Ghost in the Machine td-90

by Warren Murphy

"It is a scheme by men to deprive them of their most attractive lures, their greatest power, before which most gods and male demons are powerless. Delilah understood this."

  "Yours aren't exactly raising the dead here," Remo pointed out.

  "You are right. I must unveil my most fearsome talisman." Her hands dropped to her shoulder straps.

  Remo's eyes went surprised. "Not-"

  "I must be skyclad!"

  At that, Delpha shrugged her shoulders and her black spidery gown slipped to the sidewalk, revealing a third muskrat.

  Remo looked to Chiun. The Master of Sinanju brought one sleeve of his kimono up to his eyes to shield them from the white woman's shameful nakedness. Cheeta was positioning the cameraman and hitting the zoom button.

  Remo decided to withdraw.

  "Nice show, huh, Little Father?" he asked dryly.

  "Why is she naked?" Chiun asked.

  "She's trying to flash the goat's head into surrendering."

  "Ah, Flash Magic. I have heard of this. Is it working?"

  "Well, she is turning bluer."

  The Master of Sinanju stole a peek, then quickly looked away again. "Remo, this is embarrassing."

  "Glad you've come around to my way of thinking. How about we ditch the two dips and get down to work?"

  "Cheeta is not a dip," Chiun sniffed.

  "Okay. She's a dipette. My offer stands."

  "Quiet," Cheeta hissed. "You'll ruin the magic spell. "

  "Perish the thought," Remo said. To Chiun he added, "I rest my case."

  Remo folded his arms. "Then I wait here until the moon turns blue."

  Chiun looked up. The moon was high overhead, very full and not at all blue.

  "It is no such color," he sniffed.

  "That isn't the moon I meant," Remo said, pointing to Delpha's pale, goose-bumpy backside.

  Chiun hid his face anew.

  Remo was saying, "Give it up, Delpha," when the helicopter arrived with a noisy clattering.

  "Get a shot of that!" Cheeta told her cameraman, slapping him on his head like a spotter signaling a mortar man to fire.

  The cameraman pointed his videocam up at the descending helicopter, an eggshell-colored Bell Ranger with a red stripe.

  It settled into the middle of Fifth Avenue, revealing the world-famous BCN logo.

  Cheeta screeched, "You idiot! That's us!"

  "But you said-"

  "Never mind," Cheeta said, rushing to meet the pilot, who was braving the prop wash to come in her direction. He actually saluted before speaking.

  "Miss Ching. The station just received a call from Randal Rumpp. He's offering you an exclusive if you'll meet with him."

  "But we can't get in!" Cheeta fumed. "We tried."

  "The news director said to do whatever you had to.

  Cheeta looked at the pilot, at the helicopter, and back at the streaked-by-sunset Rumpp Tower.

  She wrapped her bloodred fingernails about the pilot's tie. "How do you feel about flying into Randal Rumpp's office?" "Miss Ching?" Cheeta grinned like a happy moray eel. "I promise you the ride of your life," she said.

  Chapter 12

  Randal Rumpp was explaining to the mayor of New York City the facts of life.

  "Look, you can't collect property taxes on it, you can't move it, you can't sell it, and let's face it, Mr. Mayor, you run the greatest city on the face of the earth. Do you want an embarrassment like a sixty-eight-story skyscraper that no one can enter on your hands?"

  The mayor's voice was suspicious and taken aback at the same time. A unique combination.

  "What do you . . . propose?" the mayor asked.

  "You waive all property taxes for the next hundred years, provide the manpower and the material, and I'll build a new, bigger, and brassier Rumpp Tower on this exact spot," Randal Rumpp said quickly.

  "Can you . . . do that?"

  "Why not? You can't touch, taste, or feel the current one. It's as useless as tits on an avocado. So we build up from the current foundation, and through it. Make it taller. Of course, I'll need a piece of all frontages."

  "Why?"

  "We gotta bury the old facade, don't we? You don't want it to show through. It'll ruin the effect. I think the new one should be green. Like glass money."

  While the mayor was digesting all this, Randal Rumpp took a sip of Marquis Louis Roederer Cristal champagne from a Baccarat crystal goblet with the name "Rumpp" carved into the base. It was the only one of its kind. Rumpp had had two made, but upon delivery smashed one, in order to make the survivor more valuable. In another year, Randal Rumpp figured, it would be a collector's item and he had plans to move it through Sotheby's.

  The mayor's voice came again.

  "What about the people trapped inside? What about you?"

  "I'm working on that, Mr. Mayor. It took a lot to pull this off. It's going to take a lot to undo it."

  "This is insane, Rumpp. You can't get away with something this big."

  "Everything I ever got away with in my life was big," said Randal Rumpp coolly, draining the goblet. "Get back to me when you have something I can work with."

  He hit the OFF button on the cellular, then bounced out of his seat, humming.

  "It's working!" he chortled. "It's really, truly working! I'm going to get a higher tower, and I won't even have to pay for it. This will be the deal of the century!"

  In the outer reception room, a phone rang. Rumpp marched in and confronted his executive assistant.

  "I thought I told you to leave every phone off the hook!" he snapped.

  The woman was shaking. "I couldn't help it. I wanted to see if it worked."

  "Try it."

  She picked up her receiver and said, "Hello?" A notch appeared between her brows. After listening a moment, she handed the receiver to Randal Rumpp, saying, "I . . . think it's for you."

  "Who is this?" Rumpp demanded.

  "I am Grandfather Frost," said a strange voice.

  "Never heard of you." "I am like your Santa Claus. I bring presents to those who are good."

  "Yeah? How come I never heard of you?"

  "I am secret. You understand?"

  "No."

  "Let me out and you will understand."

  "Are you that crazy guy?"

  "No, I am not crazy," the voice insisted. "I am Grandfather Frost. I am able to do amazing things. Remarkable things. Set me free, and you will see with your own eyes."

  There was something about the voice-Randal Rumpp realized it was the same voice as before-that intrigued him.

  "Amazing things, huh?"

  "Yes," said the confident voice. Randal Rumpp was beginning to like this voice. Its smooth tone reminded him of his own.

  "Listen, do you know who you are talking to?" he asked.

  "No."

  "I am Randal Tiberius Rumpp."

  "I have heard of you," the voice said instantly. "You are very famous and very, very rich."

  Rumpp smiled. "That's me. Impressed?"

  "Very. You are exactly the man I have been seeking. You are powerful."

  "Right. Good," said Randal Rumpp, growing bored with the conversation. He had the attention span of a flea. And suddenly, he got the idea that the weird voice was about to put the arm on him.

  "Listen, pal," he said, his tone becoming brittle, "I have my own problems."

  "Which I alone can solve."

  "Is that so? Well, right now I'm in my office in the Rumpp Tower and the whole place has gone crazy. The people inside can't get out without falling into the ground. And nobody can touch this place. It's like Spook Central here. I'm inhabiting a haunted skyscraper. How are you going to help me with that?"

  "It is not I who can solve your problem," the voice said.

  "I thought so."

  "You can solve your own problem."

  "Yeah? How?"

  "Set me free."

  "How will that help me?"

  "I am cause of problem," the voice said. "I am making your Tower like ghost. Yo
u set me free, and your building will return to normal once more."

  "Why should I believe you?" asked Randal Rumpp.

  "What have you to lose?"

  "Okay, I'll bite. How do I set you free?"

  "I do not know. I am trapped in telephone. Usually, I come out without any trouble. I think maybe you must pick up correct telephone receiver to release me."

  "Do you have any idea how many individual phones there are in the Rumpp Tower, on this floor alone?" Rumpp said hotly.

  "I do not care. One of them will release me. You must try, if you desire normalcy again."

  Randal Rumpp slapped his hand over the receiver and muttered to his assistant, "This guy doesn't know what he's asking. Wants me to answer every phone in the building."

  The secretary simply looked blank. The side of the conversation she was privy to wasn't exactly balanced. And Randal Rumpp was standing there in his monogrammed argyle socks and boxer shorts.

  Rumpp pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "Okay. Tell you what. I'll give it a shot, see how far we can take it. No promises."

  "Thank you."

  "There's one other thing."

  "Anything."

  "A while ago, you said something about three billion."

  "I did."

  "I still want it."

  "It is yours."

  And the weird voice was so smooth and confident that Randal Rumpp, for a wild moment, actually believed it to be sincere.

  "I'll be in touch," he said breezily.

  "I will be here. In telephone."

  Randal Rumpp hung up, and told his secretary, "Hold all my calls. Especially if that loser calls back."

  "But . . . what about the promise you made to that man?"

  "In my own sweet time. If that chump can un-jinx the Rumpp Tower, I don't want it to happen until after I close my deal with the mayor."

  Randal Rumpp closed the door to his office.

  His executive assistant stared at the oaken panel for several long moments. Her oval face was stone. Then, without a word, she moved out into the corridor. She began going from office to office, lifting every receiver and whispering "Hello?" into each one.

  Chapter 13

  Delpha Rohmer was saying, "Shaving your armpit was the absolutely worst thing you could do."

  "Really?" shouted Cheeta Ching over the rotor churn. The BCN news helicopter was rising into the Halloween sky. It was very dark now. The hunter's moon hung in the black sky like a sphere of shaven ice.

  "Without doubt," said Delpha, arranging her gown. "This hair is called shade. In the old days, those who persecuted my Craft depowered witches simply by shaving their armpits."

  "No!"

  Delpha nodded. "Yes, Shade has many uses. Tied in a silken bag, it makes an infallible love potion. Thus, if you wish to succeed in love and in life you must let your natural hair grow."

  Cheeta Ching was looking at Remo when she asked, "Would that explain why certain people don't succumb to my obvious charms?"

  Remo avoided Cheeta's pointed glance. He watched the darkened Rumpp Tower floors drop away, frowning.

  "Yes," returned Delpha. "In ancient days females went bare-breasted. It wasn't until men made them cover their natural breasts that the breast became an erotic icon. However, underarm hair has always been one of the most erotic sights a man can see. And one of the most intimidating."

  "Is that why they made us shave them?" Cheeta asked.

  "Yes. "

  "The beasts!" Cheeta huffed.

  Seated in the rear, Remo turned to the Master of Sinanju. "Is it just me, or are those two making even less sense than usual?"

  "It is you," Chiun sniffed, arranging his kimono skirts absently.

  "Did I ask you how the current contract negotiations are going?" Remo asked the Master of Sinanju, knowing the rotor noise would prevent their conversation from being overheard. Even by the cameraman seated beside them.

  "You have not."

  "So, how are they going?"

  "Slowly. Smith is holding my most recent bargaining ploy against me."

  "You mean the time when you were going to quit to become Lord Treasurer of California, but your candidate turned out to be a Central American dictator in disguise?"

  Chiun made a face. "You are just like Smith. Distorting the truth to further your own designs."

  "How else do you explain what happened?"

  "I was duped. I would never have allied myself with that villain's court had not Smith exiled us to California in the first place."

  "We were not exiled," Remo pointed out. "We were on an assignment. How was Smith to know that the guy we were supposed to protect turned out to be a potential hit?"

  "He is emperor," Chiun squeaked. "He is supposed to know these things. And none of this would have happened except for your own negligence."

  "Old news," Remo said, changing the subject fast. "When you go round again, put in my request for a new permanent residence. I'm tired of living out a suitcase."

  "Do not worry, Remo," Chiun said frostily. "I intend to hold the loss of our precious home against Smith during the final discussions."

  Remo folded his bare arms. "Good. I want to settle down again,"

  "Too late," Cheeta called back. "I'm already married. And pregnant."

  "My hopes are dashed forever," Remo said sourly. "Guess I'll junk my hope chest."

  The helicopter reached the serrated roof of the Rumpp Tower. Here, the top-floor apartments had unique, two-sided views of the city. Randal Rumpp had sacrificed floor space for the dual windows. It was considered a bad move, but Rumpp had the last laugh. He simply hyped the view and charged triple rent. Tenants gladly paid extra for an improved view, even with their square footage reduced. Once again, the fantasy had sold.

  The lights were out all over the Tower. Still, in the dying light of the sun, they could see people in their apartments, some apparently oblivious to their situation as cosmic prisoners.

  "Rumpp's office is on the twenty-fourth floor," Cheeta was telling the pilot.

  "So?"

  "Take us to that floor."

  They began counting down from sixty-eight. When they reached twenty-four Cheeta said, "Go to the south side."

  The pilot sent the chopper canting around. It twirled like a yo-yo in expert hands, then hovered in place. He said, "I don't see him."

  "Who cares? Just fly in."

  "Miss Ching?"

  "Did you leave your balls at home? I said, 'Fly in'!"

  "But we'll crash!"

  "Like hell, we will," Cheeta said, grabbing the joystick. She sent the helicopter diving into the side of the Rumpp Tower like a flying buzzsaw.

  The pilot's scream was no louder than the rotor noise. It just sounded that way.

  Randal Rumpp was sitting with his back to the south facade, trying to put his pants on both legs at a time. Too many people had taken to saying that Randal Rumpp put his trousers on one leg at a time, like everybody else. Rumpp couldn't stand being compared to what he called "the chump in the street." As soon as he had mastered the trick, he would call in a news crew to film the myth-making technique.

  Then it happened.

  There was no sound. No warning. No nothing.

  His first impression was of being swallowed by a monster bird with furiously whirling wings.

  One second he was sitting at his desk, trying to draw his five-hundred-dollar button-fly pants over his monogrammed socks, the next he was enveloped in a fast-moving cocoon filled with people.

  It happened in an instant. Enough time for him to dive to the floor. He rolled and rolled, wreaking minor havoc on his high-maintenance haircut. Only when he had gotten disentangled from his pants did he get a glimpse of something that made sense. Or almost made sense.

  The sight of a helicopter's tail rotors, slipping into the wall separating his office from his assistant's, caused Randal Rumpp's eyes to go very round.

  "Are they crazy?" he shouted. "I could have had a heart attack!"

&nbs
p; He picked himself up off the floor, calling, "Dorma! Did you get the number of that chopper? I want to sue those jerks!"

  There was no answer from the adjoining room. When he went to look, Randal Rumpp found the room deserted.

  "I think that was him!" Cheeta was shouting.

  "The guy we ran through?" the wide-eyed pilot demanded.

  "Yes. Turn around. And turn on your lights."

  The pilot obliged. Chin-mounted floodlamps kicked in, painting the corridors and rooms of the Rumpp Tower in blazing light as they passed through them.

  "I don't understand this," the pilot was saying, in a voice that could have been coming through a tea strainer.

  "Don't try," Cheeta said. "Just go with the flow."

  "I gotta get my bearings."

  "Get them fast."

  The pilot brought the chopper to a hovering point, half in and half out of the main corridors. He was having trouble dealing with the situation, inasmuch as he couldn't see his own tail rotor and there was a potted rubber plant growing out of his crotch.

  He sent the chopper spinning in place, until the nose was pointed back in the direction of Randal Rumpp's office. Cheeta Ching's screechy voice was in his ear again.

  "Now, go slowly! I'll tell you when to stop!"

  The pilot pushed the cyclic ahead. The wall came toward them, and every sense screamed danger. He forced his eyes to stay open as the wall pushed up against his pupils and he entered the wall.

  There was a short interval of subatomic darkness, and they were in an anteroom.

  "There he is!" Cheeta howled.

  Randal Rumpp did not hear the helicopter approach. So when it emerged from the wall like a red-and-cream soap bubble, it took him by surprise.

  "I'll sue!" he shouted, shaking his fists at the people in the bubble.

  Then he recognized Cheeta Ching, superanchorwoman. The hottest media celebrity of the month, by virtue of the fact that a lucky sperm had penetrated last month's egg.

  Rumpp forced his prim lips into a broad grin. He opened his fist and waved, in as friendly a manner as his ragged nerves would allow.

  "Hi!" he said gamely.

  Cheeta was waving back, all thirty-two teeth seemingly bared.

  Randal Rumpp made an all-encompassing gesture with spread arms. "Ask me how I did it!" he shouted.

  Cheeta's mouth made a What? shape.

  "I said, ask me how I pulled off the greatest magic act since David Copperfield!"