Coin of the Realm td-77

by Warren Murphy

  "How can it just sink like that?" Remo moaned.

  "It is not. Use your eyes, not your heart to see, Remo." Moo was not sinking. It was spreading out. It lost height.

  It lost shape. With sick eyes Remo saw tiny figures being pulled under the shifting porous volcanic soil. It was like dry quicksand. Others climbed palms and rode them down to the water. The boles snapped apart with thunderous splinterings. Remo lost sight of every tiny figure he picked out.

  The junk wallowed closer. Remo's eyes searched the water for survivors. He saw none. He pushed at the tiller, sending the boat around.

  "Might be some survivors on the other side," he called. Chiun said nothing in reply. Remo couldn't see his face. He wondered what thoughts were going through the Master of Sinanju's mind as he watched an important link to Sinanju's past crumble.

  On the far end of the island, the soil was spreading even further into the water. The summit of Moo was barely ten feet above sea level now. And still it shifted and spread. It was all going to go.

  "There!" Chiun cried. "I see the High Moo."

  Remo peered past the rakish sails. He spotted the High Moo splashing helplessly in the water. His arms waved at them. He called for them to rescue him.

  "Hurry, Remo," Chiun called back. He went to the rail.

  "I can't get out and push this thing," Remo snapped back.

  Then other figures appeared in the water. They surrounded the High Moo. At first Remo feared they were sharks. But they were Moovians. They grabbed at the High Moo, pulling at his face and hair and arms. They were beating on him, dragging him down with them.

  They pulled him below the brown water, which was turning chlorophyll green from crushed vegetation. Bubbles marked the spot where the High Moo disappeared. One head surfaced after a while. A girl's. Remo thought he recognized her although her wet hair was plastered to her face. It was the Low Moo.

  "Hold on," he called in Moovian.

  "Nah," the Low Moo called back. "I am the last. All the others have perished. There are no more. Go away. Moo is no more. I have no subjects, no throne. There is no place for one such as I in your world. I no longer wish to live. Go, Remo, but never forget us."

  "No chance," Remo said, diving into the water.

  He set out for the Low Moo, but she saw his intentions and jacknifed under the water. Remo slipped down after her. He followed the trail of air bubbles that spilled from her open mouth. She wasn't even trying to hold her breath. She went as limp as a starfish and Remo knew before he reached her that she was gone.

  He pulled her to the surface and tried desperately to squeeze the water from her lungs. He touched his lips to hers, and puffed steady breaths into them. "Come on, come on," he urged.

  Her lips remained cold, her eyes closed. Reluctantly Remo let her go. The Low Moo floated away, her face brown and composed and nearly innocent.

  Remo fought back the burning sensation in his eyes as he climbed aboard the junk. He couldn't understand why he should care that the cruel Low Mo had perished. He took the tiller, sending the junk around for another circuit of the island.

  There were few bodies. They floated facedown, many of them.

  The hammerhead sharks closed in.

  "Shouldn't we stop them?" Remo asked. Chiun kept his back to him.

  "No," Chiun-said distantly. "It is the way of the sea."

  "That was the Low Moo I tried to rescue back there, you know."

  "So? "

  "I know it sounds strange, but I wish I could have saved her."

  "Why?" Chiun asked in a cold voice. "If we took her back to America, she would only try to eat you again."

  "Hey," Remo said angrily. He stormed up to Chiun and spun him around. "That was uncalled-for."

  But then he saw the tears rilling down Chiun's lined cheeks and he swallowed.

  "Sorry," he muttered sheepishly.

  "History had repeated itself," Chiun said slowly. "Greed destroyed Old Moo, and greed has claimed what had survived almost five thousand years."

  "Greed, nothing. It was those killers and their explosives."

  "No, my son. Mere explosives would not have done all this. Old Moo sank because the High Moos of those days also forced their people to mine every foot of land in search of coin metal. Eventually they undermined the very earth, and the seas claimed Old Moo. Now the greedy sea has drunk the last of Moo, and the last poor Moovian. "

  As they watched, the final patch of dry ground grew dark with moisture and soon it was indistinguishable from the ugly brown of the sea.

  Steam rose in mighty tendrils from the place where Moo had been.

  "Behold, Remo. Do you see those mighty arms reaching up to the very sky?"

  "Yeah. Steam from the hot jungle growth. So what?"

  "They only appear to be steam. For those are the very tentacles of Ru-Taki-Nuhu itself, holding up the sky."

  "Bull," said Remo. But he stared into the swirling steam uncertainly. Did he see suckers?

  Chapter 39

  It was four days later. The mouth-watering smell of hot egg-lemon soup woke Remo Williams. He jumped out of his bunk and made his way to the junk's galley, where he found the Master of Sinanju hovering over the galley stove.

  "Do I smell my favorite soup?" he asked brightly.

  "You do," replied Chiun in a happy voice. He turned, a steaming wooden bowl in his hands.

  At the sight of Remo's face, Chiun let out a screech. "Aiiee!" he cried.

  "Yeah, I know," Remo said, holding up his hands. His nails were long and curved. "Aren't they gross?"'

  "Your nails are perfect. It is your hair. And beard."

  "Huh?"

  "They are a sickly yellow." Chiun looked into the bowl. His eyes narrowed. His lips thinned. "Lemon yellow." He marched to an open porthole and emptied the bowl's contents overboard.

  "My breakfast!" Remo cried.

  "No more egg-lemon soup for you," Chiun muttered angrily as he dumped the remaining potful after the bowl. "It has had an unforeseen effect upon your ridiculous white consitution."

  "Unforeseen?" Remo folded his arms. He tapped a foot impatiently. "Chiun, I think you have some explaining to do." He was looking at his fingernails.

  Chapter 40

  Dr. Harold W. Smith noticed the shiny blue Buick in the next-door driveway when he pulled into his own. His lips thinned. They were home, his mysterious neighbors. That changed everything.

  As he put his house key in the front door, the portable phone in his briefcase buzzed. Perhaps it was Remo calling, Smith thought, his heart racing. He fumbled the door open.

  Smith plunged into his living room. Mrs. Smith was sitting in an overstuffed chair, facing an identical highbacked chair.

  "Oh, Harold, I'm so glad you're home," Mrs. Smith gushed excitedly. "I'd like you to meet-"

  "One moment, please," Smith said curtly. "I have some phone calls to make." And he hurried into the den, leaving his wife to mutter apologies to her guest.

  "He's not like that, really. It's just that he's been so overworked."

  "I recognized him as a man of responsibility," the other voice said gravely. "And have I told you that you brew excellent tea?"

  Smith opened the briefcase at his desk. He lifted the receiver.

  "Yes?" he said crisply.

  "Smitty? Remo here."

  "Remo!" Smith bit out. "Where have you been? Never mind. That's not important now. We have a crisis."

  "I'll be right over."

  "No, I'm not at Folcroft. I'm home."

  "I know. I saw you drive up."

  "You did? You're in the neighborhood? Wonderful. Listen carefully: unknown agents have bought the house next door to mine. There's something very wrong there. I don't have time to explain the details, but I want you to look into this. Find out who they are and what they're up to. I believe that at the very least, they're storing munitions over there. The apparent leader is a man who calls himself James Churchward."

  "I'm already on top of it, Smitty."r />
  Smith gulped. He was so relieved that his normally ashen face flushed with perspiration. "You are?"

  "Look out your window," Remo suggested.

  Smith hesitated. Carrying the briefcase awkwardly, he moved over to the window. It faced the house next door. Smith peered through the chintz curtains.

  Framed in the opposite window, Smith saw a blond man with a full golden beard. He was holding a telephone receiver to his face. His lips moved. The words they mouthed were reproduced in Smith's unbelieving ear.

  "Hi, neighbor," Remo's voice chirped. "Come on over."

  "Stay right there," Smith hissed. He slipped out the back door and crept to the rear of the other house. He knocked gingerly. The door opened.

  "Don't mind the place," Remo said casually. "Chiun and I are still working on it."

  Smith walked in on leaden feet. His face drained of color. Remo led him to the living room, which was bare except for a projection TV and two reed sitting mats. In the middle of the room stood a huge cardboard container.

  "Grab a piece of floor, Smitty. I'll be just a minute. This arrived today. It was the first thing I bought after I closed on the house. I never thought I'd have an urgent use for it." Smith's eyes focused slowly.

  "Your hair," he croaked. "That beard."

  Remo touched his blond head. "One of Chiun's little schemes gone wrong," he said as he attacked the cardboard box with curved talonlike fingers.

  "Your nails."

  "Exhibit B," Remo said. The box lay in strips, exposing a tractor lawn mower. Remo pushed it over on its side, revealing sharp rotary steel blades. He began filing his nails on the sharpest blade. It sounded like two steel files rasping one another. Remo talked as he worked.

  "I have to admit Chiun fooled me this time. I thought the soup was a special treat. You know, a celebration because we'd finally bought a house."

  "This is your house," Smith said hoarsely.

  "Yup. We answered an ad. Hey, imagine our surprise when we found out it was next door to yours." A fingernail dropped to the floor. Remo started to work on the next one.

  "Imagine . . ." Smith's eyes were sick. He looked away, and through an open door he saw stacks of brass-bound lacquered boxes in the next room. They were festooned with old-fashioned padlocks. Chiun's steamer trunks. They fit Brunt's description perfectly. Smith didn't know whether to laugh or cry. So he swallowed uncomfortably.

  "Naturally," Remo was saying, "I objected at first. But Chiun convinced me. He said the emperor's assassin should dwell no more than twenty cubits from his emperor. I didn't measure, but I guess we've got twenty cubits between us. Besides, we'd been living at Folcroft for over a year now, so I figured security wouldn't suffer."

  "No. But I have. Do you have any idea what I've been going through for the last two weeks?"

  "No," Remo said as he went to work on his other hand, "but I can guarantee you it's nothing compared to what Chiun and I have experienced. So do me the favor of not telling me your story and I'll return it. Okay?"

  "Who is James Churchward?" Smith wanted to know. His hands hung limply.

  "That's me. Sorta. It's one of the aliases you gave me. I used it when I bought this place. Don't tell me you forgot?"

  "Oh, my God," said Smith. "No wonder I recognized the name. No wonder the computers couldn't access those files. I was fighting my own rebuff programs." He sank to the floor and took his head in his hands. He pulled at his gray hair. "I never thought to check your alias file. I never dreamed you were connected to this."

  "Join the human race," Remo said when the last dead fingernail clipping clicked to the floor. "Now you know you're not perfect."

  "Where is Chiun?" Smith asked hollowly.

  "Next door. Paying a courtesy call on Mrs. Smith." Smith's head shot up.

  "My wife?"

  "Yeah, she recognized us from that time we met at Folcroft. She invited us over to tea, but I had my manicure to do. To tell you the truth, I think the only reason Chiun accepted was that he knows I'm still pissed at him over the egg-lemon trick."

  "Egg-lemon?" Smith's voice was drained of emotion.

  "Yeah, he's been feeding me egg-lemon soup for two weeks now. It's mostly lemon, but it's got eggshell bits in it. I've been drinking it by the gallon, little dreaming that the eggshells were making my nails grow faster and harder. You know how Chiun's always on my case to grow mine like his. But the joke turned out to be on him. The stuff turned my hair yellow. It freaked Chiun out. He says a true Master of Sinanju should not go around looking like a fuzzy lemon. And all the time I was on Moo, I thought the soft bone knives were the problem. These nails are ridiculous. They couldn't have been cut with anything less than tempered steel."

  "Moo?"

  Remo's hands shot up. "Forget I mentioned it. I'm just happy to be home. My roots are coming up brown again, so I figure I'll be completely normal in a week or two. Oh, well, live and learn. It could have been worse."

  "How so?"

  "It could have been egg-lime soup." Remo grinned, brushing at his hair.

  When Smith didn't join in his laughter, Remo remarked, "You're aging just like vinegar, Smitty."

  "I feel as if I've aged a year since I saw you last."

  "Better let me help you to your feet," Remo said solicitously.

  Dr. Harold W. Smith allowed himself to be helped to his feet. He winced at the pain in his arthritic knee.

  The Master of Sinanju came in through the front door, and at the sight of Smith, he bowed formally.

  "Greetings of the day, O tolerant Harold. I have been conversing with the Empress Maude. She is a sterling woman, truly worthy of one such as you."

  "You don't have to lay it on too thick," Remo said. "He's not as upset as you expected."

  "I am laying nothing on, thick or thin," Chiun protested. "I am merely offering up my thanks now that we will be neighbors with Emperor Smith. I trust while Remo and I were taking our much-overdue and thankfully received vacation, no villains troubled your kingdom?"

  "You are supposed to check in every day, if you are not in a prearranged location," Smith pointed out sternly.

  "Exactly what I told that innkeeper," Chiun said quickly. "And you should have been there to witness the tonguelashing I gave him. Do you know that scoundrel did not have a single working telephone?"

  "I'm going home now," Smith said, shaking his head. "I do not feel well."

  "A wise decision," Chiun said. "You look pale-but at least you are not a sickly yellow." Chiun shot Remo a distasteful glance. Remo stuck his tongue out at him.

  After Smith had gone, Remo showed his spread fingers. "Notice anything?"

  "Yes," Chiun said. "You have maimed yourself. Tonight I will lie awake, deprived of sleep, wondering what will be next. A ring in your nose? Tattoos?"

  "Actually, my next goal in life is duck in orange sauce. I never thought I'd say this, but after all that soup, I'm really looking forward to duck. "

  "You may look forward to it, but we have unfinished business. "

  "Billiken?"

  "He has the treasure of Moo. Including Sinanju's rightful share. He must not be allowed to go unpunished or word will get out that Sinanju has lost its mighty vigilance. Then the vultures will circle my village and the treasure of Sinanju will be prey to any fool who covets it. For it is our reputation that does most of our work for us. Otherwise we could not enjoy this splendid home, but instead be forced to dwell forever in the village of Sinanju, safeguarding our property. Such a day will never dawn while I am reigning Master. If it happens on your watch, it will be on your head, but as long as I live-"

  "Stow the lecture," Remo said. "I'll be with you as soon as I get rid of these toenails and shave."

  "I cannot bear to look," Chiun said, turning his back as Remo tried to figure out a safe way to trim his toenails with a lawn mower.

  Chapter 41

  The British Museum in London wouldn't accept Shane Billiken's call.

  He got through to the Smithsonian, b
ut when the curator realized who he was, he hung up.

  The Museum of Fine Arts in Boston was no better. They transferred Shane Billiken to their public-relations staff, and Shane hung up on them.

  "What's wrong with people?" Shane demanded, slamming down the receiver. He was in the living room of his Malibu home. Stacks of Moovian coins surrounded him. Shane had counted them seven times, each time coming up with a different total. The exact number didn't matter. He was rich. If only someone would believe his story.

  Frustrated, Shane riffled through the mail that had come while he was away. There was a postcard from Glinda. She was shacked up with a rock singer in Rio. He threw the card away. The bank statement said he was overdrawn by nearly six hundred dollars. And the mortgage on the house was due in a few days. Although surrounded by the entire wealth of the vanished Moovian empire, Shane Billiken was flat, dead, sucking-wind broke.

  "No problem," he said suddenly snapping his fingers. He grabbed the Yellow Pages and looked up the listing for coin dealers. There was one in Beverly Hills. They'd know how to treat him. He picked out a dozen coins and piled into his Ferrari.

  "But you don't understand," Shane was explaining heatedly to the proprietor not twenty minutes later. "These are rare ancient coins. From Mu. Don't tell me you never heard of Mu. It was a great continent that existed before the dawn of time. It sank. But not all of it. A little bit of high ground stuck up. Except that it sank too. Recently. Last week, as a matter of fact. And before it went, I rescued these coins. There aren't any more left. I got them all."

  "Sank?" asked the coin dealer.

  "Yes!"

  "Twice?"

  "Yes! That's it. You've seized the concept perfectly. You must be highly evolved to catch on so quickly. Congratulations. Don't ever change."

  "But you're willing to sell them to me, instead of to the Smithsonian?"

  "The Smithsonian people are nimnoids, and I've got a minor short-term cash-flow thing going on right now. I've got more of these coins. Tons. Otherwise I wouldn't be making you this truly excellent deal. So how much?"

  "I see," said the coin dealer. "Tell me something. I thought I recognized you when you walked in. Haven't I seen you on TV?"