A dull boom came across the miles of wire. Smith heard a faint jangle of glass.
"What was that?" he demanded.
"Dunno. Let me check."
Remo's voice came back on a moment later. "Hey! Future Realm just blew up! It's on fire!"
"My park!" Smith could hear Chiun wail in the background.
"Relax. You were going to tear it down anyway, right?" Remo reminded.
"But it is burning!" Chiun cried.
Remo's voice came back on. "Smitty, I think someone's hit the destruct button. What do we do?"
Another boom came. This time louder. The crash of glass was a short symphony, ending in a tinkling timpany.
"Remo! Take the tape and get out of there as fast as you can! Report from a secure location."
"Gotcha," said Remo. "We'll-"
The line went dead, and Harold W. Smith went white as a sheet.
He composed himself and reached for the red phone. The President of the United States should have risen by now. This was going to be impossible to explain ....
Remo dropped the dead phone and turned to the Master of Sinanju.
"Smith says we're outta here. Now!"
"But my beautiful kingdom! It is under attack!"
"No help for it. Maybe Smith'll give you Beasleyland as a consolation prize."
"It is inferior," Chiun said distastefully.
"Tough," said Remo, snatching up the dictaphone. "Let's go!"
"Look! Remo, the villains are escaping!"
Remo returned to the window, now a jagged frame of glass.
At the back end of the park, trucks and cars were rumbling away. They were, he knew, escaping by means of the secret entrance through which they had penetrated the underground complex.
"We can't stop them by complaining about it," Remo said quickly. "Come on."
As they floated down the winding steps, the ground shook. A stone fell out of the wall, and mortar cracked everywhere. On the lower floors, the suits of armor were tumbling into inert piles of helmets and leggings and gauntlets.
They flashed across the drawbridge, above the panicky splashing of the gators. The ground under their feet felt strange.
Chiun looked around, his face dark with horror. "What is happening?" he squeaked.
"Feels like an earthquake," Remo said.
Then, in the exact center of the park, the ground cracked and began to settle.
"My park!" Chiun moaned. "The earth is swallowing my park!"
"It's a sinkhole! Let's get out of here!"
They ran for the entrance gate, as pavilions burst into flame or simply erupted skyward all about them. They dodged flying glass, uprooted trees, and once a sleek monorail car that rolled off its track and burst open like a loaf of bread.
As they ran, the spreading sinkhole edge followed them hungrily.
The entrance gates were already collapsing by the time they reached them, and they were forced to work around those.
The parking lots-there were acres of them-contained a few cars. Remo picked one whose color he liked and popped the ignition in jig time.
They roared out of the lot as the asphalt began to separate and sink, the victim of what the next day's Furioso Guardian would call "the largest sinkhole in Florida history."
"Anybody left in that underground complex is pressed ham by now," Remo said in a small voice.
Chapter 21
By the time they'd gotten clear of the spreading sinkhole, it was too late to do anything about the escaping convoy of trucks.
"But they are responsible for this travesty!" Chiun raged, shaking a tiny fist in the air.
"Can't be helped. Smith says he needs this tape."
"And my magnificent kingdom is burning even as we speak!"
"It's insured," Remo said. "Count on it."
"So?"
"For millions of dollars," Remo added.
They were driving toward the outskirts of Furioso. The roar of sirens filled the air. Fire trucks and ambulances roared past them, filling the air with an ungodly cacophony. There were even some crash vehicles from nearby Furioso Airport racing back toward the park. Beasley World was the heart of Furioso's economy.
The stricken look faded from the Master of Sinanju's wrinkled countenance. "It is better to build these things from scratch," he sniffed, seemingly mollified.
"We gotta find a hotel to park for a while," Remo said. "That is a good one," Chiun said, pointing east.
Remo looked east. He saw a tall white hotel. "What makes you say that?" he asked.
"It has a duck on its side. It is a good augury."
"Haven't we had enough of those? Ducks, I mean."
"One can never have enough duck. And I am in the mood for well-prepared duckling."
"Suit yourself," said Remo, taking the next exit.
The Podbury Hotel not only had a duck on its tower but a lobby filled with mallards, waddling about in an artificial pool. They shook water droplets off their down in the direction of a curious Master of Sinanju as Remo checked them in.
"Do not splash me," Chiun warned, stepping away from a spattering of water. "For I am in a foul mood. And hungry."
The mallards again shook their down in response, showering the Master of Sinanju's kimono.
Chiun quacked back at them, to no avail. He sounded like Dingbat Duck on an off day.
On the elevator ride to their room, Remo broke the bad news.
"No duckling on the menu."
"How can this be?"
"The desk clerk says that it would offend the guests who come to feed the lobby ducks."
"This is wrong," Chiun said huffily.
"Take it up with management. I gotta get this tape to Smith."
Abruptly, Chiun stabbed the sixth-floor button. The elevator instantly lurched to a stop and the doors slid apart.
"This isn't our floor," Remo pointed out.
"I must arrange for my trunks to be shipped from our last hotel to this one," Chiun said, stepping off the elevator. He turned and grazed the down button.
"What makes you think we're going to be here that long?" Remo asked, holding the door open with one hand.
"Why, I must supervise repairs to my Enchanted Village, soon to be renowned as Assassin's World."
"Give it up, Little Father. It's a crater now."
"Never," said the Master of Sinanju firmly.
"Suit yourself," said Remo, releasing the door. It closed, and the lift resumed its upward climb.
Remo entered his suite to find the phone ringing.
"Don't tell me Chiun maimed another member of the Hotel Workers Local," he grumbled as he reached for the receiver.
Before he could say hello, Harold Smith's lemony voice was saying, "Remo. Stay put. I am on my way."
"How'd you know we were here?" Remo blurted out.
"The hotel computer told my computer," said Smith, hanging up.
Harold W. Smith arrived at eleven-thirty sharp. He came into the suite carrying his ever-present well-worn briefcase. Not seeing the Master of Sinanju, he asked, "Where is Chiun?"
"Said something about going out for a bite to eat," said Remo. "The tape's over there," he added, indicating a coffee table.
Smith picked up the dictaphone and let it run.
The voice of Eider Drake came, dull with shock.
"This is the full confession of Eider Drake, Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of the Sam Beasley Corporation. It all began with our third quarter of fiscal 1991, when we realized that declining revenues, spiraling taxes, and unforeseen start-up costs for EuroBeasley threatened the foundation of the company. I knew something would have to be done. My thoughts went to Cuba. There, I knew, was the perfect location for a new Beasley theme park, if only the current unpopular government could be toppled. I established contacts in the Cuban exile community toward this end. I realize now that I overreached my corporate authority, brought ruin down upon the company, and harmed the great memory of Sam Beasley. This, most of all, pains me. I am sorry. The idea was mine. The responsibility was mine. And I must pay the price. Everyone else was just following orders. Good-bye."