by Max McCoy
"Better to eat a rat than to be one," Indy concluded as he rose to find the powdered milk.
"Can't I even eat my lunch first?" Granger complained.
Joan tied open the flaps. Then she stepped outside and, taking the hands of one somber-eyed little boy and his mother, led them inside and seated them at the table. She took Granger's plate and placed it in front of them.
"No," Joan said. "You can't. Guests first."
The rest of the crowd followed.
For the next hour Indy and Joan were busy preparing food and placing it before the apparently inexhaustible appetites of the people of Tuerin. When the last plate had been wiped clean, an elaborately robed figure filled the doorway of the mess tent.
The man stood at least six feet tall and had a long black mustache that drooped over his pronounced chin. In the crook of his arm was a Russian-made rifle. His black eyes glanced from face to face.
Silently, the women gathered their children and left. Only one old man was left at the table with the American adventurers, and he was busily gumming the last of his pork.
"Who feeds my children?" the man asked in English.
"Who would not?" Indy asked.
The man broke into a laugh and strode into the tent.
"You Americans," he said, gesturing expansively at the surroundings. "Every day is like holiday for you. But I am grateful for your hospitality, even though it should be us that are feeding you."
Indy held out his hand and they shook hands.
"I am Indiana Jones," he said, then introduced Granger and Joan.
"I am Meryn," the man said with a flourish. "My friends will tell you that I am the best camel driver in all of Mongolia. Others will agree that I am the best and quickest thief. And my enemies—ah, if only they could speak from the grave!—they would tell you that I am the fiercest warrior."
"I hope we're going to be friends," Indy ventured.
"Of course we are friends," Meryn roared. "An enemy does not feed your children, even after he takes your wife. But you can have your pick of my wives. I see you have already met three of them."
"Which ones were they?" Joan asked.
"Why, the most beautiful, of course."
"We are in need of a good camel driver," Indy said.
"Then you have found him. Tell me, are you friends of the great Andrews? My father drove camels into the heart of the Gobi for Andrews many years ago, when the Americans discovered the hiding place of the fossils of the great allergorhai-horhai. He told me before he died that he would have followed Andrews to the gates of hell itself."
"I knew your father," Granger said. "I am sorry to hear that he is dead."
"The Chinese," Meryn said sadly. "Or the Russians. Then again, it could have been the Japanese, I am not sure. We never found the body. But I am comforted by the certain knowledge that he took many of the dogs with him."
"I'm sure he did," Indy said.
"You speak English very well," Granger observed.
"My father," Meryn explained.
Granger poured a mug of coffee and placed it on the table. Meryn slung his rifle from a tent pole and sat down. "How many camels will you need?"
"Many," Indy said.
"What I don't have I will steal for you," Meryn said, sipping the coffee. "Do you have sugar?"
"Steal?" Joan asked as she placed a tin of sugar before him.
"Just a figure of speech." As he spoke Meryn spooned so much sugar into the mug that the coffee threatened to overflow the rim. Then Meryn pressed his lips to the cup and began to slurp down the syrupy concoction.
"Tell me, have you ever heard of a chap by the name of General Tzi?" Granger asked.
Meryn nearly choked on the coffee.
"Tzi!" he spat. "Where did you learn of the detestable name?"
"We ran into an envoy of his at the Great Wall on this side of Kalgan, a rather unpleasant fellow by the name of Feng," Granger said.
"I hope you killed him."
"Unfortunately, no."
"Tzi the Cannibal," Meryn continued, "calls himself a general and claims that he is a patriot in the fight against the Communists, but he spills the blood of all. He sends his troops out from an impregnable mountain fortress, where he lives under the protection of the False Lama of the Black Gobi."
"What's the False Lama?" Joan asked.
"The lama equivalent of the Antichrist," Indy said.
"The False Lama is the rival of the Living God at Urga," Meryn explained. "In the confusion since the Communists have outlawed the religion, the False Lama managed to attract a small band of followers and marched into the desert. Tzi would be nothing if not for the evil power of the Black One."
"That's comforting," Indy said. "Why do they call him the cannibal?"
"Because he is rumored to eat the hearts of his victims," Meryn said. "He is relentless and tracks his prey using a pack of wild dogs that he feeds human flesh."
Joan blanched. "That's... hard to believe."
"I'm afraid not," Granger said. "Wild dogs are particularly dangerous in this country because many of them develop a taste for human flesh. That's why I was so concerned with the beast Indy freed at the wall. And don't think I haven't noticed, Jones, how you have been leaving food outside the camp for that killer."
"How do they develop this appetite?" Joan wanted to know.
"In the smaller villages, superstition is rampant," Granger said. "Dead bodies are considered so unclean and such a breeding place for evil spirits that when a person dies, they throw them onto the back of a cart. Then the village's bravest man takes off with the cart, going hell-bent for leather across the countryside and never looking back. Eventually the body is bumped off the cart, where it becomes food for the dogs."
"That's the stuff of nightmares," Joan declared.
Granger sighed. "If only it were just bad dreams."
"Now, let's talk of more pleasant things," Meryn suggested. "What kind of price will you pay for these camels you so desperately desire?"
Joan was exhausted but, in the lonely silence of her tent, found that she could get no rest. Every time she closed her eyes, her mind conjured up visions of wild dogs with glowing eyes that trailed her relentlessly across the desert.
Finally, she gave up. She dressed, put on a heavy wool overcoat, and stepped outside the tent. The wind had stopped and the stars were shining. She walked and leaned against Indy's truck, thinking about her father.
A dog began to bark.
Joan froze. The barking was coming from somewhere in the darkness, and it was growing louder. She drew her coat around her and took a few steps toward the tents.
The dog that Indy had freed from the wall came bounding into the middle of the camp, baying like a mad thing. It planted itself between Joan and the tents, its legs spread, the hair on its back bristling.
"Don't move," Granger told Joan.
Granger had slipped out of his tent and held his rifle in his hands. He clicked off the safety, then slowly brought the rifle up to his shoulder.
"Oh my God," Joan said.
Joan was in the line of fire. Granger began stepping slowly to the side, in an attempt to get a shot at the animal without risking Joan in the process.
The dog advanced, still barking wildly.
"I'm almost there," Granger said. "Remain still."
"Oh my God," Joan repeated.
Granger took two more steps to the right and began to squeeze the trigger gently. The dog broke into a run. Indy knocked the muzzle of the gun into the air just as Granger fired, and the bullet went zipping into the night sky.
Joan crumpled to the ground as the dog leaped.
The animal sailed over her and landed squarely on the chest of Feng, who had been creeping up on the nun with his knife drawn. Feng fell backward and the dog sank its teeth deeply into his wrist.
Other figures raced into the camp now, wielding knives and guns, and Granger chambered another round and shot the closest of them in the chest. The brigand fe
ll with a sickening sigh at Indy's feet, a dagger still clasped in his lifeless hand.
Indy drew his revolver and charged the attackers, firing as he went. They scattered, but not before one of them managed to slice open Indy's cheek with a saber.
"Not again," Indy moaned, stanching the blood with the palm of his hand. "It just healed."
Feng kicked himself free of the dog and ran into the night, throwing curses behind him.
"Not very brave, are they?" Granger mused.
"It doesn't take much courage to kill people while they sleep," Indy said. "Sister, are you all right?"
"Just shaken," she said. "If the dog hadn't..."
"Don't even think about it," Indy said. He knelt and patted the ground. The dog cautiously walked up and allowed him to place a hand on his head. "If Loki here hadn't started barking like he did, we'd probably all be dead."
"I'm glad I was wrong about the animal," Granger said.
"I had a dog when I was a kid and I never got over it when he died. He was my best friend."
Then Indy added so quietly that the others couldn't hear, "My namesake, as a matter of fact."
"You've named him Loki?" Joan asked.
"Sure," Indy said. "For the Norse god of mischief who was chained to a wall."
5
City of the Living God
At gunpoint, a pair of policemen walked Indiana Jones and Walter Granger out of the dank prison where they had spent their first night within the ancient walled city of Urga. Neither had slept, and they had been subjected to repeated interrogations in Russian about their presence in Mongolia.
Standing flat-footed on the street, Indy blinked into the sunlight. His nose itched fiercely, but, like Granger, his hands remained tied behind his back.
"Aren't you going to untie us?" Indy asked.
One of the policemen shoved the barrel of his gun into the small of Indy's back and pushed him forward.
"I'd take that as a no," Granger said.
Both of the guards were Buriats, members of a northern Mongol tribe that had for generations considered themselves Russian. Neither spoke as they forced Indy and Granger through the crowded streets, nor did they smile when Indy joked—in Russian—about how grateful he was for the free accommodations for the night and the excellent food.
"Where do you find roaches of that size?" Indy inquired.
The city stretched for five miles along the Tola River, and despite the best efforts of the Communists, it still retained its character, a curious mixture of three cultures—Chinese, Mongolian, and Russian. The Russian buildings were invariably squat, utilitarian structures painted in red or orange, while the homes resembled ornate cottages; the traditional Mongol buildings had great palisades of rough-hewn wood around them atop which fluttered prayer flags; and in the city's business district there was row after row of prim Chinese shops with their wooden counters and blue-jacketed merchants. What had been removed from the architectural scene since the Communists had come to power in 1924, however, was any sign of a religious life. The city's churches, chapels, and monasteries had all been leveled. Taking their place were sandbagged machine-gun nests; these ugly structures dominated every important intersection.
The Russian consulate was a huge red building that stood on the site of a Catholic church that had been demolished shortly after the Communist takeover. Although the Mongol government was supposedly autonomous, nothing happened without the approval of the Russian officials.
Indy and Granger were forced up the steps, down a corridor of bleak stones, and were shown to a stark office where Joan was already waiting.
"Are you all right?" Indy asked.
"Yes," she said.
"Is this a trial?" Indy asked in Russian.
"Of course not," the foreign minister said from behind his massive desk. He was a small, balding man with a bad complexion, and his name was Badmonjohni. He pressed his fingertips together as he leaned over his massive desk toward them.
"Then why are we under arrest?" Indy asked.
"You are not," the minister replied. "You were detained for twenty-four hours under suspicion of espionage, but after questioning Sister Joan here, I am confident that you are harmless, if misguided."
The man motioned for the Buriats to leave.
"Where's my dog?" Indy wanted to know.
"He is downstairs, locked in a cage that is ordinarily used for leopards," the minister said. "He is quite unhurt. I'm sorry I can't say the same for the policeman who wrestled him out of the cab of your truck and put a leash on him. It took a number of stitches to repair the damage, and in the end they had to lasso the animal like in one of your Wild West shows. But then, I've been told that Urga reminds you Americans of your western frontier days."
Indy smiled.
"What about our trucks?" Granger asked.
"They are outside, waiting for you," the minister said pleasantly. "We even filled the tanks with petrol and checked the oil for you."
"Service with a smile," Indy quipped. "Look, we were on our way to this office when your thugs jumped us and dragged us off to prison. Our intent was to obtain the proper credentials for the remainder of our journey."
"We are sorry to have caused you any discomfort," Badmonjohni said. "I hope you will accept my sincerest apologies. But such things are difficult to arrange, Dr. Jones. Ordinarily such permits take months to process, and that is in the most peaceable of times. We weren't expecting a trio of Americans to burst into the city with an armed motorcade and demand safe passage across the Gobi."
"But surely some consideration can be made for a mission of mercy," Indy began haltingly. It had been some years since he had spoken conversational Russian, and he found himself searching for the right words. "I'm sorry, but my Russian is rather awkward. May we please speak English?"
"Of course."
"We are here to find Professor Starbuck and return him safely to his family."
"The good sister has explained all of this to me, and I am not unsympathetic to your mission," the minister said. "But the region is unstable. The Russians distrust the Chinese, the Chinese distrust the Russians, and everyone hates the Japanese. There will be rumors of espionage and intrigue."
"Look, we're not spies," Indy declared. "This is a scientific expedition funded by the Museum of Natural History. We have two objectives—first, to locate Professor Starbuck, and second, to return intact whatever fossils he may have found. It is that simple."
"As a practical matter, there is very little difference between a scientific expedition and a strategic one," Badmonjohni said. "Both are out to collect information, photographs, maps. We have not let an expedition into the Gobi for several years for that very reason. You have wireless and photographic equipment with you, no?"
"You know we do." Indy was growing impatient. "Our trucks were searched."
"That will be a very difficult thing to get around," Badmonjohni said. "But if you would agree to make certain concessions, perhaps a deal could be arranged. It would take several weeks to iron out the details, however."
"We don't have weeks," Joan said. "In another month it's going to be forty below out there on the desert, and my father could freeze to death before we find him."
"There could be a way to speed things up," Badmonjohni suggested. "But it won't be easy. What I am trying to say, Dr. Jones, is that it will not be cheap."
"Ah, now we get down to business," Indy said.
"This one apparently decided not to go into religion," Joan observed.
"How much?" Indy asked.
"How can you expect me to bandy about figures when we're talking about such a difficult thing?" Badmonjohni returned. "It is insulting."
Indy turned his back to the minister, reaching inside his shirt, and took a handful of gold pieces from his money belt. Then he turned and placed them on the desk.
"Perhaps this will soothe your pride."
Badmonjohni swept the gold pieces into a desk drawer without counting them.
&
nbsp; "I will try, Dr. Jones," he said. "Come back in three days. We will know then whether my efforts have been successful or not. In the meantime I suggest that you and Sister Joan do some sightseeing, in the event the request is denied. Then, perhaps, your long journey to Mongolia might not be considered wasted. By the way, I suggest for your own sake that you stop referring to the city as Urga. That city is dead. This is Ulan Bator, the Red City."
"Thank you," Indy said grudgingly.
"Oh, Dr. Jones," Badmonjohni added. "We have taken the liberty of keeping the shortwave, the cameras, and that curious machine gun until your request is decided. Each of the other guns you carry will require a ten-dollar permit, and the trucks will be fifty. You may pay those fees now if you'd like."
"How much did you give that Buriat thief?" Granger asked when they were outside.
"About five hundred dollars," Indy said as he and Loki descended the steps of the consulate. "I expect it will take another five hundred to complete the deal."
"Bloody Reds," Granger said.
"What do we do now?" Joan asked.
"We sightsee," Indy said, "and make ourselves as inconspicuous as possible for the next few days."
"It is too bad that religion has been outlawed," Joan commented. "I would have liked to have visited the Dalai Lama."
"Well, you still can," Granger said. "Religion may be illegal, but it's sort of like Prohibition was in the States—that doesn't mean that you can't get it. You just have to know where to find it. The Dalai Lama has moved underground, and he resides in a compound on the outskirts of town surrounded by a dozen fawning monks. Of course, the last duly recognized Dalai Lama died in 1923, and there is some dissent over whether this one is truly the most recent incarnation of Buddha on earth, but I'll take you to meet him. It's not every day you get a chance to meet God Himself, is it, Sister?"
