by John Blaine
Tony leaned forward, watching intently for the turn-off. Rick kept the jeep in second as he led the winding way down the mountainside toward the bottom of the Valley. The road was dirt and badly rutted. If they should meet another car, one would have to back up until a turn-around was reached. But it was unlikely that another car would be out at this time of morning. Chances were that a car passed this way only once in a great while.
They were among the rice terraces now. No matter which way Rick looked, his eyes met terraces.
Some were no bigger than table tops, perhaps filling a tiny space between bigger terraces. Some retaining walls were only a foot high, while the next step up or down the mountain might be a twenty-foot wall.
Irregular giant steps, green with growing rice. Here and there was one with no rice, showing a film of water.
Tony called, “Easy. We turn just a short distance ahead.” In another quarter mile he pointed. “Take that road.”
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It was little more than a path that wound a corkscrew way among the terraces, hugging the mountain wall. This was the way Nangolat had brought Tony, not even bothering to blindfold him. Rick held the wheel tightly to keep it from jerking out of his hands on impact with a rock. Then, ahead, the road suddenly leveled. Rick recognized the scene. He had been here before, last night, during the hours of darkness.
The mist had not yet cleared, and the limits on his vision made the scene seem more like it had last night.
He knew that to the left, three terraces down, was the village. Now he could see that to the right of the road was a small meadow or very large terrace. He couldn’t tell which. The meadow ran perhaps a hundred and fifty feet from the road to the base of a retaining wall. It was a very high wall, perhaps as much as sixty feet. Rick hadn’t seen another nearly so high.
“Turn right,” Tony said. “Go into the meadow.”
Rick dropped the jeep back into low gear and swung the wheel. The jeep climbed over a single row of rocks and moved easily across the meadow. Rick thought the row of rocks probably constituted a retaining wall, so that made it a terrace instead of a meadow. Anyway, it was firm under the tires.
Behind the jeep, Scotty took the truck over the row of stones as easily as he would have negotiated a high curbing at home. He followed Rick across the meadow.
Rick could see now that in the base of the high retaining wall was a considerable recess. He asked, with mounting excitement, “Is the dragon there?”
Tony nodded. “Let’s turn around and back into the recess as far as possible. We want to be facing out, in case we have to leave in a hurry.”
Rick did so,then directed Scotty. Not until the vehicles were in place did they run into the recess and look.
There on a pedestal, a smaller edition of the one Rick had first seen at Alta Yuan, was the dragon!
CHAPTER XV
Under the Dragon’s Claws
The Spindrift group jumped into action. Rick, Tony, and Chahda carried the earth scanner into the recess and set it up. Scotty consulted with Angel, and at a word from the Filipino, Balaban the Igorot climbed the wall to the terrace above their heads where he sprawled among the rice with rifle ready.
Angel moved to the left about fifty feet, while Scotty moved the same distance to the right. Dog Meat ran down the meadow to the road, crossed the terrace, and took up a watch on the village.
“Work fast,” Tony said. “They must know we’re here. If they didn’t see us, they at least heard the motors.”
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Rick was already at work. He plugged in the probe, checked the controls,then turned them over to Tony. The scientist set the controls and turned on the activation switch.
Rick moved the probe in a long sweep, starting in front of the dragon, while Tony and Chahda watched the scope.
“Standard pattern,” Tony reported. “Keep it moving ... no change ... no change . . .”
Rick stepped sideways and moved the probe through a slightly different arc. “No change . . .”
Again Rick took a step and swung the probe. He kept moving until the probe had nearly covered the ground in front of the dragon, then he took a position next to the bronze statue and covered the ground directly under its nose.
“Wait!” There was excitement in Tony’s voice. “You’re on something!”
“Metal?”Rick asked quickly.
“No. It’s not a metal response. Some kind of stone, but not the usual type found around here.”
Tony had a pad out and was making a sketch of the recess, marking the position of the dragon. Then, while Rick moved the probe through a new arc, his pencil shaded in the area where the odd response showed on the scope.
Rick repeated the scanning process to one side of the dragon, and again the response was normal until he got close. He changed sides, and the result was the same. Then he went to the rear of the dragon, expecting a changed response there. But the results were identical. At last he gave up, feeling a bit let down, and joined Tony and Chahda. They were examining Tony’s sketch.
“Plenty clear to me,” Chahda said. “Right under old man dragon is round hole. See?”
Chahda was right. The changed responses, when charted on Tony’s sketch, showed a circle about six feet in diameter with its center directly under the dragon.
“But no metal,” Tony said. “That’s odd.”
Rick frowned. “It can’t be an underground base for the dragon,” he said. “A base would be close to the surface. This response seems to start about two feet under.”
He stared out across the meadow and noted that Dog Meat was trotting toward them, but he paid no attention because his mind was working on the problem.
“It could be a crypt of some kind,” he said. He went to the truck and got a shovel. “I have an idea.” He went to work.
Dog Meat arrived and chattered excitedly. Angel came running, listened, and translated.
“The village is up in arms. Nangolat is making a speech and the young men are getting ready to make war.”
Rick dug, working on a shaft under the dragon’s pedestal. The earth was packed hard and he had to get Page 74
a pick. Tony relieved him, and they took turns until the shaft slanted in to what they estimated was a point directly under the center of the pedestal.
“Now,” Rick said, and took the probe. He put it into the shaft and watched expectantly while Tony adjusted the controls. Suddenly the scope flickered, breaking up the Christmas tree pattern. There were at least three different responses, two of them definitely in the metals range.
“This it it !”Tony yelled. “It has to be!Rick, that was an inspiration. The cache is right under the dragon!”
There was another yell, from outside the recess. It was Balaban, on the terrace above. “They come!”
For the moment the find was forgotten. The Spindrift party stood between the truck and jeep watching as nearly a hundred Ifugao warriors walked with menacing silence to the edge of the meadow and stopped.
Nangolat, naked except for a breechcloth, stepped from the ranks of Ifugao warriors.He held a spear a foot taller than he, a vicious weapon with a triangular point and flared base.
The Ifugao walked ceremoniously across the meadow to a point twenty yards in front of the recess.
“You’re trapped,” he said. His voice trembled with hatred. “You can’t get away from us now. Come out and throw down your weapons.”
Tony stepped forward, rifle held carelessly under his arm. He stopped ten paces in front of the Ifugao.
“We and you want the same thing,” he said.“The artifacts.”
Nangolat thrust the metal-shod base of his spear into the earth. “We want the same thing, but for different reasons. I want to preserve the sacred objects of my people. You want to desecrate them.”
“That’s not true,” Tony replied. “When we touch them it will be with reverence, with respect for the gods of Banaue. Then, when we have collected them all, we will buy many pigs for a great
feast of thanksgiving for all the people of Ifugao. The sacred objects will be used by your priests for ceremonies.
Then you, Nangolat, will go with us when we carry them toManila . InManila we will measure them and photograph them and make sketches. These methods are familiar to you.”
Tony paused, searching Nangolat’s face for some sign of a change in his attitude. “When we are done, we will ask to see the president of thePhilippines . We will petition him to assist in the building of a temple-museum on this very spot. My scientific foundation will give the first donation for this purpose. Dr.
Okola will help. Then, I hope, the sacred objects can come back to Ifugao to stay forever, in a place where all Ifugaos may see them.”
Tony held out his hand, palm upward. “Is that desecration?”
Nangolat leaned forward, half bowing in his excitement. “The artifacts must not leave Ifugao!”
“You know Dr. Okola,” Tony replied. “Would he insist that they go toManila ? I would not. I could take photographs and measurements right here. The objects need not leave here, so far as I am concerned.
That would be between you and the Filipino authorities.”
Nangolat was obviously impressed. “Wait,” he commanded. “I must talk with the priests.”
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He turned on his heel and walked back to the waiting Ifugao warriors. Several men detached themselves from the group and followed as he led the way across the terrace toward the village.
Rick breathed freely for the first time. “Tony, I think he’s going for it!”
“I certainly hope so,” the scientist said with relief. “But regardless of how the decision goes, the artifacts must be collected. Let’s get some work done.”
How to get the dragon away from the underground crypt was solved with the truck winch. The cable was passed around the pedestal and the whole business hauled forward. Then Rick, Scotty, Angel, and Chahda began to dig while Tony examined each inch of progress for signs that the crypt was being reached.
A whistle came from outside. Dog Meat beckoned. The party stopped digging and hurried out in time to see a station wagon come to a halt on the road above the village. Six men got out and were met by an elderly Ifugao. But before they were ushered to the village they took time to stare at the Spindrift expedition.
The Spindrift group stared back with a combination of fear, disappointment, and disgust. Four of the men were strangers. One was an American-James Nast. The sixth was the Assistant Secretary of the Interior!
CHAPTER XVI
Flying Spears
“Just like the old saying,” Rick observed. “Birds of a feather flock together. A crooked Filipino, a crooked American, and a crazy Ifugao are now in conference. And what is the conference about?”
“They talk about who wins next World Series,” Chahda suggested brightly.
Scotty scoffed at the idea. “They aren’t sports lovers, Chahda. They are gentlemen of culture. I think the conference is about motion pictures. My idea is that Lazada and Nast are visiting Nangolat in order to get an Ifugao opinion on whether the hero should be allowed to kiss his horse in western pictures.”
Tony Briotti leaned on his shovel. “I can’t see how you can be so wrong when the evidence is so clear.
Isn’t Lazada the Assistant Secretary of the Interior? Isn’t this the Interior? I think the Ifugao terraces are about to be converted to a national park, under the Department of the Interior. The Assistant Secretary is here to discuss the hot-dog concession with a local bigwig. Of course he has his American hot-dog expert with him. It’s as simple as that.”
Scotty checked his riflecarefully, sighting down the barrel to make sure it was mirror clean. “They could also be talking about building a new swimming pool for Ifugao boys and girls, but somehow I doubt it.
What say we not worry about what they’re saying to each other, and worry instead about digging?”
“Right as usual,” Tony said. “Let’s keep at it, and perhaps we’ll come up with something worth talking Page 76
about.”
They had made a good start. Now, working two by two, they excavated until the shovels rang from stone. Scraping disclosed a flat stone that probably was a lid of some kind. They resumed digging until the stone was completely exposed, then tried to lift it.
“Weighs a ton,” Rick grunted. “Did it move at all?”
“Not that I could see,” Tony said. “Let’s dig down around the edges more and see if the stone is anchored.”
Further digging showed that the stone was not anchored. It probably had been set in some kind of primitive mortar which would have to be broken before the stone could be lifted. A crowbar from the truck supplied leverage and in a moment the stone was free. Willing hands found holds, lifted it free, and slid it to the back of the recess. Where the stone had been there now yawned a circular opening about the size of a manhole.
Tony Briotti was beside himself with excitement. He ran to the truck, rummaged in the supplies, and produced a flashlight. Then he ran back to the hole and directed the beam downward.
The boys crowded around to look. Rick exclaimed in disappointment. The hole was about eight feet deep and about four feet in diameter. The walls were coated with green slime and on the bottom there was a mixed coating of mud and slime and nothing else.
“False alarm,” he said sadly.
Tony paid no attention. He went to the truck again, and from his own crate of supplies he produced rope and two galvanized steel buckets. He also found boots and rubber gloves, a small hand shovel, and an ordinary garden hand tool with three prongs. These tools he thrust into his belt.
“I’m going down,” he announced.
Rick realized that Tony was not taking for granted the apparent emptiness of the hole. He realized, too, that Tony knew much more about such caches than he. “Okay,” he said. “Angel, keep a watch. We don’t want to get caught by surprise while Tony is digging.”
“I’ve been watching,” Angel said. “And we’re also being watched by Ifugaos, on the terraces above the village.”
Chahda looked into the hole doubtfully. “How you get in and out, Tony? No ladder.”
“The rope,” Tony said. “You’ll have to lower me, or hold the rope so I can climb down.”
“We’ll lower you,” Scotty said. He took the rope and made a loop for Tony’s foot, then directed the archaeologist to sit on the edge of the hole. Tony did so, putting his foot through the loop. Then Rick, Scotty, and Chahda payed out rope while the scientist let himself slide from the edge into the hole. In a moment the rope went slack. He was on the bottom.
Rick watched while Tony drove his hunting knife into the wall of the hole and hung his flashlight on it, the beam shooting downward. Then Tony took his shovel from his belt and probed the soft earth carefully. It was so soft that his boots sank in up to the ankles.
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Presently Tony called, “Something here. Get a bucket.” He worked with the shovel and unearthed a small, mud-covered object, then another, then a whole series of them.
Scotty tied a bucket to the rope and lowered it. Tony put the muddy collection in it and Scotty drew it up.
“Send the rope back for me,” Tony called.
The three boys helped to pull him up. He immediately sat down on the ground with the bucket between his legs and started to clean his findings.
“Rick,” he requested, “get me the bag of cloths and brushes from my case, please?”
Rick did so. Tony removed most of the mud by wiping it off with his gloves. Then brushes and cloths completed the job. He held up a human jawbone, inlaid with gold. His eyes sparkled.“Typical, except for the gold. The human jawbone is a common Ifugao relic. In fact, they suspend their musical instruments from human jawbones.” He put it down carefully and started to work on the next object. It turned out to be a pipe, again typical Ifugao work except for the fact that it was of gold.
Rick examined it. He had seen pipes something like it b
efore, but made of clay. “I thought tobacco was an American product,” he observed. “How come these primitive Asiatics had it?”
“Asiaused tobacco long before the Indians introduced it to Europeans,” Tony replied. “But it’s curious that the pipe forms should be so similar. That pipe was made by a process we now use inAmerica for very delicate castings. It is called the ‘lost wax’ process.”
“Funny name,” Chahda said, interested.
“Yes, until you know about the process. The Ifugao makes the pipe he wants out of wax,then coats it with clay, leaving a hole in the clay. Then he puts the clay in the fire. The clay hardens, but the wax melts and runs out. The Ifugao, then, has a mold exactly like the pipe he made of wax. He melts the metal he chooses- gold, in this case-and pours it into the clay mold. When the metal cools, he breaks off the mold, and there is his pipe.”
“Lost wax,” Scotty said. “You’re right. It fits.”
At that moment Angel Manotok came into the recess. “I’ve been listening. Don’t think I’m presuming, please, but could we work faster? Perhaps talk about it later?”
Angel was right, of course. Tony said, “I shouldn’t have taken the time to clean these things. We’ll collect them mud and all.” He went back into the hole and worked rapidly, filling the buckets as fast as the boys could haul them up.
Rick thought that the crypt probably was dry when the objects were first placed in it. But the water used to irrigate the rice terraces had seeped through between the carefuly selected stones that lined the pit, bringing fine particles of dirt and gradually building up a reservoir of mud in the bottom. Most of the water seeped in and seeped out again, but the particles of soil remained.
Tony suddenly gave a cry. “I think I have it!” He braced an object on his knee and wiped it. “It is! And by its weight, it’s thick-walled but hollow! What a find! Boys, this is wonderful! Tremendous!”
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The scientist tried to place the muddy object in a bucket, but it was too large to fit. He called, “Can one of you lean away in? I’ll hold it up as high as I can.”
