Warren Murphy: Shock Value

"Who put you up to this?" Smith asked, expressionless. "Don't tell me you've never seen Abraxas, either."

"No one sees Abraxas until Abraxas decides to show himself."

"Then as far as I'm concerned, you're the murderer. And you'll be brought to trial."

"Excuse me, Dr. Smith," a woman said behind him. It was Circe, dressed in a flowing chiffon dress. Her hair hung in soft waves around her face, nearly hiding the long scar. "It's time for your task force to meet. Come with me, please."

"I will do no such thing. I demand to use a telephone."

She led him away as the group around Vehar exploded into laughter.

"Doctor, you can't have gotten a true picture of Abraxas's work through Mr. Vehar," Circe pleaded. "He's a bright man, but, well, sometimes a little tactless. I promise you that you'll come to understand us better with a little time."

"I want my briefcase," Smith said stubbornly.

"It's in a safe place. But I can't return it to you until you at least give the project a chance. Won't you come to the meeting?"

Begrudgingly, Smith went with her to a large, sprawling residence on the edge of the sea, surrounded by palm trees and brightly colored hibiscus flowers. The mansion was painted sea-blue, and fairy-tale turrets rose steeply from its corners. Banisters of white gingerbread surrounded the third floor. There were more than forty windows, many of them made of stained glass and cut into strange patterns.

"The trident of Neptune," Smith said, looking up at the peculiar old windows.

Circe smiled. "All the gods are here." She pointed up to a small window near the cornice. "There's the lightning bolt of Thor, the Norse deity."

"Abraxas's companions, no doubt," Smith said dryly.

The woman bristled. "Abraxas did not build the house. It was here, waiting for him." She looked at Smith, harmless and confused. And probably afraid, she thought. She had been watching him since his arrival. He was the only one of the delegates to Abraxas's convention who had not melted with the flattery of being chosen as among the world's best minds. He was the only one who had refused the drinks and remained outside of the group. He was a misfit, and didn't even seem to mind.

Smith kept his own counsel. He did not crave the reassurance of others. Alone, among all of them, this ordinary, drab-looking man with the metal-rimmed glasses and the ridiculous hat possessed a sense of honor. He would be difficult, Circe knew; possibly dangerous. For this she respected him.

Her tone changed. "The house was built by slavers two hundred years ago," she said in her beautiful voice. "It's full of secret passageways where the original owners used to hide themselves from invading pirates." She laughed. "Or so the story goes."

A cockatoo screamed overhead, its white wings brilliant in the sun. Circe pinned a blue ribbon on Smith's lapel. "You're part of the Phase Two task force," she said smoothly.

Smith stared at the ribbon, then at the face of the woman with the disfigured face and the voice of a siren. "Is Circe your real name?" he asked.

"No." She hesitated. "It was given to me after I was grown."

"It's the name of a Greek enchantress," he said.

"I know. She lured sailors to her island by the beauty of her voice and turned them into swine." She smiled.

"Is that what you do here?"

The question was unexpected, and Circe looked up at him, hurt. "Of course not. You're perfectly safe here."

"As safe as Orville Peabody," he said quietly. She didn't answer.

Smith looked at the sky and wondered if Remo would act quickly enough to save his life, because there was no doubt about it now.

Abraxas would kill him.

Abraxas would kill them all.

?Chapter Eight

There are no great mountain peaks along the air routes between New York state and Florida, a fact for which Remo was eternally grateful. Ned the pilot developed a bad case of the D.T.'s somewhere along the coast of South Carolina and had to be locked kicking and screaming in the small toilet.

"I think I've finally got this figured out," Remo said, flying a loop over Orlando.

"Stop thinking and set this flying gin mill down," Chiun advised.

"That part's easy. They'll talk me down from the control tower. I've seen it in movies." He checked the map. "We'd better start the descent." He pushed the wheel forward. The plane shrieked as it catapulted toward the earth. "Hey, what's that?"

"Death, I believe," Chiun said calmly. "Instant death."

"The engine's not running."

A muffled shout issued from the lavatory, followed by wild pounding. "Let him out, will you, Chiun? I think Ned wants to talk."

"The engines are stalled!" the pilot screamed, bursting onto the flight deck. "Bring the nose up. The nose! Pull the steering column back!" He looked out the windscreen. Highways filled with automobiles spread out less than a hundred feet below. Ned fainted.

"Geez, but he gets excited," Remo said, yanking back the steering column. The engines sputtered to life as the plane climbed steeply. "See? Everything's under control. That's the airport ahead."

"Less talking," Chiun said.

Remo picked up the radio. "Hello? Hello? Can anybody hear me down there?"

"We read you," a voice crackled from the squawk box. "Identify yourself. Over."

"This is..." He craned his neck to see down the side of the craft. "TL-516."

There was a pause, followed by another crackle. "You are not authorized to land here, TL-516. Please proceed toward your destination. Over."

"Not authorized? This is an emergency. The pilot's out cold. I don't know how to land this thing."

"Repeat, you are not authorized to land here. Any attempt to land will be met with forcible resistance. Over."

Remo exhaled a puff of air. "How do you like that. They're not allowing me to land. I never heard of such a thing."

"I thought this was the easy part," Chiun said.

Remo grabbed the radio again. "Hey, maybe you guys didn't understand...."

"You are not authorized to land here, TL-516. Over."

"And you go suck a cowpie," Remo shouted.

"Over and out." He ripped the radio out of the control panel.

"Very mature."

"Ned. Wake up," Remo said, shaking the old pilot.

"Wazzat?"

"Get up here and land this plane."

Tears streamed out of Ned's eyes. His nose ran. "I can't," he wailed. "Got the shakes. Bugs all over the walls. Sweating like a pig. Blood turned to water. Can't breathe. Seeing stars. Heart palpitations," he itemized. "Loose bowels. Double vision. Muscle spasms. Reflex..."

Remo collared him and threw him into the seat. "Land this sucker or I'll break your skull."

"Well, since you put it that way." His hands, shaking like a bongo player's, reached for the controls. He cleared his throat. 'Thanks, kid. I needed that," he said gruffly. "Almost lost it for a while, but a good pilot never forgets. Which runway do you want?"

"There's only one."

"Oh." There was a long silence. "Where is it?"

"Oh, brother. That way," Remo shouted, pointing straight ahead.

Ned squinted. "Just testing you, son. Flaps down..."

"The flagpole," Remo yelled, gesturing to the tall metal spike directly in front of them. "You're off the runway."

"How can I be off the runway?" Ned groaned. "I ain't even landed yet."

"And you never will," Chiun said prophetically. "I am leaving." With a kick, the airplane door burst outward with a whoosh of air, and Chiun was gone.

"Hey, how'd he—"

"You too," Remo said. He lifted the pilot out of the seat with one hand and carried him to the door. Outside, the flagpole grew larger by the millisecond, its top now invisible.

"Help!" Ned screamed. "It's comin' at us!"

"Geronimo."

Remo turned a somersault in the air and landed next to Chiun, in the soft cushion of a treetop, the trembling pilot still in his arms. Four seconds later the plane exploded in an inferno of flame and thunder.