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."
"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.
He tried sucking the thing down with a Dustbuster he found in a maintenance closet, but the thing was impervious to suction, too.
Finally, as Randal Rumpp lay under the thing, out of breath, it came to life. Its arms and legs started waving crazily. One hand reached for its belt buckle.
Realizing what was coming, Randal Rumpp tried to roll out of the way. He was too late.
"Oof!"
When he regained his senses, the white thing, no longer luminous, was standing over him, its expression even more blank than usual.
"You almost killed me!" Rumpp roared.
"Sorry." The white creature cocked a head in the direction of the door. "I hear pounding."
"The police are trying to break in. We're trapped."
"It is worse than that. American agents are coming to liquidate you."
"Liquidate me how?"
"How do you think?"
"Well, I'd like to think they're coming to liquidate my assets."
"It is not your assets they are coming to liquidate, but your ass."
Randal Rumpp groaned. "How do you say 'damn' in Russian?"
"Proklyatye. "
"Proklyatye, " Rumpp repeated. "What do we do?"
"Surrender to police at door."
Rumpp sat up, aghast. "And be lynched?"
"Better than being killed dead," said the Russian.
"You got a point there," the Rumppmeister said, getting to his feet. He looked around his office frantically.
"There's gotta be another option. All my life, I've found other options." His eyes fell on the faceless Russian agent.
"That suit got any more power in it?"
"Probably."
"Buy it from you?"
"No sale. You are broke."
Randal Rumpp shrugged. "Okay. Just thought I'd ask. It can't hurt to ask, can it?"
"No. It cannot hurt to ask. Suit not for sale."
Randal Rumpp picked up the heavy paperweight in the shape of his initials. His eyes were on that blank white head, which suddenly looked as fragile as an eggshell.
"On the other hand, I can just bash your stupid head in, Chuck, and take it."
"You would not do such a thing. Would you?"
"Bet your ass."
Just then, the pounding at the door grew in intensity and fury.
"They must have brought up a battering ram," Rumpp mumbled.
The pounding turned into the screech of metal.
"Sounds like tank coming," said the Russian.
"I don't think a tank would fit on the freight elevator. "
"Then it is not tank. It is American agents come to liquidate our asses."
Something that sounded like a hull plate of a battleship clanged to the floor. The entire floor shook.
Randal Rumpp stiffened. The paperweight dropped to the carpet. He didn't know what to expect, never having been liquidated-in any sense of the word-before.
Then two strange figures appeared at the door, moving fast. One was a tiny wisp of an Oriental and the other a lean American not exactly in business dress.
They split off. One came toward Randal Rumpp and the other toward the Russian, who had snatched up his cellular. The other hand was going to his belt buckle.
"You are mine!" the Oriental screeched.
Randal Rumpp didn't see what happened next. He was staring at the approaching eyes of the tall skinny guy. His eyes were as dead as a loan officer's. A hand came up and took him by the throat and kept going.