As soon as we fly in through the open window of the 77th floor of the Chrysler Building, Brain Fart starts hurrying us. He needs the darkness-shrouded captives we carry—Freeze-Dry and Floater—put in place immediately. According to his calculations, our odds of success will diminish the longer we wait. Something to do with sunspot activity and pollen counts.
He leads us through the room, which he's tricked out like a mad scientist's lab. There are wires and coils of metal tubing everywhere, all sparking with energy. Laptop computers flicker and flash on every bench and surface.
The place smells like copper and ozone and melting plastic. Everything's humming and beeping and hissing and whistling. Above all the ruckus, Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" blasts from a hardcore speaker s
