by Andre Norton
“And I'm not returning to KP. and the joys of post duty without a squawk you can hear from here to Washington,” struck in Sam. “But what's the pitch in the Indies, sir, that you need eyes and ears down there? I can see now how Safield got permission to send us out as a private expedition — ”
The colonel was busy sorting into different piles the papers he had brought from Safield's office.
“These should take you anywhere in the Indies. Our government is interested in missing flyers — there is an organization being formed with just such duties. Your trip will be considered in the nature of an experiment. And don't concentrate on young Safield alone. Here is a list of others who have vanished in the same area — You have seats booked aboard the Hawaii clipper which leaves tomorrow. From there you're to fly to Manila and report to Boone.”
But Kane refused to be dismissed so easily. “What's wrong down there, sir?” he persisted.
“What's right?” countered the colonel. “The Dutch are fighting native reds in Java, all sorts of queer people are floating around. Use your eyes — and your wits — if you still have a teacupful of them left. Boone will brief you. Good day, gentlemen, and — good luck.”
Outside Kane laughed. “Ironjaw can give the brush-off quicker and more neatly than any other brass I’ve ever met What do you think of the set-up anyway, Sam?”
“Lloyds of London would turn down our applications at once — and they have the reputation of insuring everything and anything.”
Kane's eyes narrowed. “Well, it's nice to have my worst fears confirmed so quickly. Let's go and pick out coffins, shall we? I wonder if Ironjaw will remember to send lilies?”
“Lilies? When he's never heard of us? This interview never happened — officially.”
“Just a sort of nightmare, you mean? I suppose Ironjaw was the gristle in the hamburger I ate last night. Okay. But what are we going to do about our kits? I don't see myself coasting about the islands in this natty little gray number.”
“That's been taken care of, apparently.” Sam was glancing over his share of the papers.” Says so right here. We report to this address for kit and all supplies.”
“Then what are we waiting for? I give you Operation — Operation Lazarus!”
Sam considered the point before he nodded agreement “Operation Lazarus it is, Dutch.”
2
“WE'RE UNOFFICIAL, VERY, VERY UNOFFICIAL!”
“Glad I never said that I could decipher chicken tracks!” Kane stretched his long legs, trying to ease muscles weary from hours of walking about Manila He curled his bare toes over the foot rail of the bed and half-dollar sized flakes of once white paint scaled off to the floor.
The rest of the small room was in keeping with the ancient bed. Above Kane's pillowed head a line of plugged bullet holes in the stained wall was a reminder of the martyrdom of Manila's last days of captivity. There was only one light, a naked bulb swinging from a black cord looped above the battered table.
And under its glare Sam was hunched over a collection of dirty papers. His brown back was bare from the neck fringe of his wavy black hair — gift of at least one Hawaiian ancestor — to where a pair of green-and-orange shorts were on duty. His skin had an oily sheen, and now and again he rubbed face and chest with a towel.
It was smotheringly hot, and somehow the dusk gathering outside the cloth-screened window made the heat thicker — more tangible. Kane mused. Was it worth the energy expended to reach for the lime drink he had left on the chair by the bed? He decided it was not — just as Sam raised his head and rubbed his eyes wearily.
“Those chicken tracks might be of importance,” he answered Kane's remark of minutes before. “And men were writing books using these characters to express abstract thoughts when — ”
“When my barbarian ancestors wore blue paint for Sunday best. Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Only take it easy, fella, this is no climate in which to work yourself to death. You've been on that job too long. When Dead-Eye dropped those in your lap he didn't mean that they were to be translated today — ”
“Didn't he? You should know our Capt Boone better. I think he will — ”
“Will what?”
From force of long habit Kane's hand whipped under the pillow beneath his head — just as Sam's went as swiftly to the gleam of steel in the waistband of his shorts. Then both relaxed as the loose-jointed man at the door came into the full light of the room, shoved Kane's legs over, and coolly sat down on the bed without waiting for an invitation from its occupant.
“Boone will what?” He repeated his question.
“Someday” — Kane was scowling— “you'll get a slug right between your eyes because you pussy-footed around where you weren't wanted, Dead-Eye.”
“If you continue to keep your gun here” — Capt Richard Boone gave the pillow a twitch to reveal a wicked and well-kept automatic — “you won't be the one to do it. And why am I greeted in such a bloodthirsty fashion anyway? Haven't you boys thrown away your cloaks and daggers yet? Fie — you are peaceable private citizens now, you know.”
“Are we?” Sam was arranging his papers in two piles. “Old Ironjaw spoke a little differently on the same subject Well, here's your dirt, Boone — at least all that I have been able to translate so far. This bright effusion on top is a poem about cherry blossoms in the early spring. The poet has a lousy sense of rhyme and a fair memory for everything he has ever heard on the subject
“Next we have a bill of sale for five measures of rice, across the bottom of which is a comment about the state of the rice when received which will not bear repeating, not even in this low company. Then we have a quaint bit of local color — an order to one Susaki to watch someone referred to throughout as ‘he’, very unenlightening. Susaki is to make daily reports — ”
Boone reached over and deftly plucked the paper out of Sam's grasp.
“I’ll take that one. Anything else.”
“Two letters from homesick soldiers.” Sam shrugged. “Pretty mixed batch. What were you expecting — an expose of the late secret police?”
Boone put Susaki’s instructions away in his wallet “I don't ever expect anything from these little grab bags. I just accept thankfully what the gods may send. That all?”
“Two here I haven't had a chance to do yet Most of these chaps write a vile hand — ”
“Well, slave driver, did he pass with honors?” Kane rolled over.
“Pass — ?” murmured Boone.
“Yeah. Didn't you give him that mess of junk just to see whether the old brain was still functioning? As if you didn't have a corps of good translators right under your nose at headquarters! I wonder what sort of an exam you've cooked up to put me through. And speaking of gifts from the gods — has anyone sent us the means of getting out of this stewpot? We didn't fly halfway around the world to translate rice bills and poems about cherry blossoms. We're working men, remember? And there's going to be a question or two asked if we don't begin to deliver. Mr. Safield may be paying for our stay in this dump, but that doesn't endear it to us — ”
“I’ll have you know, my pampered pet” — Boone shed his cap and unbuttoned two more buttons on his damp shirt — “that there are good men and true on Leyte and elsewhere who would look upon these comfortable quarters as the height of luxury. You've been spoiled by too much stateside — ”
“If this is luxury — “ Kane grinned. “Oh, I know — there was a war on hereabouts. But seriously, Dead-Eye, what about a little trip south for us?”
“How would you like a voyage to the Celebes? See the strange native villages, revel in the cool sea breezes, sail romantically through the old pirate seas of the Sulu straits — ”
“In what?” demanded Sam suspiciously. “A worm-eaten prau?”
“In a nice clean Dutch steamer, a pre-war freighter. She's right here in the harbor now — bound for Jolo, Manado, and points south, wherever she can pick up cargo. She's the Sumba, Klees van Bleeker, captain. He was
carrying cargo for us during the war, knows the islands like his own hand, and may be willing to take passengers. The war wiped him out financially, all he has left is his ship.”
“The department vouches for him?” queried Sam.
But Boone refused to answer that leading questioa “Judge him for yourself. He's co-operative enough, a nice guy. You'll find him in town now, down at the old Casa Blanca Part of the roof’s still on the lobby, so it's in business again.”
“And do we let van Bleeker into our little secrets?” asked Kane lazily.
Again Boone did not answer directly. He took out a cigarette and turned it around in his fingers, studying the white tube as if he had never seen one of those very interesting objects before.
“I don't know,” he began slowly, “how much you've learned about the situation out here. Oh, we've supposedly liberated the islands and are in charge in Japan. But there's a civil war in China which may set off the powder barrel again, a revolt in Java which won't be ended in a hurry — if ever — and all sorts of dirty business afoot throughout the Indies. This is the proper time and place for interested people to try to gum up the works wherever they can. You've heard of the Nazi ‘Werewolves’, of the various bands of Japanese holdout troops which we come across now and again — well, we're not getting all of them — not by a long sight!
“There were German subs in these waters which we haven't found yet — among other small mysteries. And some men are clever enough to go to ground and stay there until they are forgotten. We can't go over hundreds of islands with fine-toothed combs! It'll be years before our clean-up drive is over — if it ever is. And every holdout we miss will be a festering sore.
“Just suppose some clever men — mind you, I'm not naming names — should undertake to organize little pockets of native agitators, holdout troops, ex-Nazis, and the like, on out-of-the-way islands. Keep them alive and going with supplies and use them to build up a skeleton force. If we didn't find out in time — it might be December Seventh all over again some fine day.
“Now you're going to head straight into the biggest danger point— the Indies. There're hundreds of islands down there, some of which white men have never explored, some which Europeans haven't visited in years — officially. Even the Japs didn't seem to pay much attention to them — then. But now you might be able to discover some very odd colonies taking root on them. A Nazi on the run or a Jap holdout has nothing to lose now if he changes masters. He'll eat regular, get ammunition for his guns, and can squat down to prepare for the big day when he can settle a few scores again. And if you do find anyting of that sort — ”
“We promise faithfully to tell you all about it” Sam held a light to Boone's cigarette. “Emulating the estimable Susaki, we shall inform you at the proper intervals of our progress. I only hope that we are not expected to be boy heroes. I am neither Terry Lee nor Steve Canyon, you understand. Mouse blood courses sluggishly through my veins.”
Kane snorted. “Sure, we know all about you and your mouse blood! All right, Dead-Eye, we'll double as your gumshoe boys. But to whom do we report any nefarious dealings which we may uncover — or are you about to present us with a new invisible walkie-talkie to conceal about our persons that we may use to summon the fleet at the proper moment? A couple of those atomic blasters used by the best science-fiction heroes would be nice too — and maybe a coat of mail apiece — these island boys carry knives.”
“You will be contacted at the right time. Keep in touch with van Bleeker, his knowledge of the Indies and their people will be invaluable. And if you get in a jam — “He hesitated, and Sam grinned, wryly.
“We do NOT send for the Marines. Yes, Ironjaw made that point clear. We're unoffical, very, very, unoffical!”
Boone nodded. “That's the way it has to be — sorry. If you want to walk out — no hard feelings.”
Kane's toes moved across the bed rail and more paint flakes went to the floor. “Oh, we're sitting in. I wanted a job like this one. After all, ending as hut decoration for a head-hunter is just what I have always fancied. And since Burma, life in the States seems a little too tame. I don't know how Sam feels about it — ”
“He endorses your sentiments heartily. Having worn a cloak and brandished a dagger successfully — I find that I no longer have a taste for the simple life. Yes, Capitan Boone, thank you kindly — we're island bound. Now is the time for you to rise and survey us proudly as, with simple and moving dignity, you utter those classic and tear-compelling words, ‘Good luck, men’.”
“Just for that crack, I will Good luck You'll probably need all of that commodity you can get. Now you'd better see van Bleeker as soon as you can. The Sumba sails when she has finished loading trade goods — ”
“Okay, tall brass. We hear and obey. I hope the ship has a decent cook. Good-bye, mug, we'll be seeing you — ”
Boone blew a long plume of smoke. “I’ll hold you to that promise, smart boy. Three months from now you'd better come around again or else!” With a wave of his hand he left.
“Or else,” mused Sam. “It seems to me that there are chances for a great many or-elses in this pleasant little excursion. Dressing?” He watched Kane pull on a shirt. “Aren't you being a little rash — that's next to your last clean shirt, and you don't have to be beautiful for me — I'm not proud.”
“You heard our orders. We go to the Casa Blanca and find this van Bleeker before he pulls out and leaves us sitting on the beach with not a ship in sight. Come on — rise and shine.”
With a groan Sam kicked off loose slippers and reached for his shoes while his roommate decided against the formality of a necktie.
After the unshaded light of their room the dusk outside was soft and soothing to the eyes. Manila had come to life — a broken life with the ugly scars of burns and unforgettable wounds to warp what had once been the heart of a free country. But it was free once more, and that was all which seemed to matter to its inhabitants. Tonight the streets were crowded, and there was actually laughter to be heard now and then. Manila was on the way back.
The Casa Blanca had once been a luxury hotel. And now, as Boone had pointed out, because it still boasted part of a roof, it was in business again, prized by those lucky enough to find shelter within its bullet-pocked walls. Kane inquired at the desk for van Bleeker and had pointed out to him a slender man in the spotless white of a ship's officer who sat alone at a table in the restaurant corner of the lobby.
“Capt van Bleeker?”
The man who might have been in his middle forties raised his eyes politely to Kane's. The weathered skin of a seaman was a mask beneath a thick tangle of what once might have been blond hair. Now sun-bleached to silver white, that mop was as startling as the two very fair eyebrows against his dark skin.
“I am Capt van Bleeker, yes. You will sit please, gentlemen.” He waved an invitation, and the Americans slid into the vacant chairs at the table while the master of the Sumba sipped his drink and waited for them to state their business.
“I am Lawrence Kane, and this is Sam Marusaki. We're interested in taking passage down to the Moluccas, and we heard that you are sailing for there — ”
“Perhaps,” returned van Bleeker tranquilly. “The Sumba is an island trader; she sails where she can find a cargo. And she is no passenger ship, gentlemen.”
“We understand that, Captain. But Capt Boone of the United States Army suggested that we speak to you. We're trying to find a man who disappeared over the Banda or Arafura Seas, the pilot of a bomber reported missing somewhere between Timor Laotet and the Soelas.”
Van Bleeker smiled politely. “That is something of a wide territory to cover. If you do not have any definite clues — “ He shrugged and raised his glass.
“But you are bound for that section, aren't you?” persisted Sara
“I sail for Jolo in the Sulus and then to Manado in Celebes — from there” — he shook his head — “it may be anywhere. You understand, I am a pioneer in re-establishing trade
. I must go where I can find profit. During the occupation our business with the islands was wiped out. We must begin again. And southward there are hundreds of islands — your task is a formidable one, gentlemen I do not envy you.”
“We can avoid the larger islands and those which have been visited recently by our forces. Our man would have been found if he were on one of those. But there are small islands — ”
“True. And some of them are not even on any map — totally unknown except to native turtle fishermen. For a man to be lost thereabouts is not impossible. There is, for example, the classic case of the men of Kissar — ”
“Kissar?”
“Yes. A famous case, as unusual as that of the Bounty men who settle Pitcairn's Island. When the armies of the French Revolution overran the Netherlands, our island empire was cut off from the motherland for years. The British took over Sumatra and Java and those of the larger islands whose trade made it worth their while to control. But they did not bother to visit the smaller outposts on some of the little islands. Among those so disregarded was Kissar, which has no anchorage and was not a regular port of call. Left to its own devices upon Kissar was a colony of Netherlanders, soldiers and merchants — some with European wives. For fifty years or more Kissar was off the maps of the world.
“Then one day a coasting ship, much like my Sumba, sent a party ashore there — perhaps she needed water— perhaps her master was of a curious turn of mind. There the crew discovered a colony still in being, a colony whose members lived, dressed and spoke as Coast-Malays, but who were as Dutch in blood as Amsterdam itself. And to this day the men of Kissar continue to live as aliens to their blood — to all purposes they are island natives. What has happened before may well happen again. I would not say that your man cannot be found.
“But the Sumba goes only for trade, where she may find cargo. If you sail with me you must abide by my decision as to route. If you discover a clue and wish to trace it to its source — the source being an island where the Sumba does not touch — well, that will then be your problem, not mine.”