"Sounds like Southern California bullshit to me," growled Dirk Edwards.
"Maybe you heard that penicillin was first discovered in moldy bread. They used to apply moldy bread to wounds. It helped. It really did. My discovery is like that."
"That will come in real handy if we decide to shoot you," Dirk Edwards said.
"You wouldn't do that."
"We will if we don't eat."
"I'm sure there are other kinds of food on the island."
"We can't wait that long. Okay, men," Dirk said, turning to his people. "Keep an eye out for pleasure boats. Maybe," he laughed, "we can arrange a swap. In the meantime, we eat cheese."
No one looked happy. Their stony expressions darkened when they heard Shane Billiken answer Dirk's next question.
"Where's the water supply?"
"The bucket's down with the cheese," Shane told him.
"Bucket?"
"Yeah, and I brought a rope. You can help yourself," Shane said, flinging his arms out to encompass the entire Pacific with its cool sweet water.
Dirk Edwards blinked. In a too-low voice he said, "Excuse us a sec."
As Shane watched, the contingent retired to the bow. They formed a circle and conferred. Some of them began to shout. Others waved their arms. Angry glances were flung in Shane's direction and he went into an immediate mental calculation of the swimming distance back to Malibu. He decided it was N. G. Maybe, he thought, this would be a good time to get back into astral projection.
Finally the argument subsided and Dirk joined him at the wheel.
"My men and I have decided."
"I noticed you were getting in touch with your feelings back there."
"If we come across a pleasure boat or island where we can get food before dawn, we won't shoot you in the belly, dump you overboard, and sail for Central America."
"What's in Central America?" Shane asked in an attempt to redirect the conversation.
"A lot of good fighting."
"I brought binoculars," Shane said suddenly. "Why don't I go up the mast and see what I can find?"
"You do that," said Dirk Edwards, taking the wheel. Two of the others worked the rope that sent the boatswain's chair up the mast. Shane Billiken searched the sea in all directions. He decided that he had made a mistake paying those men in advance. It took away their motivation. Imagine battle-hardened guys that talked mutiny just because the water was a little salty. Some of them looked like they drank carbolic acid.
The sun went down, the moon came up, and the seas remained as bare as newly laid asphalt.
But hours before dawn, Shane spied running lights on the water.
"Ship off the port bow!" he cried. Everyone surged to the port rail.
"No," Shane called. "The other direction."
They surged to starboard and Shane winced at the looks being thrown up at him.
It was a cabin cruiser. Music floated across the water. A party boat. Or maybe night fishermen.
"How many aboard?" Dirk called up.
"I count five."
"Okay," Dirk said. "Tex. J.D. Go below and get them on the radio." He kicked the engine into idle. The New Age Hope settled in the water and described a lazy circle.
As Shane watched, the cabin cruiser abruptly heeled and came in their direction.
"Someone want to let me down now?" Shane asked as Tex and J. D. came up from below and gave Dirk the thumbs-up sign.
"Better not," Dirk said laconically. "You might catch a stray."
"Stray what?" Shane asked as the sudden eruption of automatic-weapons fire drowned out his words.
Across the water, the cabin cruiser began spitting splinters. The man in the wheelhouse corkscrewed into a pool of his own blood. The partiers dived under the gunwales. But the gunwales were methodically chewed down to deck level by a fusillade of bullets. One man jumped overboard. Bullet tracks crisscrossed the water in front of him. Unwittingly he swam into them. He bobbed like a cork when they hit him, and floundered briefly before going down.
When Shane Billiken pulled his hands away from his Ray-Bans, Dirk was lowering the dinghy over the side. He rowed for the cabin cruiser. Minutes later he returned with several coolers filled with beer and raw steaks. After the New Age Hope got under way again, the cabin cruiser exploded. Bat-size splinters rained from the boiling fireball that lifted over the place it had been. "Time-delay fuse," Dirk remarked as they lowered Shane to the deck. Shane's legs collapsed under him.
"Beer?" asked Dirk nonchalantly.
"No, no," Shane croaked. "Did you have to kill them?"
"Hell, you hired us to kill, didn't you?"
"But that was different. Those were real people. "
"Hell," Dirk Edwards chortled, hoisting a can to the burning patch of water, "we do real people too. No extra charge. "
Chapter 25
They found the High Moo seated on his Shark Throne. It stood in the open courtyard. The High Moo clutched one muscular bicep. Blood trailed crazily from an unseen wound. Moovian maidens came with pestles of hot ash, which they carefully applied to the wound.
The Low Moo paced distractedly, pulling at her hair. "Not all the octopus worshipers have been purged," the Low Moo complained. She stuck out her sensuous lower lip like a pouting child.
"Impossible," said Chiun. "The priest did not lie."
"He was a traitor," growled the High Moo, wincing as the cauterizing hot ash stung him. "Of course he lied."
"The priest could not lie, O High Moo," Chiun went on stubbornly. "No man is capable of untruth when the iron hand of Sinanju squeezes from him his inmost thoughts."
"I was attacked on this very spot. I did not see the traitor. But I struck him with my war club. I drew blood. I would have slain him had I not been felled."
Remo's eyes went to the war club resting against the High Moo's muscular calf. The dark wood was crushed in one spot, and flecks of skin and blood clung to the patch.
"A man of royal blood should not raise his hand in combat," said Chiun. "Leave such distasteful chores to us, your assassins."
"No man who is a man runs from combat," spat the High Moo.
Chiun winced. He composed himself and pressed on. "For twenty coins I will bring you his carcass."
"Bring me his head and I will not keep the coins you falsely earned when you claimed to have rid my island of octopus worshipers."
Chiun's hand went to his wispy beard. His mouth opened as if to speak. What manner of emperor was this, who sullied his hands with weapons and did not understand the inviolateness of the word of the Master of Sinanju? Chiun stroked his beard in silence. His eyes narrowed. When he spoke, his words were like pearls sinking into a jar of thick honey. Slow but clear.
"I will bring this wicked one to you alive, that he may tell you the truth of my words himself And if his words please you, I will ask again for twenty coins."
"I have ruled this island for all my adult life," the High Moo said. He seemed to be speaking to the Moovians surrounding him and not to Chiun. "And my father before him and his father before him, back to the days when Ru-Taki-Nuhu first closed his slumberous orbs. No High Moo ever faced such ingratitude for the gifts he has bestowed upon his people. No High Moo was ever less appreciated."
"I know how it is to be unappreciated," Chiun said proudly. "And I vow that once this matter is settled, I will see to it that henceforth no Moovian will fail to pay proper respect to his liege." And Chiun fixed the gathering crowd with his steady gaze while Remo stood aside, his arms folded, trying to follow the rapid stream of Moovian words.
The High Moo waved the Master of Sinanju away, as if to dismiss his protestations of loyalty as trifling.
Chiun's kimono skirts swirled with the force of his sudden about-face. He marched off.
Remo caught up a few minutes later.
"The High Moo's in a bad mood, huh?" he offered.
"He is entitled. For he is surrounded by ingratitude. A common problem among those who are heir to long lines of
honorable ancestry. Some believe that distinguished parentage is not earned."
"Really?"
"Orphans and the lowborn are especially susceptible to this fallacy," Chiun said pointedly.
"You can't mean me," Remo said ironically. "Being an American, I was probably born on the upper floor of a hospital. "
Chiun did not reply. Remo noticed that his eyes had fixed upon the ground, Chiun led him off the foot-beaten path and into the jungle. Remo saw a drop of blood glisten on a leaf. Another darkened the soil many feet beyond it. Chiun was following the blood spoor of the failed killer. Like malignant rubies, the drops led to one of the many mines which dotted Moo like empty eyes. This mine had fallen into disuse. Foliage had overgrown its bambooshored mouth. A few branches were broken and trampled. "How do you say 'Come out, come out, wherever you are' in Moovian?" Remo joked.
The Master of Sinanju brushed past him and stormed into the dark tunnel.
Remo had to duck to get through the entrance. Ahead of him, Chiun walked tall and defiant. The High Moo's accusation had stung him, and Remo knew that the would-be killer faced a terrible fate once Chiun laid hands on him.
Remo crouched as he walked. His hands brushed the loose tunnel walls. They were dry and gritty like pumice. Probably volcanic residue. The tunnel meandered like a snail track, as if the burrowing Moovians had followed the metal deposits as they found them rather than systematically working the mine. The moisture increased the deeper they went, and Remo realized they were below sea level.
The tunnel ended in a cul-de-sac of mud. The floor was a brown puddle and the lower walls were mud. And squatting in the water was a young Moovian with hunted eyes.
He bared his teeth at Chiun's approach.
"You have committed a foul deed against the House of Moo," the Master of Sinanju told him.
"I will no longer work the mines," the Moovian spat. "All my life I have worked in the mines. And all the coins end up in the High Moo's treasure house. None for his workers. None for the people." He felt his hair. His hand came away sticky with blood.
"You are not an octopus worshiper, then?" Chiun asked.
"No." he sneered. "I am Ca-Don-Ho, slayer of kings."
"The High Moo lives, and after you have repeated your words for him, you will die," Chiun promised gravely.
"Wait a minute, Chiun," Remo put in. "Let's hear this guy out. I think he has some valid complaints here."
"He is a hater of royalty. I know his ilk. I will listen no more." And so saying, the Master of Sinanju stepped into the mud to retrieve the man for his emperor.
Ca-Don-Ho uncoiled like a spring. His hands sought the Master of Sinanju's wattled throat. But the Master of Sinanju was quicker still. He struck the man in the side of the head. Ca-Don-Ho went down. He shook his head angrily.
And then, reaching for a knife tucked in his loincloth, he attacked the mud wall. He threshed and splashed, causing the Master of Sinanju to withdraw hastily-but only to avoid having his kimono soiled by mud.
"He is mad," Chiun whispered in English.
"I don't think so," Remo said, jumping for the man. Remo was too late. The muddy wall suddenly crumbled and a torrent of water surged over the man. He went down, laughing wildly.
Remo backpedaled. Chiun was already ahead of him. They ran swiftly, whipping around twisting corners just ahead of the wall of water that chased them all the way to the surface.
Remo and Chiun shot out of the mine as if propelled. They kept moving. The water crested and collapsed. The ground soon drank it up. The body of the would-be king slayer floated out with the last blurp of water and was deposited on the wet turtle grass.
Remo walked up to him.
"Guess he won't be telling the High Moo anything."
"You were witness to his words," Chiun said. He gave the dead man's ribs a vicious kick. The splintery sound that it brought was muffled.
"The High Moo may not buy it, you know."
"And why not?"
"Because he thinks I'm a slave."
Chiun said nothing for a long time. He kicked the dead man's ribs again. "Bring this bag of meat."
As Remo stopped to pick him up, something glinted in the water-disturbed soil. He plucked it up,
"Hey, I found one of the High Moo's coins."
"Good. We will return it to the High Moo."
"Why? I found it."
"All coins belong to the High Moo. This is why his face adorns them."
"That's what this guy said. But what good is money if you don't spread it around?"
"It is power," said Chiun, putting out his hand.
"I say it's mine," Remo countered. He looked at the coin again. "Check this out, Chiun, it's got a different High Moo's face on it."
Chiun snatched the coin away. "All the more reason to return it promptly. All coins are melted down and recast when a new High Moo ascends the throne. This one bears the face of an earlier High Moo. It will soon bear the profile of the High Moo we serve . . ."
Chiun's voice trailed off. He lifted the coin to the light. "Don't tell me it's counterfeit," Remo said.
Chiun frowned. The coin disappeared up one voluminous sleeve.
"Pick up the dead one," he said, starting off. "And say nothing about this coin to anyone."
"Yeah?" Remo remarked lightly, hefting the body over his shoulders. "Do I smell a mystery?"
"It is probably your socks," Chiun said haughtily. "They reek. "
Chapter 26
The High Moo would have none of it.
"He confessed to being lazy," Chiun insisted. "He did not like to work in your mines, the ingrate. But he was no octopus worshiper. He told us so. Tell him, Remo." Chiun pushed Remo before the High Moo like an idiot child about to recite an important school lesson.
"It's true," Remo said. "I heard him say so."
"You bring me a dead body and the word of a mere slave?" spat the High Moo.
"Told you so," Remo whispered to Chiun in English. He couldn't resist throwing in a knowing grin.
"He is dead. The last octopus worshiper is no more," Chiun went on in an agitated voice.
"He is not dead enough," said the High Moo, who then took up his hardwood club and proceeded to beat the body into a shapeless bloody lump. He took his time about this, working around the body methodically. He saved the head for last.
Remo, watching the High Moo at work, said, "I'm cutting out. This isn't my thing."
Even the Master of Sinanju was sickened.
The Moovians watched stonily. They neither turned away nor seemed ill-at-ease. They looked, if anything, resigned. Only the Low Moo looked away. She was plucking hibiscus blossoms. She discarded them carelessly until she found one she liked. Then she put it in her hair over her left ear.
When the High Moo was finished, he stood on bowed and sweaty legs.
"Take this thing away," he ordered his Red Feather Guard. "Boil the traitorous flesh from his leg bones and I will have them for swords. They will remind all plotters of their fate."
The body was carted off by four guards, each lugging a wrist or ankle.
"I speak the truth," Chiun told the High Moo after he had sunk back onto his Shark Throne. The High Moo wiped sweat off his brow. His underarms exuded a sweaty stench that made Chiun's nose wrinkle distastefully.
"We will soon know," said the High Moo. His chest heaved from his exertions. "For if no one harms my person between now and the next moon, I will allow you to take away your full payment."
"One who is protected by Sinanju need fear nothing," Chiun said flintily.
"I look around me and my stomach is uneasy," the High Moo said pointedly.
Chiun clapped his hands. The thunder sent birds winging from distant trees.
"Why are you all standing around?" he cried. "Your emperor is safe. Get you to your work. The rice fields need tending. The mines are empty. Be gone, you lazy sons and daughters of the greatest empire of ancient times."
Moovians scattered in all directions. Chil
dren fled for the safety of their mothers. And Chiun, seeing the effect of his words, turned to the High Moo and bowed once, formally.
"See that my kingdom runs smoothly," said the High Moo through heavy-lidded eyes, "and I will reward you handsomely upon your departure."
The Master of Sinanju did not observe the cunning smiled that wreathed the High Moo's face as he took his leave.
Chiun found Remo walking along the eastern shore. The sun beat down on Remo's bare chest and the Master of Sinanju noticed that the red sucker marks on his arms and chest were very red. Remo's face was tight and troubled.
"Nice emperor you serve," Remo remarked acidly when Chiun padded up beside him.
"We serve," Chiun corrected. But his bell-like voice was subdued.
"Not me. I'm just a lowly slave. And an orphan." Chiun said nothing. The sun was setting and the shadows lengthened along the white beach. They walked together, Chiun's hands inside his belled sleeves. Remo rotated his thick wrists unconsciously. It was a habit that surfaced when he was preoccupied.
"A month is too long," Remo said, breaking the silence.
"I have been making a list," Chiun said, as if not hearing. "I have been listing all kings and princes who still rule kingdoms in the modern world."
"Maybe next time you'll remember the crossword puzzles."
"It is a very short list."
"Life goes on," Remo said in a bored voice.
"And my life has gone on longer than yours. Perhaps in the next century, as Westerners reckon time, the world will right itself and sane statecraft will prevail once more. There may again be kings and princes aplenty in the years to come. But I may never know them. You may, Remo, but I will not. Not that I am old."
"No, not you."
"But I live a dangerous life. And the future is unknowable, even to a Master of Sinanju."
"But you've got the past locked down tight."
"The High Moo may be the only true emperor my Mastership will know. I have a month. A month to savor true service. Would you begrudge me that month, Remo?"
"No. But we both have to answer to Smith. And he pays better. He pays in gold. Not silver or platinum or whatever those coins are."
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