The Last Dragon td-92

by Warren Murphy

  From points of concealment at the edge of the tract, they watched it pause, look around, and swing its long serpentine head in undulant arcs.

  It stared back at the sheltering rain forest lovingly, as if homesick.

  "Now!" Nancy shouted.

  The Bantus had rigged up slingshots large enough to launch the melons. They let fly. Three of the green globes arced high and came crashing down several feet ahead of the creature's path.

  The pulpy smell immediately attracted its attention. The head swung back. And like a locomotive building up a head of steam, it started forward.

  The melons vanished quickly. The head came up, eyes inquisitive.

  And there in its path lay a single golden toadstool. It started toward it. And the toadstool retreated ever so slightly.

  Undeterred, the reptile kept moving.

  "What's going on?" King muttered.

  Nancy looked around. "Where's Thorpe?"

  "B'wana Thorpe in bush. Play trick on N'yamala."

  "He didn't!"

  "He did, Missy Derringer."

  "That is one smart limey," Skip King said. "I may not dock him after all."

  "You were going to dock him? For what?"

  "For mutiny," said King.

  "Your superiors are going to hear about every screwup you committed since we left the States."

  "I'm going to have some choice words for them, too, Miss Masculine. Or should I say, Dr. Masculine?"

  In the grass, the reptile was doggedly pursuing the elusive toadstool. Every time he got close enough to lower his head for the prize, it slipped away.

  "He's pushing it," King said.

  As if reading King's mind, the toadstool lay waiting when the great saurian head plunged down again. This time it succeeded. The toadstool went into the mouth as the head lifted up like a triumphant crane.

  Then another toadstool appeared not far from it. The Apatosaur started for that one. And the stop-and-start game of cat-and-mouse began again.

  By this time, it seemed safe to emerge from the rain forest and they filtered out.

  They crept forward cautiously, keeping low. Most of the packs had been left behind.

  One of the cameramen was creeping ahead of the rest and using his videocam to record a shot of the beast's undulating rump.

  Nancy had a microcassette recorder out and was talking into it.

  "Locomotion undulant, flexure resembling that of a pachyderm. Tail held off the ground in accordance with current theories. Skin appears semimoist and leathery but smooth in general appearance."

  Then, the cameraman came back holding his nose in one hand and the camera in the other.

  "What's wrong?" Nancy hissed.

  "It dumped a load. Christ. It stinks!"

  "That was inevitable. It's been feeding for six hours straight. "

  The stagnant air made the smell worse. The others walked around the steaming lump of matter. But Nancy, wearing a filter mask, crept up to it and using a twig, poked a sample loose and into a glass jar, which she quickly capped. There was a blank label on which she inscribed the date and the words Specimen #1.

  For the better part of the day, they kept moving. The Bantus took turns spelling Thorpe. At one point, the beast let out a blood-chilling roar and they thought it was about to turn ugly.

  A miasmic cloud enveloped those in the rear and it was Skip King who figured it first. "The damn thing farted!"

  After that, no one was willing to walk directly in the creature's tramped-down wake.

  By evening, it did something they should have expected but didn't.

  It stopped, looked around as if casing the area, and dropped its belly to the grass. The tail curled close to its body and the head settled flat on the grass.

  "Oh my God, it's dead!" King wailed.

  "Don't jump to conclusions! Who wants to investigate?"

  "I'll take the trick," Thorpe said, motioning for two Bantus to follow him.

  Together, they crept up on the creature. He walked around to the head, his body language indicating he was ready to shoot or run if the creature made a sudden move, and probably both.

  Thorpe crept back.

  "It's asleep," he reported.

  "What do we do now?" King complained. "He's going to throw us all off schedule."

  "You're right."

  "I am?"

  "Yes. We can't let him sleep away the night."

  "Right."

  "It was your idea," Nancy said. "Go wake him."

  Skip King had his mouth open. He shut it. His eyes closed. "I am not in my element here," he muttered to no one in particular and went off to sit in the shade of a tulip tree and talk to himself in a low angry voice.

  "Good," said Nancy. "This is the perfect opportunity for me to do something important."

  Thorpe asked, "What?"

  "I'm going to be the first zoologist to sex a dinosaur."

  Nancy approached the reptile. They shone a light all over its tail, under the curve of his hind legs and generally poked around.

  She came back with a disappointed look on her face.

  "No luck?"

  "Whatever he or she's got, it's well hidden."

  "At least you didn't wake the brute."

  It was while the Apatosaur slumbered that the Land Rovers were heard.

  "Now who could that be?" Thorpe muttered aloud, peering into the hot twilight.

  "Government men, maybe," Nancy ventured.

  "Could be. Why don't I take a look?"

  Taking two Bantus, Thorpe went toward the sound. The three were lost to sight in a matter of moments.

  The first shot was not loud. But the ones that followed were. They cracked in the distance like firecrackers.

  Then there was silence. The Apatosaur slumbered on.

  Thorpe turned up twenty minutes later. Only one of the Bantus was with him and he clutched a wounded right shoulder.

  "What happened?"

  "Bandits. "

  "Bandits?"

  "Blokes in camouflage outfits driving Land Rovers."

  "Not government men?"

  "Government men wear khaki, not fatigues. These lads had green berets. Very French. There's nothing French about the Gondwanaland Army. They did for poor Tyrone, though. He's dead."

  Nancy bandaged the other native as she asked questions.

  "Poachers?"

  "Poachers don't wear matching berets. These lads dressed all of a type. Can't rightly make it out, actually. "

  "What do you think they want?"

  "There's a lot of famine west of these parts. Fresh meat can fetch a pretty farthing on the black market."

  Nancy looked up. Thorpe was staring at the slumbering dinosaur, his leathery features grim.

  "You can't mean Jack?" she said. "He's the last of his kind. Worth more alive than butchered!"

  Thorpe shrugged. "Out here meat is meat. I fancy even a few of these Bantus may be willing to try human flesh if things got desperate enough for them. I'm not sure I'd pass it up if the situation was sufficently sticky."

  Grimly, Nancy finished what she was doing. She stood up.

  "Will they be back?"

  "Hard to tell. But we're sitting ducks as long as Old Jack is disposed to count sheep."

  Nancy Derringer made a hard face. "I want a rifle."

  "You ever handle a big-game rifle before?"

  "No, but you're going to teach me. If those bastards so much as show their faces, I'm going to put them all to sleep!"

  "You know," Skip King said slowly, "I think Africa's gone to your head."

  "Better than it going to my gonads, like some people I know."

  Remo was staring at the sprawling fieldstone structure that occupied a corner lot on a busy residential street.

  It was not as big as he had expected. There were only two stories. Or was it three? It was hard to tell from the outside. Rows of dormer windows had been built into the sloping roof, turning attic space into a possible third floor.

  A
t first glance, it did look like a castle. Also, like a Gothic church. Parts of it reminded Remo of a Swiss chalet, although it actually had Tudor features.

  "It's hideous," Remo croaked.

  "It is magnificent," said Chiun gliding across the street to the low wrought-iron gate.

  "Oh no," Remo groaned. "He loves it."

  "I thought he might," said Smith, relief in his voice. "I had better give him the key."

  "Not so fast," Remo said. "What is this thing?"

  "Why, Chiun's castle."

  "Castle, my foot. It looks like a freaking church on steroids. You expect me to live there?"

  "If you do not like it, Remo, I will be glad to make other arrangements for you. There are several condominium apartments available in the neighborhood."

  Chiun floated through the gate and up a short flight of steps to the double doors. Oval windows decorated each door. Like a small child, he pressed his button nose to the glass and peered within.

  The Master of Sinanju turned, his face rapturous.

  "It is everything I have ever wanted," Chiun cried. Remo mounted the steps two at a time and started throwing cold water on Chiun's enthusiasm.

  "I don't know, Little Father."

  "What do you mean, Remo?"

  "I don't think this is worthy of a Master of Sinanju."

  "Remo, please," Smith pleaded.

  "Where's the moat?" Remo said quickly.

  Chiun looked around, as if seeing the grounds for the first time. The building was set back from the sidewalk. It was landscaped with sculpted shubbery, and mock-gaslight electric lamps studded the grounds. Tasteful flowers were in bloom. There were paved walkways and a small blacktop parking lot.

  But no moat.

  "We can't live in a castle without a moat," Remo said. "What will the Queen Mother say if she comes to visit?"

  "A moat can be built," Chiun said.

  "A dry moat is feasible," Smith said hastily.

  "And it's next to a school," Remo added.

  "What is wrong with that?" Chiun asked.

  "The noise is going to be murder."

  The Master of Sinanju looked west, where the sandstone school loomed over his domain.

  "The play of happy children will bring joy to our days," he said. "And it will be good for the child who is about to be born. He will have many to play with."

  "Chiun, it's a high school."

  "This is fitting. The one who is about to be born deserves only the best, highest schools in the land. Emperor Smith, you have chosen well."

  Remo groaned.

  "Why don't we go in?" Smith said, unlocking the door.

  Inside, there were many doors off a central corridor and stairs leading upward.

  "It has many rooms," Chiun noted with approval.

  "Sixteen in all."

  "Not enough," Remo said.

  "More than our last abode had by far," Chiun sniffed, eyeing Remo disdainfully.

  "For maximum privacy, not all connect," Smith added, throwing one open.

  Chiun peered in. He saw a cluster of rooms with open, spacious closets and an immaculate tiled bathroom. Stroking his beard, he nodded sagely and allowed, "Privacy will be important to the mother."

  "Cheeta Ching is not living under the same roof as me, and that's final!" Remo snapped.

  "You may sleep in the moat," Chiun returned. "After you dig it."

  "Thanks a lot."

  Remo went to another door and opening it, found an identical cell of rooms, like a mirror image. It also had a spic-and-span bathroom. He frowned.

  "I must see the upper reaches," Chiun told Smith.

  "This way," said Smith, leading them upstairs.

  Upstairs was a group of cell-like rooms. When Remo tried to imagine them with furniture, all that came to mind was a cluster of cramped studio apartments. Every room boasted an identical bathroom.

  Then it hit him.

  "Hey, this is a freaking condo!"

  "Remo!" Smith said tightly.

  "Admit it."

  Chiun's facial web quivered as if troubled by a sudden ill wind. "Emperor Smith," he said, his sparse eyebrows rising, "tell me of the history of this magnificent structure."

  "Yes, Emperor Smith," Remo added archly, "we're all ears."

  Smith cleared his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed like a floater popping into the water and up again.

  "This building was once a church," he admitted.

  "Ha! I knew it!"

  Chiun frowned.

  "A few years ago, it was completely remodeled as you see it here . . ." Smith added. "It has never been tenanted."

  "In other words," Remo said flatly. "Some developer bought this place at the height of the condo craze, remodeled it, and went belly-up before he could unload the units."

  Chiun's beard stroking grew studied.

  "I was very fortunate in securing title at a reasonable cost," Smith said doggedly. "It is a unique place. It features all the rooms you could want, privacy, and for the Master of Sinanju, a special meditation room."

  Chiun's face lit up. "Meditation room?"

  "Perfect for your needs, Master Chiun," said Smith. "May I show you?"

  "No," said Remo.

  "Yes," said Chiun.

  Harold Smith led them up to the squat tower of the former church. From the outside, it resembled a crenellated battlement. From the inside, it was a spacious area with four great windows, each facing one of the four quarters. It was full of spring sunlight.

  "This is the meditation room?" Remo scoffed. "Looks more like an indoor handball court. What a joke. Nice try, Smitty, but no sale. Right, Little Father?"

  Saying nothing, the Master of Sinanju padded around the room.

  He went to the south window, which looked upon the street. The sun was on his face. His chin came up.

  After a moment, he turned and said, "It is perfect for my needs."

  "I hate it!" Remo said hotly. "I can't stand being inside."

  "You may go outside," Chiun allowed.

  Remo started away, growling, "Thanks."

  "And return with my trunks, of course."

  Fourteen trunks later, Remo took Harold W. Smith aside and said, "Nice con job."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Passing off a renovated church-turned-condo as a castle. You must have saved a bundle. Or did some bank pay you to take this white elephant off their hands?"

  "The Master of Sinanju appears pleased," Smith said defensively.

  "How long does that usually last?"

  "I have learned that the Master of Sinanju is normally as good as his word. He appears to like this place. And he has given me his word that our latest contract will be executed as agreed."

  "Don't pocket your signatures until they're dry," Remo warned.

  Moments later, the squeaky voice of Chiun called them up to the meditation room.

  Chiun had already unpacked one trunk. From it had come three tatami mats. Chiun had assumed a lotus position on one. The other two sat empty on the floor, facing him.

  Chiun gestured for the pair to be seated.

  Remo walked up to the mat, crossed his ankles as he had been taught long ago, and scissored into a lotus position on the mat.

  With arthritic difficulty, Harold Smith set down his suitcase and eased his long legs down. He ended up in a half kneeling position because his legs lacked the suppleness for crossing.

  Chiun spoke. His voice was tinged with ceremonial gravity.

  "This is an historic day in the House of Sinanju," he intoned. "For five thousand years, the House of Sinanju has treated with the outside world. Since the days of the first Master whose name has not come down to us, to the glory that was Wang the Greater, my ancestors have given service to the thrones of China, of Greece, Rome, and Siam. The Nubians showered us with gold. The Egyptians made a place for us in their fine palaces. Even the Japanese showed us respect, never venturing into the village of Sinanju even as they conquered the surrounding towns and cities of Ko
rea."

  "Whoop di do," Remo muttered.

  Chiun closed his almond eyes as if to erase the remark from memory.

  "But never before have we been blessed with a castle, a home of fine stone and-"

  "Blueboard walls," inserted Remo.

  "Blueboard walls," continued Chiun, "rarer even than walls of beaten gold."

  "Oh brother," Remo groaned.

  "Emperor Smith, known in the annals of the House of Sinanju as Harold the First, beneficent one, the Master of Sinanju humbly accepts your gift."

  Chiun bowed his aged head. Smith nodded in return.

  "Since this gift meets with the approval of the Reigning Master, I am now free to sign the most recent agreement between our houses."

  "I have it right here," Smith said, plucking a parchment roll from somewhere in his coat. It was edged in gold and tied with a blue silk ribbon. He proffered it to Chiun.

  The Master of Sinanju accepted it and undid the ribbon. He read the contract over in silence. At the end, he set the scroll on the floor and weighed down each corner with polished stones.

  Then, taking up a quill from an inkstone at his knee, he scratched out his name with a flourish.

  He blew on it, and satisfied that the signature was dry, lifted the scroll to show all.

  "That is satisfactory," said Smith solemnly.

  "How many years are we indentured for this time?" Remo asked nobody in particular.

  "One," said Smith.

  "Too long," said Remo.

  Solemnly, Chiun rolled the parchment up and tied it with a gold ribbon, signifying a sealed contract. He extended this to Smith, who took it and tucked it in his coat.

  A silence followed. Chiun looked to Smith with expectant features.

  Smith looked back, a growing puzzlement on his thin face. He tested the knot of his tie. He swallowed. He checked his glasses to see that they were pushed back as far as they could go-the way he liked them.

  "He's waiting," Remo hinted.

  "For what?" Smith breathed.

  "It's only a guess, but I'd say the deed."

  Chiun's tight smile quirked.

  "Definitely the deed," Remo said.

  "Ah," said Smith. From another pocket, he extracted a folded group of papers. He extended these. Chiun accepted them.

  The Master of Sinanju fell to studying these at great length while Smith shifted position to encourage circulation in his stiffening legs.