of cement, so that once you slipped in you went down and down into a bottomless quicksand.
Within the space of raising his legs two or three times, he sank from his waist up to his chest. Had anyone attempted to rescue him he, too, would have been drowned. Chiun, with his mouth wide open, showing all his yellowed teeth, was crying out in Korean. He was like one of those retainers in ancient times who were buried alive with their dead lord. He pawed and kicked with his hands and legs frantically, but even when he exerted all his strength he could scarcely raise himself an inch.
The bystanders shared all his sensations. They felt as though their own limbs were stiffening so that they could not move them.
The head kept frantically bobbing up and down, only to sink deeper after each exertion, until at last it was swallowed up completely. It all took less then two minutes. The onlookers pictured him still struggling.
It was near this spot that Factory No. 11 had been built.
Every night, about 2 o’clock, Chiun’s groaning would echo through the concrete with blood-curdling reverberations. That was why no one would sleep in the dormitory of No. 11. Anyone who slept there would be seized by the ghost, and his limbs become paralysed, it was said. About a year later, priests and sacred dancing-girls were called to offer up prayers. The ghost, however, was not quietened by invocations. By night it would appear and seize workers from out of the factory. This was what Oki had in mind when he
