Two men jumped onto the reef and took hold of thrown lines. The schooner was made secure, the anchor dropped. Most of the natives were dead. Shane Billiken saw as he clambered onto the reef. One moaned, and Dirk Edwards beckoned him to the body.
"Finish him off," Edwards said.
"I don't know if I can," Shane muttered.
"It's easy."
"Isn't this your job? I hired you, after all."
"Look, we gotta head inland before the sounds get everyone on this rock organized. We're gonna need every man. So you're either part of the problem, sucker, or you're part of the solution."
And to a man, the mercenaries pointed their weapons at Shane Billiken.
Reluctantly Shane pointed his rifle at the native's twitching head, closed his eyes, and squeezed the trigger. The weapon gave a short snarl.
"Is it over?" he asked limply.
"Yeah," Dirk Edwards said politely. "You can look if you want."
Shane did. At the sight of the blood-streaked brains oozing out of the man's shattered face, he broke and ran for the waters. He got down on his stomach until he had emptied it into the beautiful blue water.
The mercenary team laughed uproariously.
"You'll get used to it. Now, come on. Let's find that village. "
For three hours they penetrated the lush rain forest. They climbed a thickly overgrown hill. The terrain was rough. Shane's Adidas running shoes began to fall apart.
Finally they reached the crest of the hill. Below lay a mist-filled valley. Beyond the mists a tall shape loomed blue and indistinct.
"Let's make camp here," Dirk said. "The fog ought to burn off by noon. Maybe we can spot the village. Save us some humping."
They settled down to wait. As the morning progressed, the mists began to thin. A hill came into view. And another. And between them a tall landmark that was definitely not a hill.
"Shit!" said Dirk Edwards. "What the fuck is that?"
"It's the temple," Shane shouted. He was ignored.
"Looks like a building," said Gus.
"I know it's a fucking building. What I want to know is, what kind of building. Who's got the binoculars?" Someone passed them to him. Dirk stood up and trained the lenses on the rapidly clearing object.
"I thought we were supposed to be looking for a primitive island," he said bitingly. "This thing is huge."
"We are," Shane Billiken said uncertainly. "I mean, it was supposed to be. Maybe it's some kind of mirage."
"Yeah? Well, this mirage says the 'Oahu Hilton' on it."
"What does that mean?" Shane wanted to know.
"It means, you flaky fuck, that we're in Hawaii and if we don't get out of here before those bodies are found, our asses are grass."
At that, everybody started running down the mountain at full tilt. In between puffing breaths, there was a discussion about whether to shoot Shane Billiken for getting them into this mess.
Shane Billiken was immensely relieved when the vote was decided, five to two in favor of not shooting him because one more shooting would only bring more trouble.
"Outstanding," said Dirk Edwards. "We'll wait till we're at sea."
Chapter 32
Dolla-Dree, Low Moo of Moo, ran to her father's palace. Her bare feet skipped over the stones in her path. She felt light. Tonight she would enjoy the privilege that had not been accorded a Low Moo in hundreds of moons. The gift of a white man.
The oral tales of Moo were full of stories of the white men who once came to this remnant of Old Moo. None had come for so long that many believed the whites of the world had died out.
Dolla-Dree learned differently when she landed on the land of white men. But she had been on a mission. She could take no white man while she was a prisoner of the cruel magician who wore smoked glass over his eyes, yet was not blind.
Now she was home. Now she would ask her father. Remo would be hers. Forever.
"Father! Father!" cried Dolla-Dree as she approached the palace.
The High Moo, Tu-Min-Ka, emerged from the palace, his face questioning.
"Is there trouble?" he demanded.
"No, no," said Dolla-Dree, dropping at his feet. She knelt before her father, bowing her long tresses. "I crave a boon. One that will make me one with the Low Moos of the past."
"Go on, daughter."
"I wish to buy the slave Remo. For I crave him greatly."
"He is no longer a slave. He has been freed. We do not have slaves on Moo."
"Only because there are not enough Moovians to have slaves as well as workers. We had slaves in the days of the white sailors."
"Which we freed at the proper time."
"And I vow to follow that tradition. I will buy Remo, and before I take him into myself, I will free him."
"Well-spoken. But he is already a free man."
"Oh, he will not be a slave long," the Low Moo implored. She grabbed her father's legs eagerly. Her face lifted. "I will treat him as we treated the white men of the long-ago days. He will be mine forever, one with my heart, identical with my soul, the flesh of my flesh."
"The Master of Sinanchu cares for this man," the High Moo reminded.
The Low Moo reared to her feet, her dark eyes snapping. "You deny me? Your daughter? The one who, alone in the world, loves you?"
The High Moo winced under the tongue-lashing. He relented.
"I will speak with the Master of Sinanchu," he said. "I will see what his feelings are toward Remo."
"I will await his decision," the Low Moo told him coolly. "Do not disappoint me, for I am all you have." She promptly disappeared into the palace, her haughty back radiating scorn.
His war club in hand, the High Moo called to his Red Feather Guard. They surrounded him as he set out in search of the Master of Sinanchu. The golden plume on his fillet crown dipped with each heavy step he took. It was a difficult thing his daughter had asked of him. The rite had not been performed since Rona-Ku was High Moo.
The monkeys chattered at him as he walked, and the High Moo shook his fist at them as if they were the cause of all his troubles.
They were nearing the rice fields when one of the guards walking before the High Moo seemed to stumble. He fell against a tree. He did not rise.
"See to him," the High Moo said shortly. "His head must have struck a stone."
The other guards surrounded the man. They shook him. He did not stir. They rolled him over on his back and everyone saw his glassy sightless stare. And they knew.
It was the High Moo who spotted the thorn sticking from the guard's foot. He pulled it free. A tiny drop of blood dripped from the tip.
"A stonefish spine," he growled. "It must have been set into the ground to trap me."
A rustling of the foliage ahead caught their attention. The remaining guards started after the skulker.
"No," cried the High Moo. "Do not leave me. There may be others lurking about. We will attend to that one later. I must see the Master of Sinanchu. You will carry my scared personage so that I do not fall prey to another vicious trap."
The Red Feather Guard hesitated. They looked down at their naked bronze feet.
"I have bestowed upon you the gift of being my guards," the High Moo growled. "Any who do not wish to enjoy the comforts that go with it may choose between the mines and the fields."
The guards looked at one another and two men took the High Moo by the legs while the third reached under his armpits. In this fashion they carried him from the path. They went with ginger steps, their questing eyes anxious.
When the Master of Sinanju saw the High Moo being carried in a supine position, his heart leapt at the thought that he had lost the only true emperor he had ever known.
"What has transpired?" he demanded of the guards as they set their ruler on his feet. "Is the High Moo ill?"
"I have escaped another base attempt upon my life," said the High Moo. "A stonefish spine placed in the road. One of my guards lies dead."
"He died knowing that he served
you well," intoned Chiun. "He could ask for no greater destiny."
"I saw the one who did it," said a guard. All eyes turned to the man. "Through the trees. I recognized his face. It was Uk-Uk."
"Then Uk-Uk must die!" cried Chiun. "Point him out to me and I will rend him apart with infinite slowness." Like yellow talons, Chiun's hands flashed in the sunlight. He clawed the air, making flamboyant sweeping gestures. He hoped the High Moo would be impressed. But the High Moo's next words stunned the Master of Sinanju.
"No," he said unhappily. "Uk-Uk is my metalsmith."
"The old one?" Chiun demanded.
"Truly. I had thought him loyal. But he cannot die, for there is no other with the skill to fashion my coins."
"Then what would you have me do to him?" asked Chiun, who had never known an emperor to show mercy to a traitor. "I could pluck out one eye as an object lesson."
"No, for if he loses the other to disease or bird attack, he will be useless to me."
"I will leave the eyes, then. Select a limb for removal."
"I do not know," said the High Moo after a long pause. His broad coppery features were troubled., "But I have something more important to speak of now."
"Yes?" said Chiun, his eyes bright. What could be more important than the intrigues of the Shark Throne?
"My daughter, the Low Moo, has come to me. She craves your freed slave, Remo."
"Do you propose joining our houses in marriage?" Chiun asked slowly.
"If that is necessary to satisfy my daughter's need. But I would prefer to buy him."
Chiun's beard quivered. "Buy Remo? My Remo?"
"He was your slave in the outer world. Here, only we know that he has been liberated. Perhaps there is an honorable way you could unfree him. Then I would be prepared to discuss a price."
"Buy? Not marriage?" Chiun squeaked.
"I will do whatever is necessary, for my daughter's happiness is dear to me."
Chiun considered. "I will think on this matter. But I make no promise," he said hastily.
"Understood. Now I must return to my palace. For only there am I safe, it seems." The High Moo motioned for his guards to lift him off his feet.
Chiun watched as the High Moo was carried off. Then he went in search of Remo. He wore a slight smile of amusement on his parchment face, but it disappeared when he caught sight of Remo standing with his arms folded and looking bored while the miners worked half-heartedly.
"I have spoken with the High Moo," Chiun said solemnly. "His daughter desires you beyond all others."
"I got that impression when I talked to her."
"Indeed?"
"Yeah. She said she wanted to poon me."
"She said what?"
"Poon. Is it dirty?"
"It is obscene."
"Sounds interesting," Remo said. "I don't suppose you'd care to share a few details?"
"No. And you must have misunderstood her. Your command of the Moovian tongue is atrocious."
"Well, we'll find out tonight. She and I are having a tryst. "
"Do not go to her, Remo. The High Moo has offered to buy you from me. I was going to tell you that I entertained the idea, but only as a jest. Now I tell you in full sincerity, do not meet with the Low Moo."
"I was starting to look forward to it. She's probably the only Moovian maiden I haven't made it with. Don't these people believe in marriage?"
"They marry. But it is not like other people marry. They are free to dally with whomever they wish. All children born on Moo are considered children of the mother and of the village. The concept of the father exists only in the royal house."
"That would explain the singular absence of irate husbands."
"There is other news. The metalsmith. Uk-Uk. He tried to kill the High Moo with a stonefish spine set on his path. "
"Brrrr. Nasty," Remo said. "Does that mean he is an octopus worshiper?"
"Anyone can break a spine from a stonefish. And octopus worshipers are slaves to ritual. They always dress in imitation of Ru-Taki-Nuhu. Or leave a symbol of their evil, like the jug which contained a living octopus which was hurled at the High Moo. No, it means that the list of those who desire to topple the Shark Throne is longer than I would have believed. For the young assailant knew not of the metalsmith's designs."
"If you ask me, the way these people are worked, anybody could be out for his skin."
"We must expose the plotters tonight," Chiun said firmly. "All of them."
"Yeah? How, pray tell?"
"The metalsmith does not know he was seen. You will follow him if he leaves his hut tonight. I will guard the High Moo."
"What about the Low Moo? She's expecting me."
"Have nothing to do with her."
"That's gonna be hard. We're stuck on the same island."
"She is not your type, believe me."
"Since when do you know what attracts me?"
"On Moo, every swaying teat attracts you. I am surprised you have not been chasing the female monkeys."
"Har de har har har," Remo said. But his face flushed in embarrassment.
Chapter 33
The physician in charge of patients at Folcroft Sanitarium was a rotund little man named Dr. Aldace Gerling. His white smock bulged at its lower buttons and Smith wondered as they walked down the two-tone green corridors of the sanitarium's psychiatric wing how a man could be a physician and yet allow his stomach to get so out of shape. If wasn't for his salt-and-pepper goatee, Smith would have suspected him, with his baby-fat features and soft voice, of being in the late stages of pregnancy.
"As I told you, Dr. Smith," Dr. Gerling was saying, "all rooms and patients have been accounted for."
"I know. But it's been nearly two weeks. I'm now convinced that Grumley never left the premises. There would have been police reports or incidents if he had."
"Then we will triple-check," Dr. Gerling said. His voice was a frown.
As they went from room to room, matching room numbers with a patient list Smith carried on a clipboard, Smith reflected that he had gotten nowhere with his other problem. Perhaps devoting more attention to this one would help clear his head. And there was still that nagging feeling he had that the two matters were connected somehow.
"And here is the unfortunate Mr. Purcell," Dr. Gerling said. They stopped at a heavily reinforced door.
"Oh, yes, Jeremiah Purcell," Smith said, peering in through the wire-mesh-reinforced porthole.
The walls of the room were gray and padded. A youngish man sat on the floor, wearing a strait-jacket that confined his arms. He stared at a far corner of the ceiling as if it held the image of God.
"I have never seen such a case before," Dr. Gerling remarked, pursing his wet lips. "The man's mind is totally blank. His state is beyond catatonia."
"He has not been a problem?"
"No more than a patch of catnip. He sleeps, he eats, he uses the toilet although sometimes he forgets to put down the seat and falls in. Then he cries. Other than that, nothing. No words, no complaints. No nothing. His is a sad case."
Smith looked at the young man for several minutes. His hair was long and blond and the texture of cornsilk. His eyes were so blue they looked like neon points. But in back of them lay an uncomprehending opacity.
Jeremiah Purcell has been brought to Folcroft by Remo and Chiun. He was perhaps their greatest enemy living-a white man who possessed the powers of Sinanju and an additional faculty: the ability to project his thoughts as visible hallucinations. In their last encounter, the Dutchman-as Purcell was also known-had snapped mentally. His mind was an absolute blank slate.
No, Smith thought. Purcell would have nothing to do with this. This was not his style. There was no point to it. And every staff doctor had pronounced his mind a roiling confusion of thoughts.
Smith checked Purcell's name off and walked on.
"And this is Mr. Chiun's room," Dr. Gerling said when they rounded the corner to the guest wing.
Smith started. "Mr. Chi
un?"
"Yes, the Alzheimer patient. The one who prattles on in the most astonishing ways. His stories about his village were most entertaining, if preposterous. As I recall, Dr. Smith, he once confided that he considered you to be his emperor. Is there a problem?"
"Mr. Chiun left us last month. Along with his guardian, Remo."
"Oh? Then who is in this room?" asked Dr. Gerling. Smith pushed the door open. A man lay on a narrow bed. He slept. Smith shook his shoulder and the man roused slowly. He blinked uncomprehending eyes at them. "This is not Mr. Chiun." Smith said.
Dr. Gerling looked at the patient's face. His own face loosened like a deflating balloon.
"But . . . but this man is Grumley," Dr. Gerling sputtered.
"Grumley! Are you certain?"
"Absolutely. I know Grumley. But what is he doing here?"
"Obviously he's hiding here. Why didn't you check this room more carefully?" Smith demanded.
Dr. Gerling drew himself up sternly. "You instructed me in quite explicit language, Dr. Smith, that the patient Chiun was not to be disturbed by the staff for any reason."
"Yes, yes, you are right. I did," Smith said distractedly.
"And you further neglected to inform me that Mr. Chiun had been discharged."
"It was quite sudden, actually," Smith admitted.
"Well, here is the solution to our little mystery. I shall escort Mr. Grumley back to his room."
"Yes, carry on. Thank you, doctor," said Dr. Harold W. Smith. He left the room hurriedly, clutching his clipboard. Despite his acute embarrassment, Smith was relieved. He had indeed neglected to brief Dr. Gerling when Remo and Chiun had abruptly moved out of Folcroft. He had no idea where they had gone after that. They had promised to communicate with him once they were settled in a new location, but had not. It had been Smith's policy to relocate them at intervals. They had ended up residing at Folcroft by default.
Wherever they were, at least the disappearance of Gilbert Grumley had no connection with Smith's main problem. And that eliminated the possibility that Folcroft had been compromised.
Now it was time to close out that other matter.
Chapter 34
Darkness fell upon the tiny island of Moo.
The cooking fires were doused with water. The riotous birds of day fell silent. Shining clouds hid the moon. Yawning and stretching, the peasants of Moo retreated to their grass huts. The High Moo had already retired to his palace.
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