Warren Murphy: Ghost in the Machine

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 skyward. "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."