"Calhoun isn't dead, just stunned."
"Screw Calhoun! I want that slacker turned into shoes! I fed him a pitbull a day to develop his appetite, and he couldn't eat one bite-sized Chinaman when I needed it!"
"His nationality hasn't been definitely established, Director."
"I don't care if he's a pygmy. I want him dead. And the other one too!"
"The Bear is about to take him down, Director. You might want to watch."
"Now you're talking, Maus!" The fist came down again, cracking the console top.
"It's a short, short life, don't you know?"
"It's a short, short life, don't you know?"
Remo ducked under a buzzing biplane no bigger than a robin. It was wire-guided. When it struck a light fixture, it chewed it to pieces and bored on into the wallboard like an angry mole.
Another came, and Remo was ready for it.
He grabbed the wire, snapped it free, and began spinning the biplane around his head in snarling circles.
"It's a short, short life, don't you know?"
"It's a short, short life, don't you know?"
"Shut up," Remo said, sending the biplane in the direction of the incessant singing. It chewed into the speaker.
And to his surprise, the music stopped.
And another biplane dive-bombed him.
Remo snared it, and using the force of its flight, let it spin him around.
On the spin, he saw the hulking form of Mucky Moose step out from behind a replica of Big Ben and aim a pumpaction shotgun in his direction.
Both barrels blew at once. They destroyed the ceiling, bringing cascades of plaster and lath down on his antlered head.
But Mucky Moose no longer cared.
He was already on his back, the biplane's stainlesssteel propellor pureeing his heart muscle in the miocardial sac.
"Scratch one Moose," Remo said, pushing on the exit door bar.
When the water level had brought his bald yellow head to the ceiling trap, the Master of Sinanju, balanced atop two dead alligators, reached for the exposed hinge pins.
He used his right index fingernail to shear one and then the other clean off. They dropped into the water. The trap yawned, to hang down from its splintery lock. Slowly, like a rotting tooth, the weight began to tear the lock housing loose.
The Master of Sinanju couldn't wait. He took hold of the trap and whisked it into the brownish water.
Hands unseen in his sleeves again, he waited for the water to come level with the floor, then stepped off his saurian raft.
Each wall framed a door. He chose one, and passed through it.
The next room canted at a thirty-degree angle, and the one beyond also at a thirty-degree angle but on an opposite pitch.
There were no separating walls. The Master of Sinanju saw before him a long succession of twisted and canted rooms, like some drunken tunnel. Some boasted furniture on the ceiling and light fixtures bolted to the floor.
At the far end, he spied a familiar round-eared shape. It waved at him, then beckoned with a whitegloved finger.
"At last," murmured Chiun, starting along this grotesque path.
The walls were decorated with ornate mirrors, he saw.
Eyes alert, Chiun watched these as he walked at a thirty-degree-cant through the first room. He knew that mirrors sometimes concealed spying eyes-or foes poised to strike.
In the first room his sharp eyes detected the reflection of a green ghost, dressed in chains and rags, following him.
He whirled, prepared to strike.
There was no green ghost. Yet the mirror had shown one clearly.
He continued. And again, the green ghost appeared in the mirror.
Again, he whirled. And again there was no ghost.
Frowning, the Master of Sinanju went to the mirror. His reflection appeared undistorted. And behind him was a ghost.
The Master of Sinanju broke the mirror with a tiny fist, and when he resumed his progress he was not molested.
Passing into the next room he found himself walking at the opposite cant, but he shifted his inner balance as easily as a fly walking on a sheer surface. A mirror to his left showed clearly that a giant scarlet spider was stalking him. Yet the opposite mirror reflected a yellowish mummy, dragging his dusty wrappings.
This was an impossibility, he knew. He was being stalked either by a spider or a mummy. Not both. The mirrors each reflected one apparition, not two.
He stopped. The apparitions stopped. He continued. They followed. When the Master of Sinanju leaped into the next room and stood poised to defend himself, he saw that the room was empty of any shapes, of this world or others.
"What sorcery is this?" he muttered darkly.
Thereafter, as he passed through the crazy procession of rooms, he simply ignored the obviously bewitched mirrors and his progress was undisturbed.
In a room larger than the others, he encountered the mouse.
Chiun lifted his voice.
"Mongo! Hail, entertainer of children. I bring you greetings from the House of Sinanju."
Mongo spoke not a word. Laying a quieting finger to his licorice lips, he beckoned the Master of Sinanju to follow. Then he opened a secret panel in a wall.
"The Mouse has succeeded in drawing him into the Slab Room, Director."
The Director looked away from the screen, which framed Mucky Moose's quivering, defeated bulk.
"When he steps in, drop the ceiling on his head."
"The Mouse, too?"
"Mongo Mouse is immortal. He will never die."
"Yes, Director."
The Master of Sinanju stepped into the chamber and smelled death. It hung in the close air. It was in the walls, which appeared ordinary. The floors felt like stone under his sandaled feet.
And when the Master of Sinanju looked up, he saw that the ceiling too was stone, pitted and discolored where scouring hadn't managed to remove all traces of blood.
"You have lured me to this bitter place for a reason, Mouse," he accused.
The black-and-white figure of Mongo Mouse grinned starchily, and wriggled playful white-gloved fingers.
"Why do you not speak?" Chiun demanded.
The Mouse moved his head from side to side happily. But the Master of Sinanju could smell the sweat he exuded.
Then, the ceiling began to grind downward.
And the mouse spoke.
"No, No, Uncle Sam! I'm your biggest fan!"
"You are not Monongahela Mouse," Chiun said suspiciously, hearing the unfamiliar voice.
"Damn straight, I'm not," said the Mouse, removing his head and throwing it at him. Chiun caught it easily, his eyes stricken with momentary surprise.
From an unseen loudspeaker an angry voice demanded, "Mongo, put your head back on. You are out of character."
In an ugly voice the mouse called back, "The ceiling is coming down, Captain. I'll be crushed!"
"Then die like Mongo would die. With his wooden shoes on."
"Screw you!" said the mouse with a human head, pounding on the walls like a trapped rat.
In its inexorable descent, the rumbling ceiling scraped wallpaper from the walls and knocked portraits off their nails.
The Master of Sinanju turned and attacked the only visible door. Thick and built of heavy panels, it was now fixed and immovable. Stripping the hinges did no good.
Chiun selected one panel and, using a fingernail that had been hardened by diet and exercise, outlined it swiftly. The wood screeched in protest. He repeated the action. Long shavings curled and fell to the floor. On the fourth circuit the panel fell out, leaving an aperture large enough for a child to use.
Tucking the prized mouse head under one arm, the Master of Sinanju passed through it easily. On the other side, he called to the frightened mouse impersonator. "Reveal to me the name of your master, and I will allow you to escape this way."
The mouse turned, said "Huh?" and clopped toward the hole.
The ceiling had swallowed half the cubic area of the room by this time, forcing the mouse to stoop, then crawl.