"Any empty seats back in coach?"
"Yes. Is something wrong, sir?"
"I have this urge to sit with people who come from the same planet as me," Remo explained, without a hint of humor.
The stewardess looked momentarily blank. Remo jerked a surreptitious thumb in the direction of his spidery seatmate. The stewardess nodded. "I'm sure I can fix you up, sir."
"It's been ooky," Remo told Delpha, as he vacated his seat.
"We are destined to meet again," said Delpha Rohmer in a sepulchral voice.
"Not if I see you first."
"You cannot escape your destiny, mortal man."
"Maybe not. But I can hightail it back into coach. Regards to Margaret Hamilton."
"A pox on you."
Remo settled into a seat over the wing. After the luxury of First Class, it felt like a baby's high chair. But at least the woman seated next to him wasn't wearing cobra-green eyeshadow.
The descent of the 727-it was one of the former Rumpp Shuttle fleet, now taken over by another carrier-brought it over Manhattan.
Curious, Remo tried to see past his seatmate, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Rumpp Tower-and maybe a hint of what all the trouble was about.
The pilot's voice came over the ceiling speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the saw-toothed skyscraper over to our right is the fantastic architectural triumph known as the Rumpp Tower. Most of you have heard the reports of what's going on down there. And if any of you understand it, let us know," he added with a dry chuckle.
A hush fell over the aisle. Then the buzz of conversation rose anew, more animated than before.
Remo attuned his hearing and began separating out snatches that interested him.
"There it is!"
"They say over six hundred people are trapped inside."
"Do you think they'll condemn it?"
"How? They can't even touch it!"
The 727 banked, and the tower suddenly appeared framed in Remo's window. Under the rays of the setting sun, it was a thing of golden panels and monumental ego. Remo thought it resembled a set of high-tech disposable razor heads welded together. It was smaller than he had expected.
"Incredible," the woman seated next to him murmured.
"Excuse me," Remo said politely. "I've been out of touch. What happened to the tower?"
The woman turned, blinked, and said, "Why, it's disappeared."
It was Remo's turn to blink. He pointed out the window at the unmistakable shape of the Rumpp Tower.
"But it's right there. In plain sight."
"Yes," the woman said dreamily. "Incredible, isn't it?"
"Excuse me," Remo said, slipping from his seat. He found another vacancy, thinking that all the loons come out on Halloween night.
There was a serious-faced businessman in the seat next to Remo. He looked normal, so Remo asked, "Hear what happened to the Rumpp Tower?"
"Of course. Chilling."
"Then clue me in. All I hear is rumors."
"It's not there anymore."
Remo's returned "Thanks" was very small. Okay, he told himself, everybody's a joker tonight. Must be a new thing. Halloween Fools.
The seatbelt light came on and Remo buckled up, figuring he'd just keep his mouth shut and tough out the last few minutes until touchdown.
At La Guardia, Remo caught a cab.
"Rumpp Tower," he told the driver. "And step on it.
"Where you been? Nobody can go to the Rumpp Tower."
"Why not?"
"They got it cordoned off."
"I'll settle for the cordon."
The cabby shrugged. "It's your twenty, pal."
On the way into the city, Remo decided to take another stab at the riddle.
"So what happened to the Rumpp Tower? Exactly."
The cabby looked into his rearview mirror in surprise. "You don't know?"
"No."
"Then why're you so hot to check it out?" "Just answer the question."
"The tower ain't there anymore."
"Pull over," Remo said suddenly.
"Huh?"
"I said, 'Pull over.' "
"Suit yourself."
The cabby pulled over, and Remo reached forward for the safety shield that separated the driver's seat from the passenger. He grabbed it by the money slot.
The stuff was Plexiglas. Not brittle enough to shatter under an ordinary blow.
"If this is a heist, you're wasting your time," the cabby warned.
Remo used both hands to rub circles in the glass. His right hand rubbed clockwise, and the left counterclockwise.
The Plexiglas soon began to warp and actually run, like melting wax. It became very warm in the taxi.
The driver, seeing the impossible thing that was happening to his safety shield, tried to get out from behind the wheel.
He was too late. Remo put one hand through the widening hole and got him by the back of his neck. With the other hand, he swatted the Plexiglas away.
It fell into the front passenger seat like a tangle of lucite taffy.
"How'd you do that?" the cabby croaked.
"Tell me what really happened to the Rumpp Tower, and I'll be happy to oblige," Remo said in a reasonable tone.
"It's not there anymore," the cabby repeated.
Remo squeezed. The cab driver's red face turned purple.
"It's the truth!" the driver yelped. "You can see it, but you can't touch it. It's like-what do call it?'intangible.' "
"Intangible?"
"Yeah. It's there, but then again it's not. You can see it clear as day, but you can't touch it. People who go in, fall right smack through the floor. People coming out fall through the sidewalk. It's spooky."
"Anybody know what caused it?"
"If they do, they ain't sayin'. The betting is Randal Rumpp did it, on account the banks are about to foreclose."
"I don't think he's that smart."
"How 'bout lettin' go now?" the cabby suggested.
Reluctantly, Remo released him.
"Still want to go to the Tower?"
"Yeah."
The cab returned to traffic. After the cabby had the sputum cleared out of his throat, he resumed speaking in his normal Brooklyn growl.
"You were going to tell me how you did that trick with the Plexiglas."
"Sinanju," Remo said flatly.
"What kind of an answer is that?"
"A truthful one."
The cabby, mindful of the steel-like hand that had realigned his upper vertebrae in a way his chiropractor would have envied, decided to accept the answer as definitive. He drove north along Fifth Avenue.
He got only as far as Fiftieth Street and Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Traffic was backed up. The howl of sirens seemed to chase one another through the growing dusk. National Guard trucks were cutting back and forth along the cross streets, trying to find their way to the cordon.
Blocks ahead, the Rumpp Tower gleamed like a monument to the mirrored sunglass industry.
"Blocked," said the cabby. "I gotta let you out here. Sorry."
"It'll do," said Remo, throwing a twenty into the front seat and stepping out.
This stretch of Fifth Avenue was pure gridlock. Not only was the avenue locked up tight, but the sidewalks too. Cars, mostly cabs, had attempted to work around the stalled traffic and ended up on the wide sidewalks. The few open spaces were packed with people pushing forward against others.
Seeing the hopelessness of getting through the crowd, Remo simply climbed up onto the cab and began jumping from roof to roof. He willed his body mass to the approximate weight of a pillow, so that when he alighted on each roof the drivers remained unaware, and he left no telltale dents.
To the few bystanders who bothered to pay any attention, it looked like Remo was trampolining from roof to roof. It should have been impossible, but it wasn't. Correct breathing was the key. Remo had been taught to breathe with his entire body, turning every cell into a miniature, super-efficient furnace.
Control over breathing was the essence of the art of Sinanju. Once that had been mastered, the body would respond to any achievable demand required of it. Great strength. Uncanny stealth. Inhuman speed.