Ghost in the Machine, page 11
The pilot’s eyes flew open. He pulled back on the collective. Just in time. The helicopter swooped up and over the Rumpp Tower, a fly’s-eye panorama of repeated helicopter reflections chasing it along every mirrored surface.
When the chopper had flattened out into a lazy circle and everyone’s stomach had climbed down out of their throat, Remo asked the Master of Sinanju a question.
“What is it, Little Father? What did you see?”
“The building has found its proper vibration.”
“Huh?”
“He means it’s solid again,” Cheeta offered. “Right, Grandfather?”
Chiun nodded somberly. “I do.”
Everyone looked. The Rumpp Tower looked no different. The last hot, purplish-orange rays of the sun were streaking its sawtooth top, but otherwise it had become a kind of stalagmite of obsidian, with a subtle bronze underhue.
“Looks the same to me,” Remo muttered.
“Now look with your eyes,” spat Chiun, pointing down with one spindly finger.
Everyone looked downward.
Several floors up from the RUMPP TOWER sign over the Fifth Avenue entrance, a balloon was swirling in the eddies and currents surrounding the Tower. It was Halloween-orange and had a pumpkin face. Evidently, someone from the crowd behind the distant barbed wire had released it.
As they watched, a gust of wind swept it up. It skidded close to the Tower facade and, as it rose, bounced off.
“It bounced!” Cheeta breathed.
“I saw this happen before,” Chiun offered.
“Praise Diana, Goddess of the Moon!” Delpha cried, closing her eyes and lifting empty palms to the moon. “My womanly magic proved true.”
“My ass,” said Remo, quickly pinching his nose shut.
“You did this?” Cheeta asked, dumbfounded.
“Indeed,” said Delpha calmly. “You may interview me now. I suggest a two-shot.”
“And I suggest we land before I throw up,” Remo said.
Cheeta said, “Later. I want to see what’s going on in the Tower. You! Cameraman! Let’s get some footage.”
The cameraman got his video up and running.
“Make a circle of the building,” Cheeta told the pilot.
Delpha chimed in. “Good. Circles are good. They represent femaleness. If we create enough of them, they will dispel the Horned One forever.”
“Shouldn’t we be landing, to let the people know it’s okay to come out now?” Remo suggested.
“No,” Cheeta said sharply. “Later. If we set them free now, we can’t interview them.”
“Since when does a story come before people?”
“Since before Edward R. Murrow,” said Cheeta solemnly.
“Can I quote you on that?” Remo asked.
Before Cheeta could answer, Delpha cried, “Look, I see an otherworldly apparition!”
Cheeta’s glossy head snapped about, like that of a confused Mako shark. “Where? Where?”
Delpha pointed. “There! In that corner office.”
The cameraman was trying to position his lens, saying, “Where? Which corner? I don’t see anything.”
Delpha reached back and yanked the camcorder lens toward the southwestern corner of the building and held it.
“Do you see it now?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” the cameraman said. “I think you bruised my eye.”
“Just keep taping,” Cheeta said. “The network will gladly buy you a glass eye.”
They swept past the corner and around to the other side, where the Spiffany Building, as solid as the granite it was built of, lay bathed in cold moonlight.
Cheeta asked, “What did you see?”
“It looked like an evil spirit,” Delpha said, more pale-faced than usual. “I think it was a night-gaunt.”
“What’s a ‘night-gaunt’?” Remo asked.
“It is a creature normally seen only in dreams,” Delpha explained. “They have rubbery skin, long forked tails, and no face at all.”
“This thing you saw had no face?”
Delpha nodded. “No more than an egg does.”
“Sounds like a night-gaunt to me,” Remo said dryly.
“If night-gaunts are breaking into the waking world, I fear for humanity. None are female.”
Cheeta frowned. “God. What is this world coming to?”
“There is only one odd thing,” Delpha said slowly.
“What’s that?” asked Cheeta.
“Night-gaunts are usually black-skinned. This one was completely white. I will have to consult the Necronomicon about them.”
To Remo’s surprise, she pulled a dog-eared paperback book from under her skirt and consulted it.
“This is strange,” she said thoughtfully. “There’s no mention of white night-gaunts. Not even in the demonology concordance.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Cheeta put in. “We got it on tape, whatever it was.” She glared back at her wincing cameraman. “At least, we’d better have gotten it on tape.”
“But the Necronomicon should list it if it exists,” Delpha said worriedly.
“Maybe you got the abridged edition by mistake,” Remo suggested helpfully.
“Remo,” Chiun flared, “you are behaving like an idiot.”
“I’ve been dragged down by the company I’m forced to keep. Look, can we just land this thing?”
“An excellent idea,” Chiun said sternly. “We will land and rescue the persons formerly trapped within this glittering monstrosity, thus earning the eternal gratitude of this country and whoever may rule it.”
“Why would we do that?” Remo wanted to know.
“Contract negotiations,” Chiun whispered.
“Oh.”
This half-overheard conversation made Cheeta Ching think of something.
“You know, it’s quite a coincidence.”
Remo made his face blank. “What is?”
“Bumping into you two again like this. Clear across the country.”
Remo looked away. “It’s a free country. We travel a lot.”
“Whose campaign are you with this time?”
“Nobody’s. We’re in a new line of work,” Remo explained, blank-voiced. “We’re insurance adjusters. We’re out here because Randal Rumpp needed extra fire insurance.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
To which, Remo offered a business card that identified him as Remo Wausau, with Apolitical Life and Casualty.
“This is awfully unlikely,” Cheeta said.
“Tell her, Little Father.”
Chiun thinned papery lips. “It is as Remo says,” he said with obvious distaste. “We are adjusters of insurance. Temporarily.”
“Okay, I believe you,” Cheeta said, returning Remo’s card.
Remo blinked. He had to will his face still to keep it from dissolving into incredulous lines. The blunt-faced barracuda had bought his lame story on no more strength than Chiun’s word. What the hell? he thought. Anything to get us through the night.
Remo settled back as the helicopter pilot wrestled his craft into a soft landing on Fifth Avenue. Maybe when they got into the building, he and Chiun could figure out what was really going on, waste anyone who needed wasting, and split before Delpha decided to flash somebody into asphyxiation.
Remo didn’t think his sinuses could stand another high-speed scouring.
Chapter Sixteen
At first, Randal T. Rumpp thought his executive assistant had broken down. She was babbling again. Worse, she was raving.
“It–it’s a ghost! A real ghost!” Dorma Wormser cried.
“What’s a ghost?” Rumpp asked calmly. It was important to be calm when dealing with the unstable.
Dorma grabbed his arm. “The thing in the trophy room. Come see, come see. You’ll see. It’s real.”
Randal Rumpp looked out the window. The BCN helicopter was fluttering around aimlessly. He wasn’t finished being quoted yet, but the chopper didn’t seem interested in coming back for more pearls of Rumpp wisdom.
He let his executive secretary tug him to the trophy room, thinking this had better be worth his time.
Randal Rumpp saw right away that it wasn’t a ghost. Even though it was white and floated just under the ceiling like a ghost probably would float, it was no ghost.
It looked vaguely humanoid. There were two arms, two legs, a trunk, and a head. The head was not like a human head. It was too big, too smooth, too white, and too hairless, and where its face should have been there was a kind of puffy balloon.
In the dim light, the thing shone. Its edges were misty.
Dorma whispered, “See, Mr. Rumpp? A ghost.”
“It’s no ghost,” said Randal Rumpp, grabbing an original Frank Lloyd Wright chair. He lifted it up over his head and poked at the floating apparition with the chair’s hard legs.
The legs went right through the floating white being.
“See? It’s unreal,” Dorma said.
“It’s no ghost,” repeated Randal Rumpp sternly. “Get a grip on yourself.”
“How can it not be a ghost?”
“Because,” Randal Rumpp pointed out reasonably. “It’s got two cables sticking out of its shoulders. They look like coaxial cables. Coaxials mean electricity. Ghosts aren’t electric.”
“How...how do we know that?”
“Because we have a grip on ourselves,” said Randal Rumpp, moving around to get a better look at the floating thing.
The thing was emitting a kind of soft shine, like a low-energy light bulb. Through it, certain details could be made out. The pulsing golden veinwork. The fact that it wore boots and gloves, and there were straps that snugged at his shoulders.
Randal Rumpp was trying to see what the straps were holding on to when he noticed the thing’s belt. The buckle–it was round and white–suddenly blinked red. It was a very angry red color. It made Dorma shrink in fear. Then it turned white again. Then red. It was like something short-circuiting.
Randal Rumpp took this as further proof that the thing was electrical. Randal Rumpp feared nothing electrical. Not even the electrician’s union, which could make or break a construction project.
“What does the red light mean?” Dorma wondered from the safety of the open door. She looked ready to bolt.
“It means,” Randal Rumpp said, pointing to the Sears DieHard battery clearly strapped to the floating thing’s back, “that its power is running low.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That makes two of us. Where did it come from?”
“I think...I think it came from the telephone...”
Rumpp scowled. “Telephone?”
For the first time, Rumpp noticed the phone off its hook.
He turned to his cowering assistant. “I told you not to touch the phones!” he shouted.
Without warning, the glowing thing came to life. It grabbed at its belt buckle, then went dim and fell to the floor with a thud.
Dorma screamed and fled. Randal Rumpp knelt beside the thing. He reached out to touch it and, to his surprise, he got the slick, plasticky sensation of touching something like vinyl. His fingers recoiled. He hated vinyl. Especially vinyl siding. It offended his sensibilities. His first home had had vinyl siding. The day he’d traded up to his first condo, he’d had it torched so no one could throw it back in his face when he became famous.
The thing lay supine for only a minute. Then, with a sound like a respirator, the white bubble that was the thing’s face crinkled inward. It expanded. Contracted again, crinkling. The crinkling was something seen, but not heard.
“It’s still breathing,” Randal Rumpp muttered. “Whatever the heck it is.”
He tried to shake it.
“Hey, pal. Wake up. You’re on my time now.”
The thing struggled into an upright position. Its featureless face swiveled in his direction. Even though there were no eyes, Randal Rumpp had the distinct feeling he was being stared at. It gave him the creeps. Worse than cost overruns.
Then, even though the thing had no discernible mouth, it spoke.
It said, “Ho ho ho.”
“Hello. Do you speak English?”
“Da.”
Too bad, Rumpp thought. Maybe I can communicate with it some other way.
“Me Rumpp,” he said, pointing to his own chest. “Rumpp? Comprende?” He pointed to the thing’s chest. “You name?”
To his surprise, the thing stabbed its own chest with its thumb and said in perfectly understandable English, “I am Grandfather Frost. Ho ho ho.”
“You speak English?”
“Da.”
Scowling, Rumpp said, “Da isn’t English. It’s baby talk.”
“Da mean ‘yes.’ You understand ‘yes’?”
“Yeah. I’ve been hearing it all my life. Listen, where did you come from?”
“Telephone.”
“That so? How’d you get into the telephone in the first place?”
The creature struggled to its feet. It grabbed at its right shoulder, as if in pain. “It is long story,” it said, moving about the room and examining the objects kept on display tables and open shelves. “I am thinking we do not have time for long story now.”
“Yeah? Why not?”
“I must escape.”
“What about the three billion we were talking about?”
“Take a check?”
“You have one on you?”
“Nyet. I mean, ‘no.’”
Rumpp frowned. “Nyet. Where have I heard that word before?”
“I do not know, but I must be escaping now. Thank you for your time.”
Randal Rumpp grabbed the thing’s arm. Standing, the thing was shorter than he. And that was saying something, considering that its boot heels were as thick as a stack of waffles.
Randal Rumpp expected no fight. And he was right. The creature didn’t struggle at all.
But Randal Rumpp was suddenly on his back, trying to get the air the floor had knocked out of his lungs back where it belonged.
“Ghosts,” he gasped, “don’t use judo.”
Then the creature spoke another unfamiliar word. “Krahseevah,” it said. Its voice sounded very pleased.
Gasping, Rumpp got to his feet. The creature was examining a gold-filled Colibri cigarette lighter with the initials “RR” set in diamonds. Rumpp noticed it no longer shone. And its face, which was a bladder that kept expanding and contracting as if in rhythm with its measured breathing, crinkled audibly now.
Somehow, it was able to see through that featureless membrane.
While it was distracted, Rumpp leaped in front of the only exit.
“You go out over my dead body!” he warned.
“There is no need for dead bodies,” said the faceless thing, retreating to the telephone receiver. He dialed directory assistance and asked, “Give me number of Soviet Embassy, please.”
The operator’s response came loudly enough for Randal Rumpp to hear it clearly.
“I’m sorry. There is no listing for a Soviet Embassy in this city.”
“What! Then provide me number of Soviet Embassy in Washington.”
“What do you want with the Soviet Embassy?” Rumpp asked suspiciously.
“I must give them present,” the thing said flatly. “Grandfather Frost forgot them this year.”
“Christmas hasn’t happened yet. In fact, it’s only Halloween.”
The thing started. “Excuse, please. What month this?”
“October.”
“What year this?”
Before Randal Rumpp could answer the insane question, the operator was saying, “I’m sorry. There is no listing for a Soviet Embassy in Washington, D.C. Would you like me to try Washington state?”
“No Soviet Embassy? What happened to Soviet Union?”
“It dissolved,” Randal Rumpp said flatly, just to see what response he’d get.
A dramatic one, as it turned out.
The blank-faced white creature dropped the telephone and began to moan.
“Soviet Union dissolve in nuclear fire! What about Georgia?”
“It’s still down there between South Carolina and Alabama,” Randal Rumpp said.
“I am not meaning U.S. Georgia. I am meaning Georgia in Soviet Union.”
“Search me. I can’t keep track of what’s left of Russia.”
The thing’s bladder-like face regarded him. “It is gone completely?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Completely. And good riddance.”
“I am homeless expatriate,” it said, cabled shoulders falling. “Without family.”
“Look,” Rumpp said sharply, “we have some business to conduct here. Let’s leave sentiment out of it.”
“I am man without country, and you are without human feelings,” the thing blubbered. “After all I have done for you.”
“What have you done for me?”
“I have restored your building.”
It was Randal Rumpp’s turn to appear startled. “You have? Are you sure?”
“Am positive. If building were no more, I could not be standing on floor as I am now. Would fall through to death.”
“Why not?”
“I am vibrating normally. Therefore, floor is vibrating normally.”
Randal Rumpp raced to a window. He took up the Frank Lloyd Wright chair and started banging it against a big bronze solar panel, splintering the legs of the eighty-thousand-dollar original. But Rumpp didn’t care.
The glass cracked and shattered, and pieces fell out.
He stuck his head out and watched them fall.
The largest pieces shattered into a million golden shards when they hit the pavement below.
At that moment, the electricity returned.
“It’s true! It’s true!” Rumpp said distractedly. “Not now! I haven’t closed the megadeal of the century yet!”
He grabbed the slick creature and said, “Make it go back to the way it was.”
“I cannot.”
“Then tell me how it got that way in the first place.”
“I am not sure. Was sucked into telephone, but number I dial did not pick up. I think I was tricked by American agents. I have been trapped in telephone system since I do not know how long ago. I think I became trapped in your building, and somehow it became as I was. A ghost.”
