The Caucasian dialed and listened a moment. He put the earpiece to the side of Rair's featureless head, not quite getting the spot where his ears were, but it was close enough for the ringing of the other line to come through.
Randal Rumpp's querulous, dispirited voice answered.
"Who is it?"
"Ho ho ho," said Rair Brashnikov hollowly.
"You! What happened? The TV says the Rumpp Regis is back to normal, and my Tower is sinking into the ground. How do I stop it?"
"How am I to know? I am thief, not rocket scientist."
"Do better than that!" warned the Caucasion named Remo.
"Who is that?" Rumpp wanted to know.
"New friend," Brashnikov explained.
"So what do I do?" Rumpp pressed.
"Try calling Moscow. I give you number."
Rumpp grabbed a pad and paper. "Shoot."
The long-distance operator was very helpful. She got through to Moscow in under an hour. Normally it took two, she explained. On a good day.
The voice that picked up on the other end at first denied any knowledge of the vibration suit.
Then Randal Rumpp said, "I'm Randal T. Rumpp, and I see a lot of investment opportunities in your country."
"Ah. Vibration suit. Why did you not say so? I will put you through to Vibration Suit ministry. We are only KGB liquidation unit."
"You're killers?"
"It is not that kind of liquidation we are doing."
"Oh."
The line clicked and hissed and hummed, and Randal Rumpp watched the ever-changing TV screen to keep from being bored.
Finally a low female voice said, "Shchit. "
Rumpp said, "I guess some words are universal."
"Who is speaking, please?"
"Randal Rumpp, famous billionaire."
"The one whose building, it is sinking?"
"The very same. And it's all the fault of your crummy vibration suit. It got into my Tower electrical system and screwed it up somehow."
"Vibration suit?"
"Don't be coy. Your guy was just captured."
"Which guy?"
"I don't know. I didn't catch his name. But I do know who I'm gonna sue if I don't get some satisfaction."
"USSR did not invent suit," the woman said crisply. "You should take this up with manufacturer."
"Who's that?"
"Nishitsu Corporation. Osaka."
"The Japs? How did you guys get hold of the technology?"
"KGB steal it."
"Oh," said Randal Rumpp, hanging up.
The long-distance operator put him through to the Osaka research and development plant of the Nishitsu Corporation in Japan.
Rumpp identified himself, and asked to speak with the department that designed the suit.
At first, the thick voice at Nishitsu denied any knowledge of the invention.
Then Randal Rumpp said, "The Russians say they stole it from you."
The man at the other end said, "Ah," and asked a simple question. "You possess device now?"
"Could be," Rumpp said cagily. "And I might be willing to do a trade."
"Prease continue."
"First, I want my skyscraper to stop sinking."
"How does bakemono suit have anything to do with that?"
"Bakemono?"
"Means gobrin."
"Spell it for me."
"G-o-b-l-i-n. "
"Good name for it," said Randal Rumpp, going on to explain how it had all started with a funny Russian voice in his telephone system, and what had squirted out when his secretary picked up a certain receiver.
The voice at the other end said "Ah" again, and in the background a number of people could be heard conversing in rapid, unintelligible Japanese.
Finally a different voice came on. It said, "It appear person wearing gobrin suit was captured by your buirding terephone system, much rike virus in broodstream of a riving person."
"Makes sense," said Randal Rumpp, wondering how a people who couldn't pronounce their L's could be so successful in international business.
"The properties of suit were transferred to buirding."
"That much I figured out by myself," Rumpp said dryly.
"Now person has reft, but your Tower is sinking?"
"You got the picture."
"Perhaps probrem remain in terephone wires," the Nishitsu representative suggested.
"Could be. So what do I do?"
"Ask terephone company to shut off power."
"And if it doesn't work?"
"Carr back."
"Count on it, Chuck."
The AT representative listened to Randal Rumpp's odd request.
"We will be only too happy to comply," the rep said smoothly.
"Great. Do it now."
"However, there is the matter of an unpaid bill due four months ago." Rumpp heard a clicking of a keyboard. "The current outstanding balance is $63,876.14."
"What is this crap! You've been threatening to shut off my lines for weeks over that bill!"
"I imagine so."
"'Well, I'm still in arrears. So shut me off, Chuck!"
"Not without payment."
"You can't do this! It's un-American!"
"Continued service is entirely an AT ," the infuriatingly unruffled voice said. "In this case, we elect to continue to serve your telephonic needs."
"I demand to be disconnected! Right now!"
The line went click, and Randal Rumpp found himself listening to a dial tone.
He hung up the telephone, with no life left in his eyes.
"I'm dead," he said dully. "I'm sinking into the earth and I'm dead."
A thought occurred to him.
"Where the heck am I going, anyway?"
Rumpp went to a hand-carved globe and spun it. He picked out the longitude and latitude of Manhattan, spun the globe, and found their counterparts on the other side. It was in a mountainous border region of what was once the Soviet Union.
"Great," he muttered. "I'm heading for 'Kazakhstan.' I never even heard of Kazakhstan. They probably don't even speak English there. Maybe I'd better just surrender."
But the pounding at the credit-control doors made him think again. It was getting louder. Louder than the insistently ringing office telephones. They really wanted him. Wanted him bad.
"What the heck!" he told himself. "Can't hurt to call those riceballs at Nishitsu again. I haven't threatened to sue them yet. Maybe I can hose them into building Rumpp Tower II. "
Grinning, Randal Rumpp reached for his portable cellular phone.
Chapter 31
Rair Brashnikov was attempting to induce the two American agents to let him remove his helmet.
"No," said the Caucasian.
"I am having trouble breathing."
"Then die quietly."
The Oriental was arguing with the Caucasian. They were arguing over his head. The Oriental wanted it removed from his shoulders, and the Caucasian was in favor of letting Brashnikov keep it.
In the meantime, they were waiting for the telephone to ring. And then it did.
The Caucasian picked it up.
"Yeah, Smitty. What's the deal?" The Caucasian listened.
He looked up and said to the Oriental, "Smitty says the Rumpp Tower is still sinking, and they can't get Rumpp out."
"Offer to Smith our services to extricate the schemer, Rumpp."
"Smitty. Chiun says we can get Rumpp out." He listened again. "Okay. What do with do about Ivan here? Gotcha."
The Caucasian hung up.
"Smith says we grab Rumpp."
"And this monstrosity?"
"Put him on ice until we get back."
The old Oriental was still holding on to Rair Brashnikov's aching wrists, pinning them together as irremovably as shackles. Now he manipulated his long bony fingers, transferring both wrists to the unshakable grasp of one amber hand.
All around him, the bodies of the many Russian agents sent to recapture Brashnikov
lay still and waxy as a Disco museum after an earthquake.
"What means 'on ice'?" Brashnikov asked.
Silence.
"Does 'on ice' mean dead? I must know. Am I allowed a final prayer? I know some very short ones."
The cold-eyed Oriental reached for his throat.
Down the corridor the elevator doors rolled open. Remo called, "Shake a leg, Chiun!"
Then came Cheeta Ching's voice. "Grandfather Chiun! Where are you?"
Chiun started. "Cheeta?"
But the corridor was suddenly filled with the tramping of heavy footsteps.
"We can't leave him now," Remo hissed. "That's either the IRS or the cops."
The Master of Sinanju stepped toward the open doorway. The helpless Russian came with him, unable to free his pinioned arms.
Then the tiny Korean lifted one foot. A simple gesture barely noticed. Remo moved to the edge of the door, hands high, ready to strike if need be.
A clot of Manhattan's finest clopped up the corridor, guns drawn.
"Grandfather Chiun!" Cheeta shouted. "It's all right! I brought the police!"
"Some one shut her up," a voice growled.
And the Master of Sinanju pivoted on his one planted foot.
The thick-soled white boots on Rair Brashnikov's feet buzzed the rug, as sudden centrifugal force brought him around in a standing arc.
Incredibly powerful fingers released his wrists.
By that point, momentum had set his legs at right angles to the walls. His feet flew through the bullet-gnashed doorway, taking the rest of him with it.
The Russian bowled over four policemen before they could react or retreat.
Remo and Chiun jumped out into the corridor, their feet busy. Their heels stamped pistol muzzles flat and broke cylinders from their frames.
"Remo!" Chiun squeaked. "See to the Krahseevah!"
"Right."
Remo reached into the tangle of blue and white and came within a hair of grabbing the Krahseevah by its rubbery neck.
That hair made all the difference. For Rair Brashnikov had fumbled for his belt rheostat. Remo's reaching hand dipped into a sudden blur of white shine.
"Damn!"
Chiun turned. "What?"
"Lost him."
"Idiot!"
Rair Brasnikov remembered his KGB training. In his disembodied state, he had to be careful. Only micron-thick wafers in the bottom of his boot soles enabled him to stand on solid ground when the vibration suit was operation. He could not use his hands to lever himself up.
He could only unbend himself until the boot soles found traction.
Unfortunately, that was not as easy at it sounded.
He realized that his rear end was sinking through the hall carpet, when all around him dazed American policemen recoiled and shouted hoarse curses.
Rair Brashnikov decided to go with the flow.
The flow was taking him through the floor, much to the frustration of the Caucasian American agent, who frantically tried to grab him by any handy extremity.
The level of the floor soon crept up to Brashnikov's chin, his nose. Then he shut his eyes-and did not open them until the subatomic darkness had gone away and he could see pink light through his closed lids.
Remo was taking his frustration out on the hapless police.
"You guys couldn't have waited another lousy minute," he said, grabbing ankles and pulling the police into his inexorable grip. Remo put them all to sleep with simple nerve pressure, while the Master of Sinanju confronted a shocked and wide-eyed Cheeta Ching.
"It is all right, my child. This was not for your eyes."
"My God!" Cheeta gasped. "That witch-bitch was right. It is a night-gaunt!"
"No, it-"
Remo straightened. "Exactly. A night-gaunt. And we want you to spread the word. Tell the world that the night-gaunts have broken loose into the waking world. You're the only one who can convince people."
"Yes, yes, I must!"
"But leave us out of it."
"But . . . but you're part of the story."
"Chiun," Remo said.
The Master of Sinanju took Cheeta Ching's cold hands in his.
"Child, you must do as Chico says."
"Frodo," Remo corrected, straight-faced.
"No word of us must be spoken aloud. Have I your word on this?"
Cheeta Ching had never been known to squelch a story in her career. She was being asked to do so now
It was a complete violation of everything she thought she stood for.
Silently, she nodded, her lids lowered demurely. She bowed. Twice.
The Master of Sinanju bowed in return. Once.
"We must go now, to seek out other night-gaunts," said Chiun solemnly.
Cheeta Ching brushed away a tear. "Go in peace, Grandfather!" Her wet hand got stuck in her sticky hair, and refused to come loose.
Remo and Chiun slipped to a fire exit.
"Good move," said Remo. "Now we just gotta capture that Krahseevah without raising a ruckus."
"This is all your fault," Chiun spat.
"Why? You let him go."
"But you failed to seize him. A mere Russian, faster than a Master of Sinanju? My ancestors would disown me for having lowered myself to instruct you in proper breathing."
"I had my hands full. The police were loaded for bear."
They reached the thirteenth floor. Chiun led the way to a point along the corridor.
"It is here he should have fallen," Chiun said, looking up at the paneled ceiling. There was no sign of the Krahseevah under the ceiling, or along the carpet.
"Split up?" Remo said. They split up, breaking down doors, moving from room to room like unstoppable juggernauts.
When they had worked their way down the corridor, a white shining bubble emerged from the wall near where they had paused. The bubble continued to grow until it became a smooth rubbery head, whose blank face expanded and contracted like some gruesome external lung.
Then the Krahseevah tiptoed across the hall with soundless ease. It melted into a door as if it were a gossamer curtain painted to look like wood.
Rair Brashnikov was in luck. There was a telephone in the room he had chosen. He strode up to it and put his hand to the belt rheostat. It was buzzing angrily and emitting a warning red shine. He would have to move fast, he knew. There was no telling how much power he had left in his reserve supply.
Grasping the knob, he turned the rheostat.
Down the hall, Remo and Chiun both heard the sudden sound of a heartbeat that had not been audible on the thirteenth floor before. They flashed out into the corridor, nearly colliding, and plunged up the hall.
They hit the door at the same time. Simultaneously they burst into the room. Their eyes read the figure of the Krahseevah-which was not shining-a telephone receiver clamped to its bald head.
"Hold the phone!" Remo shouted.
And as their reaching hands traveled the space between the door and their quarry, the creature acquired a nimbus like a frosted light bulb.
The Krahseevah turned.
"Too late Americans! Speed-dialing!"
Then it began.
"Damn!" said Remo, slapping at the vaporous mist that was oozing into the mouthpiece. It was drawn from sight like inhaled smoke.
"Again you have shamed me!" Chiun squeaked, stamping a tiny foot on the receiver as it hit the rug.
"Me? You had the same shot as me."
"You were in my way."
"My left foot."
"Which is that, clod-footed one? For I count one at the ends of each of your clumsy legs."
"Har de har har," Remo growled.
Remo noticed a blinking light on the telephone console. There was a menu of speed-dialing buttons, and the blinking light was the button marked: RANDAL RUMPP.
"Looks like we may have another crack at the guy," Remo pointed out.
"I insist upon no interference this time," Chiun said sternly.
Remo rolled his eyes sk
yward. "Done. Now let's get cracking."
Chapter 32
Randal Rumpp had one finger in his ear and the free ear to his cellular handset.
He was trying to reason with the Nishitsu technician over the pounding on his creditor-control doors and the telephone-orchestra accompaniment. It killed him to ignore all those ringing phones. Probably all reporters hot to quote him. But if he was going to walk out of this clean, he had to get a handle on this sinking setback. If he knew why the Rumpp Tower was acting like a mole, maybe he could stop it. That would be his bargaining chip with the courts. Lighten up, and the Rumpp Tower won't end up in Kazakhstan.
The Nishitsu technician was trying to explain his theory in layman's terms.
"Buirding has great weight," he was saying. "Many tons. But when buirding rose mass, there is no weight. Ground rerax."
"Ground what?"
"Rerax. Take it easy."
"Got it," said Randal Rumpp.
"When buirding regain weight, it exert downward force. Rike pire driver."
"Like what?"
"Pire driver."
"What the heck is a pire driver?"
"You are construction man. You do not know?"
"Oh. Pile dliver," said Randal Rumpp, after writing the words down on a pad and substituting L's for R's. "Why didn't you say so?"
"Did."
"Right. So you're saying that the skyscraper is literally pounding its way into the ground?"
"Yes. You must not ret it demateliarize."
"Spectralize. Get it right."
"Spectrarize. Yes. You must not-"
"Hold it," Rumpp interrupted, hearing a beep in his ear. "My other line just beeped."
Randal Rumpp tapped the handset switch hook and got a familiar staticky roar in his ear. He jumped out of his chair and under his desk just in time.
The light was a cold flare that soon abated. Rumpp crawled out. The Russian in the vibration suit was hanging suspended in the air, his belt buckle as red as if it were on fire. A cold chill went through Randal Rumpp's trim body.
"Oh, shit. Forget ending up in Kazakhstan. We're about to go nuclear."
Over the next ten minutes, Randal Rumpp did everything he could to capture the floating white apparition before it merged with anything solid.
A luminous foot slid into an oaken coat rack. Rumpp knocked the rack over. The top of its head merged with a ceiling fixture, and Rumpp got up on a chair and shattered the frosted glass globe with a paperweight carved in the shape of his own initials.
He got under it and tried to blow it away from the wall with his breath. He was close to fainting before he gave it up.
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