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the lock aperture. He twisted his finger left, then right. The lock went
click, and he flung the door open with a grand gesture.
"Thanks," said Remo.
He stepped into the cabin.
The captain and copilot were frozen in their seats. The captain had thrown the
control yoke all the way forward. Eyes welded shut, the copilot was making the
sign of the cross.
Through the windshield, Remo could see the mountains of northern Mexico coming
up to meet the plane like blunt brown teeth.
"Are you crazy!" he exploded.
"The tax or muerte! Viva Mexico!"
Remo took the captain by his right earlobe. With his free hand he took the
copilot's left earlobe. He squeezed.
"Aieee!" they screamed in stereo.
"Pull up now or the pain gets worse," Remo warned.
And Remo squeezed harder on the earlobe nerve that filled the veins and
nervous system with a sensation exactly like that of scalding acid.
Tears squeezing from his eyes, the captain pulled back on the yoke. The plane,
shuddering, brought its nose up. The air scream abated. The turbines settled
down. They were soon flying level again.
"Jou may let go now, senor," the captain gasped. "I have done as jou have
asked."
"You through screwing around?" Remo demanded.
"Si."
"You going to land the plane?"
"On my mother's honor."
"On the ground is all I care about," said Remo, returning to his seat.
Chiun trailed him, saying, "Without me, where would you be at this exact
moment?"
"Probably pounding a beat back in Newark," Remo said unhappily.
"That is not what I meant."
"You would be dead if it were not for the elegant Knives of Eternity which
grace my perfect hands."
"Okay, I'd be dead. But I'm not growing my fingernails as long as Fu Manchu."
Chiun beat him to their row so Remo couldn't steal the window seat. When he
saw that the wing was still attached to the plane, his bony fingers grasped
the opposite wrist, and the verdant sleeves of his silk kimono closed over
both hands.
After they got settled again, the stewardess came up and said, "Jou must pay
for the seat belt jou broke."
Remo sighed. "How much?"
"Thirty dollars. American. We do not accept pesos."
"Figures. How much was the NAFTA tax?"
"Thirty dollars, but it is a coincidence."
Remo handed over three tens and noticed they went into the wicker basket
labeled NAFTA.
"I never liked Mexico," Remo muttered.
"The House never lowered itself to working for them."
"Didn't you once tell me the House would have loved working for the Aztecs?"
"I lied. We would only have loved their gold, not their rulers."
"That's really convincing coming from someone who won't take his eyes off the
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wing because that's the time they pick to fall off. Unquote."
"It will happen to us some day. Mark my words."
When the Fasten Seat Belt sign came on, Remo tied his seat belt about his flat
stomach like the sleeves of a sweater. Out the window the ring of mountains
surrounding the Valley of Mexico loomed up like a jagged earthen wall.
Almost at once the plane shook as if buffeted by turbulence. Remo knew from
past experience this was normal. Thermal updrafts from the valley below were
constant.
But the buffeting grew violent. The Azteca Airlines plane dipped on one wing,
and through the sealed window ports everyone could hear a thunderous rumble
and roar.
"It is another terremotol" a man screamed.
"That means earthquake, " Chiun translated for Remo's benefit.
"Don't be ridiculous," Remo said. "Earthquakes shake the ground, not the
air."
"It is an airquake!" the panicked passenger insisted.
"No," said the Master of Sinanju. "It is a volcano."
No sooner had the old Korean spoken the word than a cloud seemed to swallow
the aircraft. The sky outside the window became a hideous smoky brown.
The emergency lights came on. Overhead compartments sprung open. Yellow
plastic oxygen masks dropped down on their flexible tubes.
Chiun grabbed his, and Remo decided it was a good idea, so he followed suit.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the captain said in a fearstrangled voice. "I regret
to inform jou that Mount Popocatepetl has erupted. We must divert to another
airport."
The plane's engines began laboring and straining.
The 727 flew and flew through a realm of roiling denseness, like boiling
liquid excrement. Nothing was visible beyond the portholes. Not even the
winglights.
"Remo!" Chiun squeaked. "The wings are gone."
"If the wings were gone, Little Father, we'd be in a tailspin by now."
"Perhaps they are awaiting the most treacherous moment. Wings are sneaky that
way. One never knows when they will choose to fall off."
"Remind me never to fly this airline again," Remo muttered.
"It is all the fault of NAFTA," the stewardess who had slid the length of the
cabin said as she adjusted her foundation garments through her disheveled
uniform.
"How is this NAFTA's fault?" Remo asked.
"NAFTA has angered the gods of old Mexico," she spit out the words with
venom.
"That's ridiculous," said Remo.
Chiun laid a quieting hand on Remo's bare arm.
"Hush, Remo. Lest the gods of old Mexico hear your blasphemous words and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]