"Not yet," Remo said, extricating himself from Chiun's clutch. "I mean, no, I haven't. But when we were on the junk, she nipped me a couple of times. I think she likes me."
"There is no mention of biting in the records of our house."
"Must be new."
"Come," Chiun ordered curtly.
"If only," Remo sighed.
"Must you turn everything into a dirty joke?"
"Let me remind you, in case it's slipped your mind, that I wouldn't have come along on this one if you hadn't dangled the promise of a bevy of bare-breasted maidens."
"I did not promise you the use of them. Only the sight."
"That's how it always begins," Remo said. "Even before the hand holding."
"And do not let me catch you making eyes at the Low Moo, Remo. You must respect the royal family. Marriage is another matter. But dalliance creates problems. She is, without doubt, a virgin."
"No wonder she's so revered," Remo remarked dryly. "They're practically an extinct species around here." They found the High Moo in his bedroom, straddling the injured assailant. He was twisting the man's broken arm cruelly. The man screamed. He was crying over and over that he knew nothing more.
The High Moo twisted again, and the screams would have scraped rust off an old tin can.
Finally the High Moo gave up.
"He says he knew not the other ones," the High Moo told Chiun. "He admitted his intent to slay me. The others also desired my life, but he claims he was not with them. Obviously he lies."
"He speaks the truth," Chiun intoned. "I can tell by the fear in his voice. And the pain was enough to impel truth from him, but I will try."
The man cringed and whimpered as Chiun approached him. To his surprise, the Master of Sinanju touched a wrist nerve and the pain fled from his broken arm. Chiun knelt beside him. He carefully forced the protruding bone into place. He set the bone with sure fingers.
As relief flooded the man's face, Chiun pinched him by an earlobe. The man knew true pain then. He bit back his screams.
"Speak! Speak!" Chiun called. "The quicker you speak, the sooner the pain goes away. Who were the other plotters?"
"I did not see their faces. They were not with me. I do not think they were together." His face was a grimace of agony, and tears leaked from his squinched-shut eyes.
"Lies!" spat the High Moo.
"No," said Chiun. "Not lies. One more question. Are you an octopus worshiper?"
"Never. I swear by Kai, god of the holy sea."
Chiun let go of the man's earlobe. He rose grimly and faced the High Moo.
"I have proven to you that the octopus worshipers are not behind this."
"Perhaps," the High Moo said grudgingly.
"But the danger to your throne is greater. Other plotters are at work. And they are not working together. Your enemies are many, and therefore more difficult to deal with. "
"Double your payment if you expose them all," the High Moo suddenly roared.
"Done," said Chiun. "Now I will dispose of this carrion."
"No!" said the High Moo.
"No?" Chiun was aghast.
"I have lost many subjects since your arrival."
"Enemies all."
"But still my subjects. I need every hand to work my mines. And to tend the fields. This one will be put to work when his arms heals."
"A serpent that is not crushed knows no gratitude. His fangs are forever a danger."
"You have performed good service for the night. Now leave me. All of you. I will sleep."
"Remo and I will stand guard outside your door."
"Ixnay, Chiun," Remo hissed. "I haven't had a wink of sleep since I got here."
"Is that my fault?" Chiun said in English. He reverted to Moovian and told the High Moo: "We will be without your door should you require us."
But the High Moo was no longer listening. He had lain back on his sleeping pad and was already snoring.
The Red Feather Guard dragged the assailant out of the room by his ankles. The last to leave, Chiun closed the rattan door behind him.
When they were alone, Remo asked. "Mind if I pop back into my room for a second?"
"Have you forgotten something?"
"My socks," Remo said, wiggling his toes. The nails stuck out like talons.
"They will be ripped by those nails."
"I'll wear them loose. Like a Moovian girl." And Remo grinned when Chiun shooed him on his way. With luck there would be another delectable maiden waiting for him in the room. Maybe this time he could take it past step two. It wasn't much, but in a land devoid of TV and newspaper comics strips, it was the only diversion Remo had.
Chapter 29
It had been over a week without any word from Remo and Chiun.
Dr. Harold W. Smith replayed the tape of Remo's last message. He played it twice.
"What could he have meant by 'moo'?" Smith said aloud. His dry words bounced off his office walls. He replayed the sentence wherein Remo spoke of "going to moo" several times.
Sliding over to his desk terminal, Smith called up the geographic atlas data base. In it was contained the name of every town, city, and locality in the entire world. He typed in the name Moo, because although Remo had made it sound as if he were going to imitate a cow, that made no sense in the context of their disappearance. Smith hit the Search key.
Several minutes later the screen read out a scroll of names that began with the letters "m-o-o." There was a Moore, Oklahoma, a Moorhead, Minnesota and others. But no Moo, USA. The only possibilities left were in exotic places like India and Tibet. But none were known simply as Moo, either. Smith considered this inconclusive because his information-gathering ability was next to useless in underdeveloped countries where the pencil and index card still ruled.
Smith paused. On a hunch, he input a phonetic equivalent: Mu.
The search produced a seemingly endless string of names. Smith frowned as he recalled that the letter M was one of the commonest when it came to personal and place names. There was, however, one place name spelled simply Mu. Eagerly Smith called up the file. His face fell when he saw that it contained data on a mythical island nation believed by pseudo-scientists to have existed in the Pacific Ocean before the dawn of recorded history, but which had sunk during a natural cataclysm.
Obviously that was not the Mu Remo had meant. It had never existed. And even if it had ever been a reality, which Smith thought improbable, all that remained of it was an additional layer of sediment at the bottom of the Pacific.
Chapter 30
The sun kissed his face through the open window and Remo awoke. It was mid-morning. He had slept late again. All night, there had been a steady stream of Moovian maidens who had slipped through his window. He had counted eight, a new high. Remo wondered what had caused the increased traffic and, between bouts, put his head out the rough-hewn window.
His discovered several maidens crouching and talking in whispers. When they saw him, they flashed identical easy smiles.
"It is Oahula's turn next," one remarked casually.
"You're taking turns!" Remo had said in surprise. When it was pointed out to him that he had only one male organ, Remo apologized for being so silly and added that of course if it was Oahula's turn, who was he to disrupt the orderly procession of Moovian events.
After he woke up, Remo felt his enthusiasm for Moovian maidens cooling. He decided that this was it. No more nocturnal interruptions. It had been fun for a while, but now the luster had worn off. Especially now that he understood he was being regarded as the island's free stud service. Besides, they were biting even harder now.
Remo pulled on his now-frayed pants and walked barefoot out of the palace. The courtyard was deserted except for a handful of children who were lazily sweeping it clean with straw brooms.
When they saw him, the children pointed and giggled. They had never done that before. Must be my fingernails, Remo thought, looking at his hands. They were now half as long as Chiun's. And there was nothing h
e could do about it. The knives were too brittle. And even the densest rock wasn't hard enough to file them down. He couldn't understand it.
As he walked from the village, the children called after him. Their childish words were hard to understand, but they were calling him Hokko-ili. "Hokko" translated as "yellow," but "ili" was less clear. It sounded like "ilo," the Moovian word for "pineapple."
"Why are they calling me 'yellow pineapple'?" Remo asked as he drew near Chiun. The Master of Sinanju stood atop one of the largest mines in Moo. Men popped in and out at regular intervals, hauling coconut shells full of gritty black soil. They made a huge pile. Others spread the soil over stretched bolts of coarse cloth to sift out the metal.
Chiun turned at Remo's approach. His face lost its stern, commanding appearance.
"What has happened to your face?" Chiun wanted to know.
Remo reached up. "Got me. Is it still there?"
"You have a beard," Chiun snapped.
"Tell me about it," Remo said, feeling the thick stubble. Chiun climbed down and motioned for Remo to bend at the waist. He picked through Remo's scalp in silence. "Cooties?" Remo asked.
"Worse."
"Worse?"
"Your hair is turning yellow at the roots."
"Yellow?"
"The sun must be bleaching it. Perhaps the salt water is also responsible."
"I never had this problem when I was young," Remo remarked.
"It is strange. The yellow is in the roots, not the tips. Although your beard is yellow throughout."
"Is that why they're calling me names?" Remo asked, straightening.
"They were calling you 'yellow pineapple,' 'yellow head'."
"I've been called worse."
"I see you have had a strenuous evening," Chiun sniffed, looking at Remo's forearms and chest. They were covered with tiny inflamed blotches. Bite marks.
"I'm swearing off Moovian girls. They're practically drawing straws to see who gets the next crack at me. And I've gotten so used to bare breasts, I hardly notice them anymore. "
That is good, because the Low Moo has been looking for you."
"Is that so?" Remo said vaguely. "She's been cool to me ever since it got around that I haven't exactly been spending my nights counting the stars."
"It is good that you have come to your senses. For the Low Moo has that look on her face," Chiun said conspiratorially.
"What look?"
"You know."
"No. Spell it out."
"That sex-hungry look."
"Oh, that look. Don't look now, but isn't that her coming down from the palace?"
"I will leave you to deal with her. I must go to the rice fields. The peasants have been slacking off. Do not let these miners rest. Their break is not for another hour."
"They get breaks?"
"Naturally. The High Moo is an enlightened ruler."
"That wasn't what I meant," Remo said, watching the Low Moo's languid approach out of the corner of his eye. "You know, Chiun, this isn't the kind of gig I envisioned when you first started training me. I'm an assassin, not an overseer."
"Today you are an overseer," said Chiun. "And a good assassin protects his ruler's empire as his ruler expects it to be protected. It has been a week since the last attempt on the High Moo's life."
"That's because we've been riding herd on these poor people so much, it's all they can do to crawl off to sleep at day's end."
"It worked for Simon Legree too," Chiun remarked as he walked off.
After the Master of Sinanju had left, the miners watched Remo as if to measure him. When Remo turned his back on them, they slowed their work. A few sneaked off into the brush.
"Ola!" Remo said as the Low Moo drew near. The Low Moo's smile was ivory framed in copper. Her face possessed a soft childish look, that still surprised Remo every time he thought back to how she had dealt with Horton Droney III.
"I have been looking for you, Remo. What happened to your hair?"
"It's not my hair I'm worried about, it's my fingernails," Remo said ruefully.
The Low Moo took Remo's hands in hers. "They are very long," she cooed. "Like talons, to claw and rend your enemies."
"I don't have any enemies at the moment."
"I know. Everyone likes you. Especially the peasant girls. Are you not tired of peasant girls by now? You have been on Moo a full week now."
"Yeah, actually I am."
The Low Moo's smile widened. It was dazzlingly white. "That is good," she said, taking his forearm in her golden fingers.
"Uh-oh," Remo muttered.
"What is that you said?"
"It was English," Remo said quickly. "It means . . . you are very pretty today."
The Low Moo's smile broadened. She ran her fingers up to Remo's hard lean bicep, squeezing it hard, almost pinching it.
"Why do Moovian girls bite?" Remo asked suddenly. "Can you tell me that?"
"Because you are white. For generations, since the last white men came to our island and tried to make us embrace their one god, stories of the handsomeness of white men have been passed from mother to daughter. We have heard of your tallness, of your delectable white skin and potent organs."
"Organ. I only have one," said Remo. "I was just discussing the subject last night."
The Low Moo laughed.
"Do Moovian girls bite their own men?"
"Of course not. We kiss."
"Well, I'm still waiting for my first Moavian kiss."
"I will come to you tonight. But first I must ask my father an important favor."
"What's that?"
"Oh, I could not tell you. You might run away."
"Not me. There isn't anything I'm afraid of. And Chiun told me that you were probably a virgin anyway."
The Low Moo laughed. "There are no virgins on Moo. Not over the age of twelve."
"That's what I figured," Remo said dryly.
The Low Moo's face wrinkled suddenly. She glanced over Remo's shoulder. Remo turned.
"Why are those men not working?" she demanded petulantly.
"Them? Oh, I gave them a break," Remo lied.
"Their respite is not for another hour."
"What's the difference? They'll get back to work eventually. Besides, I don't see the point of all this beehive activity. You people have plenty of food for the taking. You should relax more."
"If my people did not have work, they would become lazy and lose their skills."
"I think they work too hard as it is."
"That is an attitude I would expect from a former slave. You do not understand rulership. How could my father and I rule if these peasants have no tasks set for them? Everyone would want to rule. Or none would. It would be terrible. Chaos. Like in the days after Old Moo disappeared under the waves." Saying that, the Low Moo stepped up to the squatting miners and, shaking her fists, began hectoring them in a high, bitter voice. She went on for several minutes, her beautiful face working in fury. She called them ungrateful for the purpose that work gave their indolent lives. She accused them of being lazy and disrespectful of tradition. Since the days of Old Moo, the empire had depended on the High Moo's coinage to maintain its power in the world. One day, thanks to their efforts, Moo would rise again as a great power. But not if the work stopped.
When she rejoined Remo, her features were soft and pliant again. It was as if a sudden tropical storm had come and gone.
"Okay, okay," Remo said. "You've made your point. I'll see that they don't slack off anymore."
"I will see you tonight," the Low Moo said gently. "I look forward to pooning you."
"Me too," said Remo. "Whatever you mean."
And the Low Moo ran off like a fawn, her tinkling laughter filtered through the leaves.
Chapter 31
"This is it!" Shane Billiken shouted excitedly. "That's the island."
Dirk Edwards burst up from belowdeck. He was in his camouflage Jockey shorts. One hand gripped a nine-millimeter Browning that hung from a sho
ulder rig.
"You sure?" he growled.
"I dreamed on it last night."
"Yeah. And the last island you said was the right one turned out to be a guano preserve. So was the one before that. And you knew that was the right one because it was directly under the Little Dipper."
"Probably sunspot interference. I don't image well when there are sunspots. Look for a tall building. A temple."
"Let's look for the junk before we get carried away." Someone handed Dirk a set of binoculars. He trained them on the island.
"No sign of any junk," he reported.
"Probably on the other side," Shane said. "I see unfriendlies, though. Natives."
"Let me see," Shane said, taking the glasses. He spied a number of natives at the shore. They wore few clothes. Their hair was black and their skin the color of cashews. They were busy dragging a sea turtle from the water.
"The girl looked like that!" Shane said. "The skin color is exactly right."
"Okay, we take them. Gus, line her up on that reef and then gun her. Everyone else, grab a piece and get ready to start shooting."
Shane Billiken found an M-16 pushed into his hands.
"I don't know how to shoot one of these," he protested. "You don't have to. That sucker spits out rounds faster than you can piss. Just wave it like a hose. It'll do the job."
The boat turned and dug in its stern. The bow lifted and salt spray washed Shane Billiken's face as the reef drew near. He hung on, trying to keep the rifle in his shuddering arm.
"Okay, burn them down!" Dirk Edwards hollered.
On the beach, the sound of the incoming boat made the natives freeze. Their black eyes-they reminded Shane Billiken of those of hapless seals before they were clubbed to death-stared out at them.
Dirk Edwards fired first. His weapon began popping. The others joined in. Coral shards flew off the reef. A native went down. Another, running madly, fell after a bullet stream sawed an arm off.
Shane Billiken forgot there was a weapon in his hands. He stared out over the bow. He had never seen people die before. It was mesmerizing. The gun sounds were puny. Just a sporadic popping. Firecracker sounds. The people on the reef didn't scream or yell. They ran and then they stumbled. There wasn't even that much visible blood. It was like watching television.
When it was over, the engines were throttled down and they drifted in toward shore.
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