to be staring through Remo, as if he had beheld sights that had dazzled his senses. “Never mind me,” he gasped. “The others.”

  “Others?”

  “Catch.”

  “‘Catch’? Was that the word? ‘Catch,’ not ‘fetch’?”

  “Hurry,” the man gasped.

  Remo moved back, his arms lifted. There was no time to figure out what was happening. He had to be ready.

  Cheeta Ching came next. Remo heard her shriek of fright seconds before she popped–literally popped–out from the golden facade of the Rumpp Tower in a shallow arc.

  Remo called up. “Don’t worry! I’ll catch you.”

  Like an infielder, Remo positioned himself for the catch.

  Cheeta Ching, still shrieking, landed across his arms. Her arms flung out and took hold of his neck, her nails gouging red streaks in the vicinity of his jugular. She buried her sticky-haired head in Remo’s shoulder.

  “You can let go now,” Remo said. “It’s me. Rocco.”

  Cheeta Ching looked up dazedly.

  Her voice sounding surprised, Cheeta said, “I’m alive.”

  “And clawing,” Remo pointed out. “I’d like my neck back. If you don’t mind.”

  Cheeta’s manicured talons disengaged, like a gross of hypodermics withdrawing from flesh.

  Remo set her on her feet.

  “Thank you, Renko,” she said. This time, her voice sounded subdued.

  “That’s–” Remo caught himself. “Never mind. Did you see Chiun?”

  “No.”

  “No? Then how’d you get out of there?”

  “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 Ten

  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.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rumpp.”

  “Any calls?”

  “No, Mr. Rumpp. The phones are dead.”

  “For Randal Tiberius Rumpp, the phones are never dead.” He strode into his inner office, grabbed up the cellular phone, and gave it a flick. The antenna snaked out to its full length.

  He dialed a local number as he stepped out of his wet pants, then laid them on the double-R monogrammed rug to dry.

  “Office of Grimspoon & Laughinghouse, Attorneys at Law,” a professional voice said.

  “Put Dunbar Grimspoon on. This is Randal Rumpp.”

  “Go ahead, Rumppster,” said a firm male voice a moment later.

  “I’ve moved up in the world. I’m called the Rumppmeister now.”

  “I’ll write it down.”

  “Dun, I got a legal hypothetical for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Let’s say the bank forecloses on the Rumpp Tower.”

  “Yes?”

  “Let’s say before they can serve papers, the building goes away.”

  “What exactly do you mean by ‘goes away?’”

  “It no longer occupies the block.”

  “Randal, what are you up to now?”

  “It’s a hypothetical,” Randal Rumpp said quickly. “The Tower’s not there. So. Who owns the air rights?”

  “Air rights? Since the building itself is the collateral, I guess you do. The lot, too.”

  Randal Rumpp’s brisk voice brightened. “Are you sure?”

  “Not without a week’s worth of intense research at six hundred per hour.”

  “If I made use of the lot and air rights, it would hold up in court, wouldn’t it?”

  “Maybe. Probably. It sounds like a precedent-setter. I think we could litigate it in your favor. Hypothetically.”

  “Thanks, Dun. You’re a classy guy.”

  “I’ll send you a bill.”

  Smiling, Randal Rumpp hit the disconnect. “Send me a bill. What a kidder.” He dialed again.

  “Office of Der Skumm & Associates, Architects.”

  “Randal Rumpp here. Let me speak with Derr.”

  A flavorful Swedish voice came on the line, saying, “Der Rumppster! How’s der boy?”

  “Couldn’t be better. Listen. I may have a deal for you.”

  “Dot so?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. The stories that I’m on the ropes are highly exaggerated, Der. Tell you why I called. I want you to draw up plans for another Rumpp Tower.”

  “Anodder Rumpp Tower?”

  “Only bigger, bolder, and brassier than the original.”

  “Dot vill take some doing.”

  “But you can do it, right?”

  “It will have to be der same height as der first.”

  “No. Higher. I want it twenty stories higher.”

  “But der zoning laws...”

  “Screw the Zoning Commission. With the deal I’m gonna offer them, they’ll be happy to let me build this thing in Central Park.”

  “Okay. Dis I can do. But first, where do you intend to build dis new Tower of yours?”

  As Randal Rumpp leaned into the telephone, his voice deepened and grew conspiratorial.

  “Exactly,” he said, “where the old one was.”

  “Vas?”

  “Er, I hate to break this to you, Der, since you built the first one, but we lost it.”

  “Der bank foreclose?”

  “They tried to. They were too late. I beat them to the punch.”

  “I do not understand what happen to my magnificent building. My pride and joy?”

  “It suffered a business reversal,” said Randal Rumpp unconcernedly. He reached down to test the crotch of his discarded pants. Definitely drying. He wiped his fingers on his tie.

  “You are talking riddles. Speak plain English.”

  “Look, I’m in the middle of three different deals here,” Randal Rumpp said, checking an imitation Rolex watch he had purchased off a street vendor when he’d had to pawn his original. “Instead of me explaining it to you, why don’t you turn on the TV? The news boys can fill you in.”

  “But–”

  When Randal Rumpp disconnected, he was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Now,” he proclaimed happily, “all I have to do is convince the city to fund the project, and I’m back on top!”

  Chapter Eleven

  The human eye contains a chemical substance commonly known as “visual purple.” It increases night vision capabilities whenever the retina is exposed to dark conditions. Normally, it takes a few minutes for the night vision to reach optimum sensitivity.

  Remo Williams willed his visual purple to compensate for the complete lack of light that surrounded him, and got almost instant results.

  It helped. Enough to see shadows and outlines.

  He was, Remo was surprised to discover, in a garage of some kind. There were cars set in rows. Most very expensive. Mercedes. Bentleys. Rolls. Even a Porsche.

  Okay, Remo thought. I’m not in Hell or China. That’s a start.

  He began to move about in a circle. It was actually a widening spiral–an old trick. The quickest and most efficient method of reconnoitering an unknown area is to move in a widening spiral, taking in as much territory as possible without losing one’s starting point.

  Remo found himself confronting a solid wall. At least, it looked solid. He went through it without resistance or tactile sensation.

  He was forced to close his eyes, even in the dark. The optic nerve screamed back at him when it connected with the wall.

  Remo realized he was in the basement garage of the Rumpp Tower. He had fallen two floors, so this must be the subbasement. It was too high to jump back, even if there had been anything to jump back to. The lobby floor wouldn’t exactly catch him.

  He cupped his hands over his mouth. “Chiun!”

  No answer.

  Remo continued his circuit. He noticed that, while there was a concrete flooring beneath him, his feet sank into it like a deep-pile rug. He was actually walking on a surface immediately under the floor. Probably the hard-packed dirt foundation, he figured.

  It was eerily still in the subbasement. Ordinarily, there would be air flow from ventilation ducts. Not here. Just an uncanny stillness and absolutely no sound.

  Remo kept moving. Soon, his sensitive nostrils picked up a faint scent. Human. Smelling faintly of chrysanthemums. A personal scent he knew only too well.

  “Chiun,” Remo whispered. He lined up with the odor trail, and moved along it.

  It brought him, with almost no deviation, to a blank wall, from which spilled fresh earth that might have been excavated by a very tidy steam shovel. The earth seemed to be spilling from the solid wall. Not a crack showed. Yet a fetid breath of air seemed to be coming out of the wall at the precise point where the dirt lay in piles.

  Remo ignored the evidence of his eyes and moved into the wall. He discovered himself, after a moment of darkness even his visual purple couldn’t dispel, in a tunnel. It sloped up, and Remo saw daylight.

  Before Remo could move toward the light, he heard a sound behind him.

  It was a low moaning, a kind of mew mixed with a barely human sobbing. It made Remo, in spite of himself, think of a sound that might have filtered out of a primordial forest.

  Hesitating, he muttered, “What the heck,” and moved back toward the sound.

  The subbasement was as large as the foundation, so there was quite a bit of area to search. The walls were a problem. Remo could pass through them, but not see through them. Once, he lost his orientation and started into a wall, only to encounter a stubborn solidness. Remo literally bounced off the wall, and almost lost his balance.

  Remo realized then that he had tried to go through an outside wall. The wall itself was no problem, but the earth beyond was as solid as earth should be.

  The sound came again. This time, it blubbered.

  · · ·

  Remo got a fix and swept toward it. This time, he simply closed his eyes and moved in a direct line. It was easier that way. The seemingly solid walls and cars only confused his eyes. But his hearing could not be fooled.