Chiun separated his sleeves to reveal the coin Remo had found in the ground.
"This is more precious than silver. Rarer than platinum. Any patch of dirt will yield those metals. But coins such as these were thought lost when Moo was lost."
"I'll bet we have a time figuring out the exchange rate when we get back," Remo joked.
Chiun regarded his wavering reflection in the coin's polished surface.
"Come," he said abruptly.
"Where?"
"I must compare this coin to those in the High Moo's treasure house."
"Why not? It'll kill an afternoon."
As they picked their way inland, they passed the mines.
Men were hauling coconut shells heaping with dirt out in fire-brigade fashion and making a pile. In the fields, the children toiled. No one looked happy, and Remo remarked on that observation.
"For islanders, they're a pretty morose lot."
"You first saw them at their best. At the feast. Do you really believe your fantasies of happy brown people basking in the sun indulging in free love all day and night?"
"Oh, I don't know," Remo said airily, rubbing the red marks on his arms. "Some myths might have a kernel of truth."
Chiun eyed him doubtfully. He went on: "You see the Moovians as they are in their ordinary life. Would you judge Americans by their behavior during the festival of the Nazarene?"
"I might if I knew what that was."
"The feast's name escapes me. Jesus Time, I think it is called. "
"You mean Christmas?"
"Possibly. The exact names of unimportant pagan festivals are not worth memorizing. "
"That sounds really convincing coming from someone whose national holiday is the Feast of the Pig," Remo said dryly. "Where are we going, by the way? I don't remember having the treasure house pointed out to us."
"It is no doubt in a secret location. But we will find it. We have only to go to the source."
Chiun led Remo into the village proper. He walked with his head cocking to each side, listening. Chiun homed in on the sound of metallic clickings and hammerings. It came from a one-story stone hut behind the palace.
Chiun entered.
"Greetings, metalsmiths to the High Moo."
A circle of bronze faces looked up from their work. The men squatted before a stone oven. They were beating lumps of coin metal into the proper shape. In a corner one man, with skin like dried and stretched beef, was etching the High Moo's profile into the finished coins. A neat stack of newly minted coins sat beside him.
No one reacted to Chiun's intrusion. Their faces were sullen.
"By order of the High Moo, I have come to escort the newest coins to their proper place," Chiun said in an important voice.
The old man gathered up his coins in a square of cloth. He tied the four corners into a knot and presented himself to Chiun, the coins clinking in the makeshift sack.
"I will be your guard," Chiun told him.
The old man muttered something out of the side of his mouth that Remo didn't catch.
"What did he say?" Remo asked in English.
"Something about foreigners taking away all the coins."
"Meaning?"
"I think he resents that we will one day leave Moo with some of the fruits of his labors."
"What's it to him?" Remo asked. They followed the men into the forest. "The coins all belong to the High Moo anyway. "
"Some people grow intolerant as they get along in years."
"No!" Remo said in a mock-aghast voice.
Chiun nodded sagely. "Indeed. Wisdom is not always the end result of long life."
"My last illusion is shattered. I have met my first emperor-in-the-raw and he looks like a Hawaiian wrestler, and his wise subjects aren't wise at all, only bigoted."
"Do not judge all Moovians by one cranky example," Chiun warned.
The old man brought them to the center of a cleared area. Lightning had blasted a banyan tree and it had toppled across the stump of another tree that had been leveled by hand. The old man set down his bag of coins and pushed the tree aside. The easy way in which he accomplished that feat indicated that it was hollow.
The old man took a bone knife and inserted it into the tree stump. He levered the flat top upward and set it aside.
Remo and Chiun gathered around. As they had expected, the stump had been hollowed out. Coins glinted in stacks directly beneath the opening. They stood in nearly three feet of water.
"Some treasure house," Remo said. "A tree stump."
"Which coins are mine?" Chiun asked anxiously.
The old man shrugged. "Whichever the High Moo decrees."
"But the coins presented me by the Low Moo are special coins."
"They are all the same. I know. Of all others, I know."
"No. Those are historic. They are artifacts of the first contact between our two houses in generations."
The old man shrugged as if to say that Chiun's excited protestations were as important as the distinction between grains of beach sand.
"What's the big deal, Chiun?" Remo asked. "Gold is gold. Silver is silver."
"They were special coins," Chiun squeaked, peering intently. The stacks were closely packed. None stood apart from the others.
The old man knelt beside the stump and lowered his arms into the water, setting the coins atop different piles. "He is covering every pile!" Chiun snapped. "He is mixing the coins. This is terrible!"
When the old man was done, he replaced the stump lid. Remo put the shattered tree back. When he was done, he noticed that the old man had left without a word of farewell. "Get what you came for?" Remo asked.
"I saw the coin faces. They were minted in the Fifth Year of the Third Cycle."
"Yeah?"
"That is the year the current High Moo ascended the throne. Fix that in your memory, Remo, for it is important."
"I'd write it down, but at the moment I'm strangely bereft of crayons."
"This coin," Chiun went on, holding the other one up, was minted in the Fifth Year of the Third Cycle also."
"So? The High Moo is dead. Long live the High Moo. Isn't that the way it usually goes?"
Chiun's papery lips thinned. He replaced the coin in his robes.
"Say nothing of this to anyone." And Chiun marched off.
"My lips are sealed," Remo said to the surrounding forest. "Even if I knew what the heck you were talking about-and I don't-who would I tell? Every time I try to speak two sentences in Moovian, everyone for three miles around breaks out in hysterics."
Chapter 27
The credit-card bill went to a post-office box in Lander, Texas, where a postal employee, who thought that monthly supplementary check came from the CIA, was under instructions to send it to a mail-forwarding service in Chicago, which relayed it to Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, by express mail. With the current state of the U.S. Postal Service, this system took a minimum of six weeks and sometimes as long as nine.
Thus the bill was already overdue when it finally crossed Smith's desk. He put it aside for the moment as he tried once again to contact Michael Brunt in Boston. Brunt's secretary informed him that Mr. Brunt was out of town. Smith distinctly heard the sound of gum cracking as he hung up in distaste.
Then the blue-and-orange express envelope caught Smith's eye. He opened the nearly indestructable Tivek envelope with shears.
Inside, there was an American Express credit-card bill made out to Remo Robeson, one of the many fictitious identities and accounts Smith had created for Remo's use. This was the name on his American Express card. Smith examined the bill.
It listed a variety of purchases, including a tractor lawn mower and a big-screen projection TV. Smith couldn't imagine what Remo would need a lawn mower for, but in years past, odd items had cropped up on his expense accounts, the most puzzling of which was an industrial ice-scraping machine whose only purpose was to clear the ice between hockey games. Smith never asked what Remo had needed with s
uch a thing. Not after the time five refrigerators showed up on the account and Remo had informed Smith, when asked, that he had given them away to deserving families who had been burnt out of a split duplex apartment house in Detroit.
The other charges were an airline flight and something purchased from a concern called Malibu Marine. Smith blinked.
"Can't be," he muttered. "This must be in error."
The charge was sixty thousand dollars. Smith called the airline first. He was informed that the flight originated in New York City and terminated in Los Angeles, with no connecting flight booked on that airline. Was there a problem with the charge?
Smith said no and hung up. The Malibu Marine charge was dated one day after the airline flight. He called Malibu Marine.
"I am calling about a charge on my American Express card," he told the manager. "Can you verify that price? Sixty thousand dollars."
"That's right. Is there a problem?"
"I'm not certain. Exactly what was purchased?"
"It's your card. Don't you know?"
"I am co-signatory. My nephew also has use of this card."
"Well, I hope you have deep pockets. He bought a junk. Right now, he's somewhere out where the buses don't run."
"Junk," Smith gasped, envisioning Remo purchasing the contents of an entire junkyard for some frivolous purpose. "He spent sixty thousand dollars on junk!"
"No, not junk junk. A junk."
"Beg pardon?"
"He bought a Chinese junk. Sailed off in it right away, too. "
"Oh. Did he say where he was going?"
"No, he and this elderly Chinese guy just hopped aboard and sailed off. They had a gal with them."
"Did they say anything that would lead you to guess at their destination?" Smith inquired.
"Nope. Once the charge was verified, they went out with the tide. Say, you can cover these charges, can't you?"
"Yes, of course. Thank you for your time." And with that, Dr. Harold W. Smith hung up. His face was an etching. The title might have been "Pain." Without looking, he reached into his desk drawer and brought out a bottle. He needed an aspirin badly.
Smith was so intent on his thoughts that he failed to notice that he was chewing on an Alka-Seltzer tablet and not aspirin.
Remo and Chiun had left the country. They had gone without a word. What could have happened? Had he offended the Master of Sinanju somehow? And would Remo have gone with him if he had?
All that Dr. Harold W. Smith could imagine was that Remo and Chiun had returned to the village of Sinanju on the West Korea Bay. And he was alone against whoever had bought the mysterious house next to his own.
Suddenly realizing that he had eaten an entire aspirin without benefit of water, Smith drew a paper cup of mineral water from the office dispenser and drank it. For the remainer of the day he wondered why his headache persisted and he kept belching uncontrollably.
Chapter 28
Remo heard the scream and reached for his pants. "Excuse me," he said as he darted from the room. It was night. The Royal Palace of Moo was dark except for the odd places where moonlight cast geometric patterns of light.
Chiun emerged from his bedroom, his face grim. Together, without a word, they ran down the corridor leading to the High Moo's bedroom, their bare feet slapping the cool stones.
The High Moo confronted them at the door. He waved his war club angrily. It was spattered with blood, as was the High Moo's greasy chest.
"There were three of them," he thundered, gesticulating wildly. "Two have gotten away."
Groans came from behind the High Moo. He stepped aside to show a Moovian sitting on the floor. The man was holding his red-splashed arm. His forearm was bent below the elbow joint. A jagged spear of bone stuck out. It was broken.
"They forget. How easily they forget." The High Moo grinned.
A Moovian girl slipped up behind Remo. She held her bare breasts in fear. Her mouth gaped open.
"What is that peasant girl doing in my palace?" the High Moo thundered. "Is she another traitor?"
"No, she's with me," Remo said evenly. Chiun turned on Remo.
"With you?"
"We were together," Remo said. "You know."
"We will speak of this later," Chiun warned.
The Low Moo crept out from an adjoining room. She took one look at the peasant girl, and the girl retreated in fear.
"Are you safe, my father?" the Low Moo asked.
"Traitors. I am beset by traitors," he said bitterly.
"Let's round up the usual suspects," Remo said in English.
"Allow me to dispatch that base traitor," Chiun said, pointing to the broken-armed assailant.
"He is nothing. The ones who roam free are the threat," the High Moo said. His Red Feather Guard showed up at that moment.
"We could not find them," the captain of the guard reported.
"Then it is up to Sinanchu," the High Moo said pointedly. "If they hope to leave Moo with their full measure of coins."
Remo and Chiun left the palace. Out in the courtyard, Remo said, "He's sure getting a lot of service for payment that was supposed to be in the bag."
"That man was not an octopus worshiper. He will admit that later. At this moment we must get the other two."
"Want to split up?"
"No. Stay with me." And Chiun flashed through the foliage. People were stirring at the sight of them; faces retreated into doorways.
"Reminds me of when I was a cop," Remo said unhappily.
"Their fear will vanish once we have eliminated the plotters. "
"At the rate we're going, we're on our way to depopulating all of Moo."
Chiun was following tracks in the dirt. The tracks veered off into the jungle, and from there the trail was one of broken stems and crushed grass that slowly straightened.
The trail led down to the south beach and into the water.
The Pacific sparkled. No shadows dotted its surface. "Looks like we lost them. Octopus worshipers or not." Chiun watched the water. When he was certain no swimmer would surface, he spoke.
"I do not think they were octopus worshipers, although they fled into the ocean. Come, we must inform the High Moo."
As they walked back, Chiun spoke up. "That girl. What was she to you?"
"I don't know. I'd only known her ten minutes when the trouble started."
"Ten?"
"She came in through the window."
"Obviously a tramp," sniffed Chiun.
"If she was, that's how they grow them on Moo." Chiun stopped.
"There were others?"
"Yeah," Remo admitted.
"A few." Chiun's eyes became slits.
"How many?"
"Oh, five or sex-I mean six."
"So many!" Chiun demanded hotly. "You have lain with five or six maidens in three nights?"
"Actually, I'm just counting tonight. I don't know how many there were on the other nights."
"Aiieee!" Chiun screeched. "Are you mad? Have you given no thought to the diseases these girls may carry?"
"Little Father," Remo said gently, "we're on an island with maybe two hundred inhabitants, tops. And with the way these girls behave, one sexually transmitted disease would have wiped everyone out long before we got here."
"I cannot believe you."
"Hey, this is an island. No radio. No TV. No place to go that doesn't look like every other place here. I'm bored. Besides, it was their idea. They keep sneaking in through my window."
"You could have turned them away," Chiun huffed.
"I'm entitled to a little fun."
"And did you have it? This fun?"
"Well, I'm not sure. It's interesting, but you know how it is with sex when you're a Master of Sinanju."
"Yes, you do it properly and get it out of the way so that you can go on to important things."
"That's been my problem with it, all right. I get up to step two in the thirty-seven steps to sexual fulfillment and the party of the second part has bee
n to cloud nine and back twice while I'm left waiting for the fireworks that never come. So to speak."
"Sex is a drug. It is better to be the supplier than the imbiber. "
"I used to like imbibing. But you know what's strange, Little Father?" Remo's voice sank into a hushed tone, no longer testy.
"Many things are strange, you most of all."
"These island girls are just like I always imagined they would be. Except for one thing. Sex is like chewing bubble gum to them. Once it's over, zoom, they're out the window. Wham, bang, thank you, Remo. I don't even get to ask if it was good for them too."
"I told you American women would be more to your taste. Unlike Moo girls, they are raised to think of sex as a forbidden riddle. They spin webs of magic and mystery around the simple act itself. No wonder they spend more of their time talking about it than doing it. No wonder all your Western songs are dirty."
"That's a gross generalization. Which songs are dirty?"
"'I Wanna Hold Your Hand' is a prime specimen."
"That's not dirty."
"It always starts with hand-holding," Chiun snapped. "Come, the High Moo awaits. Say nothing of your night escapades to him."
"I was hoping I could ask him a few questions about Moovian courtship practices."
"Such as?"
"Why the marks on my arm, for one thing."
Chiun skidded to a stop. He examined Remo's extended arms.
"These marks are redder than before," he murmured. "They should be fading."
"The octopus-sucker marks are fading," Remo pointed out. "These are fresh marks."
"I do not understand."
"They're ... uh ... bite marks."
"Bite?"
"That's what I'm talking about," Remo said excitedly. "They don't kiss. They bite. I can't figure it out."
"Who bites? Which has bitten you?"
"The girls. All of them. They don't seem to know what kissing is. I hope this isn't some kind of savage engagement ritual, because if it is, look out, I'm betrothed to half the female population of Moo."
"The peasant girls bite?" Chiun repeated. He turned Remo's arms over. The rose-colored marks were everywhere. Even under Remo's armpits, he saw with revulsion.
"The Low Moo does it too," Remo told him.
"You slept with the Low Moo!" Chiun demanded, his nails digging into Remo's arms.
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