by Simon Latter
"Shut the door, please." His voice was quieter, deeper, and had lost its cockney intonation. He pointed to a heavily ornamented flask on a shelf next to the robes. "Will you help me?"
"Surely. How?"
"Take the flask. Pour some of the contents slowly over my head, then over the cuts. Take no notice of me."
When Mark turned from lifting the flask, he saw that Chas was now completely still — the stillness of death. No movement of chest or stomach as in normal breathing. No flicker of life in the wide-staring eyes. Mark observed this, but made no comment as he poured the liquid Chas had requested. This done, he gently sniffed the flask. The liquid was scented — not unlike lavender water. He replaced the flask, then turned to see the cuts bubbling as if the liquid consisted of peroxide of hydrogen or a similar fluid.
After nearly five minutes the life returned to Chas's eyes, and his body moved in rhythmic breathing. He began to speak in a foreign tongue, softly, gently. Mark caught the words "Y-Shan-U" and what sounded like "Mort ah mortshan ah mort, deeya, deeya", but the rest was spoken too fast and too softly to catch.
Then Chas quivered, blinked his eyes, moved his arms. The bubbling on the cuts had ceased. In fact, no cuts were now visible, merely slight crustations of dried blood. Chas brushed these away so that only a few whitish marks remained on the skin.
He smiled up at Mark. "Thanks." He rose to his feet.
"Self-induced trance?" said Mark. "Part of your religion?"
Chas nodded. "I thought you'd be interested." He glanced at the flask. "That's only water, y'know. Drink some, if you like. A little oil of lavender rubbed on the rim gives the spirit some pleasure. It likes music too. And colour."
"The faith of the flowers, the bird songs, and the colours of earth, sea and sky," said Mark quietly. "I've heard of it. Y-Shan-U,"
"S'right," said Chas, reverting to his cockney accent. "Y-Shan-U it is. But you don't need to bother your head about it. Just wanted you to see that it works."
Mark smiled. "And some of your faithful are on Taradata? Your own people on Lagelo want them to return. You have promised they will. If there were free entry and exit, you could bring them off because you can hypnotize them. But the time has gone on and on until now you realize they may be prisoners there. Today, to all except special persons, entry and exit is banned. You can't reach them. But if you return to Lagelo without them — eh, Chas? What will happen?"
Chas shrugged. "They'll likely chop me ruddy head off." He pointed to the robes. "And I'll certainly lose me little Boy Scout lot." He grinned. "You sure are quick at figuring. How d'you do it? I thought my performance would impress you. It ain't a fake, y'know."
Mark chuckled. "I know it isn't. That's how you survived your terrible treatment in the war. You hypnotized yourself to resist pain. Many eastern religions have priests who can do that — from fire walking to sticking bamboo rods through their skins."
"Yeah — I can do that too. So you know more than most people. But you couldn't know I'm in a spot over our people on Taradata."
"It had to be something like that — mate." Mark grinned. "There was no money in it for you in changing sides — or ceasing to be neutral. You've built yourself a way-out reputation among the islands. Probably it was you who revived an ancient religion, using your power of hypnosis to add colour. I guess it grew faster and bigger than you expected."
"You can say that again!" said Chas. "It went like a bomb. All a giggle at first. Made me feel secure and important — and wanted. S'funny, ain't it? Even my old Daddy believes in me. Who was that bloke who created another bloke what did him up?"
"Frankenstein?"
"That's him. That's me too. But it's not all fake — not by a long way. To me, perhaps — or it was — but not to them. I really can cure people. I really can 'see' things — sense 'em — always have been able to. But they expect me to do ruddy miracles!" Chas sighed deeply. "Oh, mate, wotta mess! And a relief too. You're the only man I've ever told."
"Are your 'wives' your followers?"
Chas nodded. "All except the Palaga one. They all visited the island and fell in love with me — or me flippin' image."
"And subscribed heavily to your funds?"
"S'right."
"But the Palaga one did it on a strictly business basis?"
"Well, y'know them Palagas — hard-faced lot, they are. Her papa owns the ruddy wharf, she owns the warehouses with her brother. What you might call a marriage of convenience, like."
Mark chuckled. "Oh, brother! I never met a man who could lose his head in so many places! Why don't you just pocket your cash and fly out into the deep blue yonder?"
"Me?" Chas yelped. "Why should I? I love it around here. Besides — I got fifteen children. I loves kids. And I likes me freedom."
Mark rolled his eyes. "Freedom, he calls it! Okay, mate — here's where you earn it. From you I want cooperation plus, else there's going to be fifteen orphans, five widows, and a leaderless army of the faithful. Got it?"
Chas nodded. "I not only got it — looks like I'm stuck with it!"
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE TARA
APRIL DANCER digested Mark Slate's latest information, linking it with Sama Paru's report and her own observations.
"Randy Kovac is right," she said. "The maps are not accurate. We don't want to enter the harbour yet — can't, anyway, they've swung two harbour craft side-on across the entry channel. Island Traveller is standing off."
Mr. Waverly said: "You've checked the beaches?"
"Yes, sir. Our way was barred by a bevy of beautiful pearl divers — or that's what they claimed to be. We couldn't get the launch past them. They were trailing a steel-cable net. We went back to the cave below Taramao Point and found the coracles which Mr. Paru and Randy Kovac saw being towed out to moorings during the night."
"Then they must have been brought down the rock- face?"
"Yes, sir. The sound of a motor-driven hoist was heard. They appear to be lowered four at a time. Native swimmers tow them to mooring rings in the rocks. The boats cannot be seen from the sea."
Mr. Waverly said: "Come in, Mr. Slate. Why?"
"The man Chas says he was told these were ex-invoice exports."
"Meaning someone on the island was fiddling the export quota? How many have been removed in this way?"
"At a rough guess — over a period — about six thousand. They're easily stowed, and very light."
"Does he know their worth?"
"No, sir."
"Then I will tell you. Within the last twenty-four hours we have received information that these craft are bought in the States for not more than three hundred dollars. They are all — repeat all — sold to the coracle clubs. THRUSH agents in those clubs take personal delivery. The local island lining is replaced by plastic to make them more seaworthy in the hands of learners, the original lining being some sort of leaf or bark which is not obtainable at home. Simple and cheap, Mr. Slate. Hours of innocent pleasure for three hundred dollars. Why should anyone want, or need, to swindle the exporters? You tell me that special hatches were cut in the ship's hull, special lifting gear installed, special bulk heads and panelling. That is a colossal outlay for such a comparatively low-priced article."
"Yes, sir, and Chas received ten dollars commission for each one — on top of freight charges."
"Absurd," said Mr. Waverly. "It doesn't make sense."
April cut in: "But it does, sir, if the actual exporter wanted to cover up the number he was sending out from the island."
"Good gracious, Miss Dancer — you would think they were made of gold!"
"They've made a lot of gold for certain people out here," said Mark. "All the seamen receive a cash bonus for handling that cargo. They'll work it at any hour of the day or night. In fact, they call them their little golden boats of Taradata.
"And they pay the same rate for sending the repaired boats from Palaga. These come all the way from the States. They rip out the broken plastic, re-weave the hull, then ship them
back here to be re-lined — and re-exported." Mark laughed. "I still can't see who makes the profit. The Palaganians charge at least a hundred dollars to repair them. It's a handcraft job. Freight and commission swallows another fifty. Then they have to be lined, and shipped all the way back — for only three hundred dollars. Even THRUSH isn't that crazy."
"That's it!" April exclaimed. "That's the one thing that stands out. The boats are woven in Taradata, but they also can be woven — as when they are repaired — in Palaga. Does THRUSH build up to control of an island just to make little boats that can also be made somewhere else?"
"Yes," said Mark. "Because they have. So what's 'it', Lady Brain?"
"'It' is the lining, you dope!"
"Charming," said Mark. "A few pressed leaves or malleable bark..." He broke off, then added softly: "Containing a new drug?"
April said tensely: "Which grows only on Taradata?" Mark continued: "And is not known in its original state, and li'l ol' toy boat is so cute with its li'l ol' lining." He paused. "If Chas knew this, I'll hang him from the mast arm, so help me!"
"Go to it," said Mr. Waverly. "S.F.D. is still operative. I shall expect to hear from you by midnight."
Free from the continual presence of his blackmailer, his roughneck auxiliary crew, and other pressures aboard his ship, Captain Sidano assumed a new stature. Chas helped in this transformation. Previously, he had maintained a neutral role. Although the owner, he liked working around Island Traveller. He could observe everything, especially those things which gave him massive profits, and was able to check on others which might increase costs. But he hadn't actively concerned himself with the running of the ship. He'd been content to follow a policy of them-as-pays-most-has-most-say. Now, he cooperated with Mark and supported his captain.
The THRUSH-recruited thugs were manacled in the for'ard hold under charges of murder, mutiny, and breaking of parole. Several of them talked freely, declaring that their orders, after landing on Taradata, were to report to a man named Tom-Tom, who would issue them with weapons and uniforms. They would then be enrolled as guards. A large cash bonus had been offered, half to be paid on landing, half at the end of their work. Whatever work that was to be, they didn't know, but it didn't take much guessing to class it as some form of brutality. They were those sort of men.
Captain Sidano collected statements from witnesses. One of the other passengers, disturbed by the noise, had come on deck in time to witness the killing of Maleski and the ferocious fight between Chas and his seamen and Maleski's men. Sidano covered himself, his owner and the crew by these statements, and entered his log accordingly. Then he set Island Traveller out to sea, where he performed a burial service on Maleski.
"I am now at your service, gentlemen, and wait your orders," said Sidano, when all was completed. "I have some passengers who would like to visit Taradata, but they do not insist. I have cargo to unload, but that can wait, if necessary. My ship and crew are now under my full control. You will inform me of your decisions?" He strode away to his cabin.
Chas chuckled. "Regular old sea-dog, ain't he? Ex-Merchant Navy, y'know. Couldn't get used to the free and easy island ways. Sort of lost his direction for a while. Could have finished up a suicide, or a lush, boozing himself to death on some island. I've seen it happen before. I reckon it's thanks to you we've all come to our senses. Free and easy is a fine way of living. There's only one drawback. Nothing comes free, and living too easy rots a man and prostitutes a woman." He grinned at Mark. "Sort of corny, huh? Little ol' corn philosopher, that's me. Sorry I called you sonny. You're a fine young fella. I still dunno what mob you belong to, but you can count me in."
Mark laughed. "My 'mob' will be happy to have you help us." He called up April Dancer in the launch.
In an hour she had rejoined the ship. Kazan and Lars Carlson also came aboard. Kazan was still a sick man. The virus had hit him hard, although injections helped keep down his temperature and eased the congestion. They gathered in the captain's cabin as Island Traveller rode at anchor. Chas was tending the passengers' needs.
"A false shore-line?" said Captain Sidano. "How can that be possible?"
"It's possible right enough," said April. "Your ship couldn't get close enough inshore to use the powerful glasses you need."
"A deep breakwater to turn the tides around the headland," said Lars. "Then they dredge the beaches and bull doze the sand further out. In six months, you would have a new outline. The tides would help. Also they would give deep water in the coves below Taramao Point. Ya — it has been done."
Mark peered through the porthole "Three or four native huts, palm trees, a background of tropical foliage. Looks innocent enough."
"The whole of the background is false," said April. "As false as a movie back-projection. A great scenic slab. I bet the few clumps of greenery are plastic. They flop in the breeze. Not like the real thing at all, but you have to bring them to close focus to see it."
"And who would — a-a-shoo! — bodder?" said Kazan, wheezing terribly.
"Not many visitors would bother," said Sidano. "They take pretty camera shots — that is all. And those beaches have been banned to visitors for a long time. There are big signs saying 'Stone fish in great numbers — keep out or die'. That scares off strangers. And there are guards who stop anyone else. Gradually, the area back of the small port itself has been closed to visitors."
"So they move their shore-line and build a scenic barrier to hide whatever they've got back of the beaches. What used to be there, Captain?" Mark asked.
"A valley, some native long huts, sugar plantations, and, of course, the Tara hills rising up to Taramao Point through the tara growth."
"What is tara growth?" April asked.
Sidano spread his hands about fourteen inches apart. "A fern plant with fronds about so big, but the fronds are so close it looks like a large fan. It is peculiar to this island, and obviously gave it the name — The word data itself means time — the time the tara plant was ready for picking by the islanders, who line their boats with it — the little coracles and small fishing craft. They also use it to thatch their houses. It has many local uses." He chuckled. "Even to make a local drink. I never tasted it, but old sailors have told me it is most foul but a great cure for scurvy and other ailments."
"This stuff doesn't grow anywhere else?" April asked.
Sidano shrugged. "Not in this form. It is something to do with the soil. I believe there is a tara fern in New Zealand, but it does not grow like this. The island tara has to be cut very carefully, and there is an art in its drying and pressing. And if they do not cut it, it will overwhelm all their homes." He pointed through the porthole to Taramao Point. "Those trees are all tara ferns which have been left to grow. The bark of those is stripped to make the coracles. Once the trees reach about eight or nine feet high, they stop growing, but they will make new bark." He looked at April and Mark. "But is this not an idle conversation? We have missed the tide this morning. Do we wait for the later tide or sail to Lagelo? The boats across the harbour mouth are foolish. I can crunch them aside with my ship."
April glanced at Mark, who nodded.
"We go in on the tide, Captain. You will tie up at the dock and unload your cargo in the usual way."
Mark said: "Would this mean an overnight stop? You can't unload and take on cargo and still get out on the tide?"
Sidano nodded. "That is so. I will advise my passengers not to leave the ship. I cannot guarantee your safety if you go ashore, and I do not have enough men to go with you as guards."
"We'll handle our end," said Mark. "You use your men for the work and to prevent any attempt at a takeover of the ship."
"You think this might happen?"
Mark shrugged. "If they hadn't closed up the island, I'd say no. But as things are — yes, they might try it."
"Then I think you should call upon your own country's Naval craft, which is a day's sailing from us, and request the assistance of a landing party," said Sidano briskly. H
e smiled. "To protect their nationals, of course. We do not want Palaga screaming about an international incident and claiming millions of dollars compensation. I am Palaganian, and I know how we work these things."
"Keep the idea in reserve," said Mark. "If we disappear, then no one gets off the island until we're found." He looked at April and the others. "Agreed?"
April nodded. "Ya," said Lars. "It is our job first."
"Use it as bluff," said Kazan, speaking more clearly now that his latest injection had taken effect. "Radio ashore. Tell dem you're cubbing id — but you'll call up de Davy to protect pashengers. Pardod by English!"
"Good idea," said April. "A captain would take such precautions."
"I bet they reply that passengers on board will not be molested," said Mark. "That safeguards the ship, and leaves us on our own if we go ashore. Which suits us."
"It is all very foolhardy," said Sidano. "I do not see the need."
"You stick to your job," said April. "We'll do ours. We're used to working alone. If my people wanted to use the Navy, they'd have done so. What is the island set-up? Who are Lodori and Tom-Tom?"
"Lodori is a doctor, also the island's teacher. Tom-Tom is cousin to Mareet, the present chief who deposed Kuala. They call him 'Boy' Kuala. He is quite old, but has a boyish face. The Mareets have Palaga blood. The Kualas have not. Kuala's daughter, Imali, married Tom-Tom, after her sister Iloni refused him." The captain shrugged. "These islands have many troubles like that. All family matters — not bad, unless foreigners interfere. I think this has happened on Taradata. We keep out of them. It is best."
"So Mareet is chief. Where is Kuala?" Mark asked.
Again Sidano shrugged. "We do not ask. It is their affair."
"We'll make it ours now," said April. "It should be interesting."
CHAPTER NINE: SELECTIVE KILL
IT happened as they expected. The Taradata port officer told Captain Sidano to bring his ship in on the next tide, to keep his passengers aboard, and to discharge and take on cargo in time to leave on the morning tide. He even gave an official reason for the landing ban — an epidemic of island fever, a reason to which no authority could object — nor query — as it was backed by the Taradata medical officer, Dr. George Lodori.