Coin of the Realm

But then the circle parted at two points and Remo suddenly sat up very straight.

Two lines of native Moovian women slithered in and converged inside the circle. They wore skirts of grass or coarse black cloth low on their undulating hips. Colorful blossoms decorated their long hair and dazzling smiles split their happy faces. Their feet were bare, but Remo's eyes weren't on their feet, but on their exposed, jiggling breasts.

They began to sway in time to their clapping hands, which they held over their heads.

Remo's blank face broke out into a wide grin. "Moo," he said.

"Do not stare," Chiun remonstrated.

"I'm sure not going to look away," Remo said. "Don't want to insult our gracious hosts."

"Watch their hands. They tell the story. And their hips."

"I'm watching, I'm watching."

"But not like that."

"I don't know any other way to watch," Remo said as a line of sinuous hips undulated in perfect synchronization before his eyes. Firm young breasts bounced and swayed. The most dazzling smiles Remo had ever seen bathed him in a carefree radiance. Remo relaxed. All his cares seemed to ooze right out of him. He felt at peace.

The women were still dancing when the food began to arrive.

Chiun was speaking with the High Moo.

"My knowledge of Moo dance is not perfect," the Master of Sinanju admitted. "Does that shaking of hips mean that the Year of the Macaw was the same year that the volcanoes cooled?"

"No," replied the High Moo. "You must watch their fingers too. The snapping they make keeps the time. One snap means one moon. Ten snaps, and a year has passed."

"Oh, yes. Now I understand."

"Do you understand too?" the High Moo asked of Remo.

"Are you kidding? I was born knowing this stuff," Remo assured him, absently taking a wooden bowl from the old woman with the drooping breasts.

The aroma had to fill his nostrils before Remo realized what he had been offered.

"Hey," he said. "This is egg-lemon soup. Where did it come from?"

"I made it," Chiun told him.

"When? You were here all the time."

"During the break in the dance."

"What break in the dance?"

"The one where the maidens were not dancing, but instead formed two lines and swayed in imitation of the ocean at rest after Old Moo sank."

"I thought that was the best part. I was hypnotized."

"You would. Drink your soup."

Remo started in on the soup. He drank it straight from the bowl when no one offered him a spoon. He figured it was the native custom.

The Low Moo watched Remo drink down his third bowl, wondering what kind of a man found naked peasant girls so fascinating. He did not take his eyes off them. Unlike the others, she knew that Remo was not watching the dance, but the dancers. It was strange. But he was from a strange land, she told herself, where all women covered their breasts. The princess had thought that in America every woman was of royal blood, but the Master of Sinanchu had assured her such was not the case.

Still, why was Remo watching them when the Low Moo herself sat at his elbow? Could it be that he really did prefer rabbits to girls? But then why did he stare? Perhaps, she thought, he had never seen a woman naked before, being interested only in female rabbits.

"Is the soup to your liking, Remo?" she breathed in his ear.

"Yeah, yeah. Great soup. I could use another bowl," he said distractedly. His eyes did not leave the peasant dancing girls.

The Low Moo decided to experiment. "Remo," she whispered.

"Yeah?" he said, not looking in her direction. "Look, I will show you something."

"I'm seeing something," he replied dreamily.

"I will show you something you have never seen."

"Yeah?" Remo looked. "What's that?"

The Low Moo was smiling at him. His eyes were not fully focused. The Low Moo changed that when she pulled down the top of her costume.

Remo blinked. His eyes focused like a zoom lens. "Are you going to dance too?" he asked.

"No. Not that way. I may dance for you in private." And she quickly covered up, content that she had learned the truth.

At least Remo did like human females even if he did have low tastes. Perhaps she would do something to elevate them.

She leaned over and whispered in his ear, "I want to poon you."

Remo grinned. He turned to the Master of Sinanju. "What does poon mean?" he asked.

"Eat! Eat!" Chiun snapped, noticing Remo's nearly full bowl. "And stop asking foolish questions when I am conversing with the High Moo."

A splendid tropical moon lifted from the Pacific. It ascended into the sky, growing smaller and smaller as it sought the very pinnacle of the star-sprinkled heavens.

The fires grew dimmer, and the Moovian girls had given up their dancing. They took their places in the circle and began tearing chunks of meat off the roasting pigs and ate it with their fingers, laughing and giggling.

Many pairs of flashing black eyes looked Remo's way. He watched their bodies, tawny and impossibly smooth in the firelight. He decided he might like life on Moo after all.

The Master of Sinanju watched the fires die. He felt the eyes of the High Moo upon him. Good. The High Moo was doubtless impressed by the wise countenance of the Master of Sinanju as seen in profile. No doubt he was struck with awe at having come face-to-face with the ancestor of him who faithfully served the High Moo's earliest ancestors. Probably he was even now offering prayers of thankfulness to his many gods for the winds that brought Sinanju to him.

The High Moo regarded the profile of the Master of Sinanchu in puzzlement. The Master of Sinanchu described by the oral traditions of Moo was a tall sturdy man with thick black hair and smooth golden skin like a Moovian's. The Masters of Sinanchu wore strange leggings and loose shirts. This old man came swathed in something that belonged on a woman. And where were his weapons? The High Moo could stand it no longer. He had to ask.

"I have a question, Master of Sinanchu."

"I have the answers to your every question," the Master of Sinanju replied firmly.

"You carry no weapons. Are they on your ship?"

"They are not on my ship, for I carry them with me wherever I go," said the Master of Sinanju cryptically.

"I do not see them."

"These," said the Master of Sinanju, raising his longnailed fingers in the firelight. "These are my weapons. In my language they are called the Knives of Eternity, for I enter the world with them and I take them with me when I at last go into the Void beyond the stars."

"Masters of Sinanchu in the days of Great Moo carried swords. "

"Masters of Sinanju in the time of Great Moo did not know the sun source, which enabled us to unlock the full potential of our minds and bodies. That era began with the Great Wang-not to be confused with the lesser Wang, of course."

"They were younger. Every Master I have heard of was young and strong of arm, the better to deal with the High Moo's enemies.'

"Youth is not everything. Age has its benefits," Chiun said. "For with age comes wisdom. And wisdom sometimes reveals a path where force is not needed."

"I am the High Moo. I rule by the strength of my arm and the hardness of my war club," said the High Moo. He patted an ebony club that leaned against one leg.

Chiun sniffed. "A club can be broken or a blade taken away. But the mind is the mind."

"Brains can be clubbed out of a man's skull," returned the High Moo.

"If it is your wish to behold the color of your enemies' brains, I will undertake it," said Chiun with veiled distaste. "For, thousands of years ago, an unearned down payment of Moovian coin fed my village, and service is still owned Moo."

"I have enemies," said the High Moo conspiratorially.

"All rulers have enemies."

"Assassins."

"Pah!" spat Chiun. "Do not flatter them. They are mere killers. I am an assassin, and I speak the word with pride."

"They have tried to kill me three times. My guards have staved off two attempts. I myself have killed in my own defense."

"Point out the conspirators to me and their heads will be grinning at your feet," Chiun said boastfully.

"Not all my subjects are here. Some live apart from us. Each year, more are lured away. Women are stolen for their rites. "

"Kidnappers?"

"A cult. An old cult, which is rising again. Old ways, old evils. They covet my throne. They covet my daughter; They want to plunge Moo into backwardness and ugliness."

"But point the way and they will be dust," Chiun promised. He sensed the High Moo's skepticism and desired to prove his prowess.

"They dwell in the Grove of Ghosts, at the west end of the island."

"Remo, listen to this," Chiun ordered.

"Huh? What?" Remo said, tearing his eyes off the feasting native girls.

"The High Moo now speaks of our task."

"I'm listening. Just tell him to talk slower. My Moo vocabulary isn't up to speed yet."

"What does he say?" the High Moo asked Chiun. "He hangs on your every word," affirmed Chiun.

The High Moo nodded. "I spoke of old ways. Someone on this island has revived an ancient evil. They have failed to kill me three times. Now they hurl presentiments at me. Just last night, when I stood on the roof of my very palace, a wicked one threw a jug of ocean water at me. It missed, but from the shattered clay emerged . . . "

Chiun bent his old head. Remo leaned closer. "An octopus," the High Moo breathed. Chiun gasped.

"No!" he said.

"Yes. Octopus worshipers!"

"Did you hear that, Remo? Octopus worshipers."

"Is that bad?" Remo wanted to know.

"Bad? It is terrible," Chiun said. "The octopus is the ancient Enemy of Life. Its servants are the most despicable cult of all."

"Worse than TV evangelists?"

"Worse than TV evangelists," Chiun said solemnly. "TV evangelists only want your money. Octopus worshipers covet the universe." He turned to the High Moo. "It has been many generations since the last octopus worshipers were thought stamped out."

"They have started up again in Moo."

"Then we will tear off their limbs and crush what remains," proclaimed Chiun. Everyone in the feast circle turned to look at him.

"I can trust no one. Except you," the High Moo said when the laughter and chatter started anew.

"The House of Sinanju owes service to the House of Moo. Of course, there is the matter of the balance," Chiun suggested.

"I will pay triple the down payment, for you have come a long way. That is, if you are able to accomplish this task I set before you."

"Able?" Chiun squeaked. "I am the Master of Sinanju."

"But you are old. Past your prime years."

"Past! I am young by Sinanju counting."

"And you have no weapons."

The Master of Sinanju said nothing for a moment. He picked up a coconut that had been placed at his feet earlier. He had declined its sweet milk.

"Quadruple the down payment," said Chiun evenly.

"Too much! Too much!" cried the High Moo. "I do not have the coffers of Old Moo. This is a small island compared to the greatness of former times."

"If you cannot afford proper protection from assassins, you should have called upon a lesser house," Chiun returned coldly. "For although the glory of Moo has set, the power of Sinanju has waxed great in the modern world."

The High Moo winced at the pointed insult. And Chiun smiled thinly.

"Triple," repeated the High Moo stubbornly. "Quadruple," said Chiun, "and I will deliver the perpetrators tonight."

"Tonight?"

"By dawn you will preside over a peaceful land," promised Chiun.

"And triple if it takes longer?"

"Agreed," said Chiun.

"Done is done," said the High Moo, getting to his feet. Chiun rose beside him. The High Moo placed a hand on the Master of Sinanju's frail shoulder and Chiun placed his on the High Moo's opposite shoulder to signify agreement.

"We will drink to our agreement," proclaimed the High Moo. "Fetch a coconut."

"No need," said Chiun, raising his right hand to the High Moo's broad face. The coconut was balanced on the uprights of Chiun's fingers. With his other hand he made a series of passes over the hairy shell, as if weaving a spell. When he knew the High Moo's attention was fixed on his hand, Chiun lashed out and sheared the top off the coconut.

The white meat lay exposed in a twinkling. Chiun offered the shell to the High Moo, who, to his disgust, spat into it. He offered it to the Master of Sinanju. Chiun sipped lightly. He spat the juice back into the husk and returned it to the High Moo.

The High Moo drained the husk greedily, milk spilling from the corners of his mouth.

"None for me?" asked Remo.

"Hush, slave," said Chiun. "I will now reveal the name of the chief culprit," he announced, stepping into the circle. Curious, Remo folded his arms.

"This better be good," he mumbled.

Chiun, his hazel eyes like steel, stamped around in a slow circle.

"The evil one is in our midst. I know this, for I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju, who came across a great ocean to bring peace to this troubled empire. I see all. I know all. "

"Bull," whispered Remo in English, He was ignored. "I know there are conspirators in this very feast. I do not know them all, but I know their leader."

The Red Feather Guard looked back at him stonily. The village women stared open-mouthed. The Low Moo watched with tight lips. And the royal priest raked the crowd with his avid black eyes, as if to imply that he, too, knew and saw all, and was able to visit justice as well.

"I knew him on the beach," Chiun went on. The High Moo looked at Chiun with steely eyes.

"I know him now," Chiun intoned. "And soon you will all know him for what he is-an octopus worshiper."

A hush fell over the feasters. The crackling of the fires alone broke the stillness. Cinders danced in the night air. Chiun, his hands clasped behind his back, paced around the circle. Here and there he paused to look someone in the eye. Some flinched from his gaze. One or two of the children suppressed giggles.

Watching, Remo thought he knew what Chiun was trying to do. He hoped to smoke out the conspirator with psychology. It was a bluff.

Chiun continued his circuit. His face was hard, uncompromising. But no one broke and ran, as Remo expected. Finally, on his third circuit, the Master of Sinanju went directly to one man.

"I accuse you, Teihotu," he screeched, one finger pointing with undeniable accusation, "royal priest to the Shark Throne, of being a secret octopus worshiper!"

"I ... I . . ." sputtered the royal priest.

"Do not deny it. You reek of guilt."

And from the dark robes, Teihotu extracted a bone knife.

Chiun disarmed him with a twist of his wrist. He dragged the man to his knees and, clutching him by the neck, forced a horrible scream from his thin lips.

"No, no! I confess! I confess!"

There came a collective gasp from the Moovians.

"Who else, priest?" demanded Chiun. "Who else among this gathering belongs to your evil cult?"

"Goom. Googam. Bruttu. And Shagg."

At the sounds of their names, four of the Red Feather Guard broke and ran. Remo started after them.

"Hold," Chiun said. "Time for them later. This is the important one."

Out of the trees came a hurled object. It smashed, dousing the main fire. Moovians screamed. For in the embers an octopus sizzled and curled as the embers seared its tentacles. It died in a flopping, spitting agony.

"Fear not," said Chiun, "for this evil ends tonight." He dragged the priest before the Shark Throne and made him kneel.

"You have heard this man's confession," Chiun said loudly. "Now pronounce his fate."

"Death," intoned the High Moo.

"Death," the Moovians repeated.

"So be it," Chiun said. "I will give you a boon, priest. Reveal to us the name of every octopus worshiper, and your death will be swift and without agony."

Teihotu, royal priest to the Shark Throne, wept bitterly. He spat name after name until he had surrendered twelve names in all.

When he was done, Chiun nodded. The priest had spoken true. Abject fear was in his voice. Chiun passed his long-nailed fingers over the man's quaking head. On the third pass, there came a sound like the coconut shell cracking. Where the priest's hair had been was the open bowl of his skull.

Holding the corpse by the back of its neck, Chiun bent the head forward so that the High Moo could see the yellowish curd of the traitor's brain. The High Moo nodded silently.

Chiun let the body collapse at the High Moo's feet and stepped back proudly. Remo joined him.

"Lucky guess," Remo whispered in English.

"No," Chiun replied. "I remember smelling octopus on his hands when he blessed us."

Remo thought. "Now that you mention it, I do remember his hands smelled kinda fishy."

"Not fish. Octopus."

"Same difference. I don't know why everyone's so petrified. I once watched a National Geographic TV special on octopi. They're actually gentle, harmless creatures."

"You will know the error of your ways by dawn." The High Moo spoke up.

"You have done well, Master of Sinanchu," he said, his voice full of respect. "But dare you enter the Grove of Ghosts to complete what you have begun?"

"My servant and I depart now. Await us at first light."

"If you do not return, you will long be remembered for your feats of magic this night."

"Come, Remo," Chiun said.

Remo made a point of waving to the native girls as he left.

"Catch you later," he told them. They giggled, thinking that he meant he was going fishing.

Chapter 16

Harold Smith pulled his car into an available space in the County Registry of Deeds office. He carried his worn leather briefcase with him through the glass doors and into the dim oak-paneled service area. He would not need his briefcase, but it contained his portable computer link and White House hot-line telephone. He never went anywhere without it, just as he was seldom seen wearing anything but a gray three-piece suit. Smith was a creature of rigid habits.

The prim woman in the white blouse, severe black skirt, and librarian's string tie pretended not to notice Smith's entrance. Smith walked up to the counter, straightening his Dartmouth tie. The close atmosphere reminded him of the Vermont elementary school he had attended. Municipal buildings always evoked a nostalgic reaction in Smith.

"Excuse me," Smith said, clearing his throat. "I would like to look up a deed. It's a recent sale, and I'm not sure how to go about this. Do I need to know the plot number?"

"No," the woman said. "This is, unless you don't know the name of either the grantee or grantor."

"Which is which?" Smith asked.

"The seller is called the grantor. The buyer is referred to as the grantee." Her voice was bored. The woman looked down her glasses as if to ask: who was this man who didn't know the most commonplace facts?

"I have the name of the grantor," said Smith.

"Come this way," said the woman, stepping out behind the flip-top counter. She led Smith to a book-lined alcove. "These," she said sternly, running her fingers along a line of black-bound books, "are the Grantor Indexes. And these are the Grantee Indexes." She pointed to an opposite shelf of similar books. They were dated by year, Smith saw with relief. He had had visions of having to comb through countless volumes.

"You look up the name you know in either set," she concluded.

"I only know the grantor's name," Smith repeated.

"I am explaining the entire procedure in case you ever have to do this again. Now, do you understand the difference between the indexes?"

"Indices. "

"I beg your pardon?"

"The plural of 'index' is 'indices,' not 'indexes.'"

"Sir, have you ever heard the expression 'close enough for government work'?"

"Of course."

"Well, it applies in this case." She went on in a lecturing like tone, "Now, if you will let me continue. You will find a reference number next to the name. It will probably be a four-digit number, unless of course you are searching records prior to 1889, in which case it will be a three- or possibly two-digit number. It will correspond to the number of one of these books." She indicated a bookshelf filled with worn black spines. They bore numbers written by hand in white ink.

"Select the correct book and look up the deed by the page number, which you will find next to the two-, three-, or four-digit number separated by an oblique stroke. These books contain sequential photocopies of all deeds within each serial."

"I see," Smith said.

"Good. Do you have any other questions?"

"Yes. Is there a photocopy machine on the premises?"

"Around the corner by the water cooler. Copies are fifteen cents. And I do not make change."

"Of course. Thank you," said Dr. Harold W. Smith. The woman walked off without another word and Smith made a mental note to see if there was a nameplate at the counter. The woman was very efficient, no-nonsense. Smith liked that in a worker. He resolved, if he should ever lose his current secretary, to offer the position to this woman. Smith went to the Grantor Index, found the name of his former next-door neighbor, and made a mental note of the serial and page number. The book was on a lower shelf. It was new. There was a red-stamped bindery date on the flyleaf that was barely two weeks old.

Smith flipped through the pages of photocopied deeds until he found the one he wanted. He gave it a quick scan. The name of the grantee was James Churchward.

The name sounded familiar. Smith tried to place it. He could not.

Hurriedly he went to the photocopy machine and put in a quarter. He made a copy, and when his change did not come, he hit the change plunger several times without result. And so concerned was Harold Smith over the familiar name that he did something unprecedented for the frugal bureaucrat.

He did not stop at the counter on his way out to demand restitution.

In his car, Smith slid in on the passenger side and opened the briefcase on his lap. He dialed the Folcroft computer number and placed the receiver in the modem receptacle. Then Smith input the name of James Churchward and requested a global search of all CURE-sensitive files pertaining to past operations.

It was ten minutes and six seconds by Smith's wristwatch before the on-screen message showed. It said, "NOT FOUND."

Smith frowned. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the name was not CURE-linked. He lifted the receiver and dialed his home.

"Dear," Smith said when his wife answered. "That man you saw leaving the house next door-the one whose name you couldn't recall?"

"Yes?"

"Was his name James Churchward?"

"No, I've never heard that name. Who is James Churchward?"

"I don't know," Smith said slowly. "It is probably riothing," he added. "Just a hunch. Excuse me. I must get back to work."

"On your way home, why don't you pick up another box of those nice potato flakes you like so much? The supermarket is having a two-for-one sale."

"If I can," said Smith, hanging up.

He stared unseeingly out the windshield for several minutes, trying to make the puzzle parts come together. His wife recognized the face of a man coming from the house. And Smith recognized the name. The name did not match the face. Unless, Smith thought suddenly, Mrs. Smith never knew the man's name in the first place. Or this could mean that there were two of them. The man Mrs. Smith saw and this James Churchward.

Tight-lipped, Smith closed his briefcase and slid behind the wheel. He sent his car in the direction of Folcroft Sanitarium. The sun was going down, but there was much more work to do today. The Folcroft computers might not contain any reference to a James Churchward, but somewhere, he knew, there was a computer that did. And Dr. Harold W. Smith knew that his computers would find that computer and extract the information.

It was now, without question, a top-priority matter.

Chapter 17

Remo raced into the benighted jungle, his eyes automatically compensating for the deeper darkness under tree cover. He glided like a phantom, his loafer-clad feet avoiding twigs and vines in an automatic way that Remo could not explain because his eyes weren't on the ground, but on the vine-choked path before him.

"Remo!" Chiun called breathily.

Remo halted, annoyed. He figured the chase for an easy one. And the quicker it was done, the sooner he could get back to the delectable Moovian maidens.

"What's the problem?" he demanded, hands on hips. "Do not blunder ahead like a fool, Remo," Chiun warned, halting beside him. He looked up at Remo with a grave face.

"What's the big deal?"

"And what is the rush?" Chiun countered.

"I don't want them to get away," Remo said defensively.

"And where would they go? We are on an island." Remo shrugged.

"And do not underestimate these people, Remo. They have dangerous weapons at their disposal."

"Come on, Chiun," Remo said, looking around. "Clubs and bone knives? I've been known to two-step between the bullets in a machine-gun crossfire, for crying out loud. No clown in bark briefs is going to get the drop on me."

"No?" asked Chiun. "Then what is that beside your left cheek?"

"Huh?" Remo said, turning. "It's a tree. So what?"

"And what is that sticking out of the tree?"

Remo looked closer. He saw a needlelike object projecting from the rough bark.

"You mean this thorn?" he asked, pointing. Chiun shook his stern head.

"It is not a thorn."

"Sure it is. It's growing out of the tree."

"If it is growing from that tree," Chiun went on, "it is growing backward. Look again, O brave and foolish one."

"What are you ... ?" Then Remo noticed that the thick end of the thorn stuck out. The point was embedded in the bark.

"Booby trap, huh?" Remo said.

"If we scratch ourselves on it, we die."

"You are beyond help, Remo. It is a blowgun dart."

"Blowgun! I didn't hear anything."

"That is why they are so dangerous. That one missed you by the span of one hand."

"Oh," Remo said in a small voice. He was looking around him.

"Now that you are enlightened, you will listen for the sound of the man who expels darts. You will be aware of the tiny tick of a sound as the dart embeds itself in a hard object."

"Fine. No problem." Remo started to go. Chiun restrained him with a firm hand.

"I have not finished my instruction, you who think dancing in the path of loud and large bullets is all there is in the world to know about preserving one's life."

"What else is there?"

"A question. It is this. What happens if you hear the expelling breath but not the tick?"

"I duck?"

"No, for by then it will already be too late."

"I look for darts in my skin?"

"If you live that long, you may," said Chiun with undisguised disgust, and abruptly took the lead.

"Guess I'm on my own," Remo muttered to himself. He took up the rear, his eyes questing this way and that. He moved with greater caution, his overconfidence gone.

"We will not follow them," Chiun said so softly it might have been the winds in the turtle grass. "We will go to this haunted grove where these devils in human form live."

Remo, surprised at the vehemence of Chiun's words, asked what he thought was a logical question.

"Business aside, why do you have it in for these cultists?"

"I suppose you were not taught about octopus worshipers in these schools where they knew naught of Moo."

"Not really."

"Westerners," Chiun mumbled. Then he spoke up. "There are many legends about the creation of the world, Remo. Every land has stories of how the Supreme Creator brought forth the universe and those who inhabit it. Of course, the Korean version is the only factual story, but in different lands, other stories are told."

They came to a clearing bathed by the full moon. Chiun crouched down, signaling for Remo to follow suit. Remo did.

As Chiun's hazel eyes raked the open area, he went on in a sonorous voice.

"Just as lands tell their tales of the Supreme Creator, they have stories of his opposite. Now, in some lands this opposite creature is ludicrously described as a man with a tail and the horns and hooves of a goat. Of course, this is beyond reason."

"The nuns who raised me didn't think so."

"They probably told you laughable stories about angels too. "

"As a matter of fact-"

Chiun hushed him with a gesture. Then he waved Remo forward. Remo followed the Master of Sinanju through the clearing. He noticed that Chiun's eyes were on the ground. Remo looked down. He saw the disturbances-imperfect footprints and gouges in the porous black earth-that went through the clearing. Chiun was obviously following them. As he walked along, Remo saw that they veered off to one side. But Chiun continued in a straight line.

"Little Father, I think you-" Remo began. He never finished, because the trees over their head emitted a high keening sound. A skirling bird cry. In spite of himself, Remo froze.

The Master of Sinanju did not. With a countercry of his own, he twisted aside. His long-nailed fingers went up like predatory claws. There came a mushy cloth-ripping sound, and when Remo focused on the sound, he saw the Master of Sinanju holding the limp body of some sort of creature.

The thing was black and oily-looking. It had a pulpy head and two legs. But from every point, tentacles grew. These quivered as they hung to the ground. The thing was big, larger than Chiun.

"Jesus H. Christ. What is that?" Remo asked.

"Dead," Chiun said. "It is dead." He held it over his head and Remo realized that he was not holding it in his palm. It was hung up on Chiun's long lethal fingernails. Impaled.

Chiun slowly tipped his hand, twisting his wrists so that the thing came off his fingernails without breaking them, like meat sliding off a fork.

The man-size thing sprawled on the ground. Gingerly Remo approached it. Its skin glimmered under the moonlight, glossy and quivering, like a sea creature. But here and there were greenish feathers, wet and drooping. There was some blood, and Remo was surprised to see that it was red.

"Is it real?" he asked.

"Yes and no," Chiun said. He reached down and Remo almost cringed. Chiun ripped off the thing's head. It landed at Remo's feet wetly.

"A mask?" Remo asked, picking it up. It was slimy. But where the head had been was the glassy-eyed face of a Moovian man.

"It is a disguise they use to spread their terror. An old trick."

"Not that old," Remo said. "When I was a Newark cop, I never had to deal with suspects who thought they were octopi. "

"This is older than Newark, older even than Sinanju. An ancient evil long thought banished from the world. This man wore the mantle of Rangotango, the Plumed Octopus, one of the messengers of Ru-Taki-Nuhu."

"Any relation to Riki-Tiki-Tavvi? Or Rin-Tin-Tin?"

"Hush. Ru-Taki-Nuhu is the Enemy of Life. He was known by many people under many names. For as I told you, Remo, the Supreme Creator had an opposite. He was Ru-Taki-Nuhu to the Moovians. To the Koreans, he was Sa Mansang, the Dream Thing. Many are the legends, but their source is one: the octopus."

Remo's lopsided grin was fading. He searched the surrounding jungle for other assailants.

"In Old Moo," Chiun continued, "Ru-Taki-Nuhu was also called the Heaven-Propper. For it was said that RuTaki-Nuhu came from a place where there was no sun, no moon, no stars. In those days, the world was a barren rock. Until the coming of Ru-Taki-Nuhu. It is said he fell from a great height, and in falling, his ink sac burst, spilling its contents. What we call the sea is the ink of Ru-Taki-Nuhu. And when the Supreme Creator saw what had bespoiled his pretty world, he called upon the sky to fall and crush Ru-Taki-Nuhu. But the Enemy of Life was too swift. His tentacles reached up and arrested the descending sky. And when the Supreme Creator saw this, he poured a magic potion into the sea so that the Heaven-Propper would sleep and do no mischief And so Ru-TakiNuhu sleeps, awaiting the end of the world, when he will awaken and drink all the ocean. Moovians believe that human life will continue only as long as the Heaven-Propper's tentacles continue to hold up the sky."

"And you snicker at angels," Remo said.

"In ancient times," Chiun went on, "there were men and women so evil that they sought through chants and rituals and other ways to pull down the tentacles of Ru-Taki-Nuhu. Others sought to awaken him before his time, hoping to produce the same wicked result."

"Not that I buy any of this," Remo remarked, "but what kind of idiot would be crazy enough to end the world?"

"Most of them were what you would call teenagers."

"Oh. Makes sense now," Remo said.

"The last of these cretins were thought to be extinct. And they weren't all Moovian. Some were Greek. Others Arab. There were even Koreans, believe it or not."

"I believe it."

Chiun made a face. "You would. Come, let us track the last of these octopus worshipers to their lair and stamp out their kind once and for all."

As they pushed on toward the southern shore, Remo thought of another question.

"Little Father, you don't believe all this octopus-demon stuff, do you?"

It was a long time before the Master of Sinanju answered. "If we eradicate them all, then we will not have to worry about separating truth from legend."

"Gotcha."

"Until Ru-Taki-Nuhu awakens, that is," Chiun added. Remo didn't have an answer to that.

The jungle path meandered between vines and banyan trees. At their approach, a monkey ran up a coconut tree. He chattered at them raucously. Chiun chattered back at him and the monkey scampered off.

"Wonder what made him run?" Remo asked idly.

"I insulted his mother," Chiun said. And Remo thought the Master of Sinanju wasn't kidding.

At last they came to the edge of the plateau that looked down on a declivity bordering the white sands of the southern tip of the island. Offshore, waves pounded a jutting blue coral reef. Closer inland was a shadow-clotted blot of foliage.

"There!" Chiun hissed, pointing.

Remo stared into the dark area. His eyes spied the brief starlike twinkle of a dying ember. Then it was gone. The wet smell that sometimes hung in the air around a burned building drifted up to their alert nostrils.

"Someone just doused a fire," Remo whispered.

"We approach without the advantage of surprise."

"Now what?"

And down in the grove, Remo heard a series of soft sounds. Puff. Puff. Puff.

"Darts," Chiun hissed.

Remo's eyes telescoped. He spotted them coming up out of the grove. They showed up as dull floating slivers, but when they reached the apex of their flight, for an instant moonlight painted them silver. Poised for instant action, Remo was astonished by how slowly the darts appeared to move. They reminded him of tracer fire rising up out of the Vietnam jungle as he helicoptered over enemy positions. Neither tracers nor darts appeared dangerous. Until they struck.

Remo felt something shoved into his hand. "Here," Chiun said. "Protect yourself."

Remo saw that he held a huge rubber-tree leaf. He knew instantly what he should do with it.

As the darts descended, he shielded his face, feinting. The little ticks sounded, quick and vicious.

Out of the corner of his eye Remo saw Chiun dance with the leaf over his head. His leaf quickly sprouted thorns. Remo caught a second volley. The ground in front of him took several hits as well.

Abruptly the puffing ceased. Remo turned over his leaf. It was peppered with darts. None had penetrated.

"Do you have respect for your enemy now, Remo?"

"Yeah," Remo said grimly. "I suppose these are dipped in some poison?"

"No. They are stonefish spines. They come prepoisoned."

"Brrrr," Remo said. He had faced death in back alleys and in bizarre situations, but on this isolated, demon-haunted island, there was something almost supernatural about how casual death could be. No sound of machine guns, no cries of rage. Just silent death from the darkness. "Now what?"

"Do as I do," Chiun instructed. He flipped his leaf over so the needles pointed outward. Remo followed suit. The Master of Sinanju drew his leaf back like a tennis racket and let go with sudden violence. Remo grinned and copied the action.

The silent darts rained down on the grove.

Remo listened for the cries of surprise. No sounds came. "The poison works pretty fast, huh?" he said. "They don't even have time to yell out."

"They have probably left the grove," Chiun said unhappily.

"Impossible. We have the high ground. We'd have spotted them."

"Come," said Chiun, slipping down the sheer wall of the plateau.

Down in the grove, the wet smoky smell annoyed their lungs. The grove was choked with vegetation and Chiun was forced to cut a path into it with his fingernails. He did it with circling motions, like a man brushing cobwebs out of his way. Except that cobwebs broke apart silently. Here, jungle vines and branches cracked and flew off as if attacked by a thresher.

"You could help," Chiun called back.

"Mine aren't long enough," Remo said. But when he showed his hands, he had to swallow his words. His nails were much longer than normal. He shrugged and started to slice the thick growth.

"I'm going to have to find something to pare these down with," he muttered. "They grew a lot on the voyage." Chiun said nothing.

Presently they came to something that Remo at first mistook for a huge dead tree. Then its hard outlines made him stop in his tracks. "Looks like a tiki god or something," he muttered.

"It is an octopus totem. A bad thing."

Remo walked around it. It possessed a big open-mouthed face, six arms, and a serrated belly. The feet were short and stubby.

"This one is obviously male," he pointed out.

"Octopus worshipers are preoccupied with sex. They believe that by mating in certain ways, they can awaken Ru-Taki-Nuhu with their base cries."

"Speaking of sex," Remo said, "is it true what they say about Moovian girls?"

Chiun turned. "And what is it that they say?"

"That they're ... you know . . ."

Chiun cocked his head. "Yes?"

"Er, loose."

"And what makes you say such a slanderous thing?"

"The way some of them were looking at me. And you know the reputation South Sea island girls have."

"If it is sex you want, I would stick with your American women. They do it less but enjoy it more."

"That's no answer."

"It is the truth you do not wish to hear. Now, come." Chiun pushed ahead, hiking his skirts so they wouldn't snag on the snarled underbrush.

They came to the campfire. It was deserted except for the remains of a meal. The area was ringed with grotesque tiki gods. Here and there fallen darts feathered the ground. Chiun carefully harvested and buried every-one.

"This is impossible," Remo said angrily. "They couldn't escape. We had the entire place in view all the time."

"Octopus worshipers are very tricky. Let us find their hiding place."

"You know where to look?"

"Of course. They are very predictable. Whatever a real octopus does, they do."

Remo followed, searching his memory for octopus habits as described by National Geographic.

He wasn't surprised when Chiun led him to a coral cave at the foot of the plateau.

"Think they're in there?"

"Not if I know octopus worshipers," said Chiun, striding in.

Inside the cave, they came to a coral-ringed pool. "They went down this," Chiun explained. "It will lead to the open water. Are you prepared to follow?"

"Sure," Remo said casually. "What could be down there?"

"Ru-Taki-Nuhu, for one," said Chiun.

"Ha!" said Remo. But he didn't feel his bravado.

Chiun shrugged his long sleeves away from his arms and dived in. Remo kicked off his loafers and followed, thinking that at least a swim would get the salt stiffness out of his clothes.

The water was dark when Remo found his equilibrium. But he could see dimly. Chiun's skirts floated ahead of him, his feet kicking rhythmically.

Remo settled into a sweeping stroke that would keep him clear of the sharp coral outcroppings. The further they swam, the darker it got. But Remo knew that was temporary. They were heading for the sea. Moonlight would illuminate the open water.

But then Remo lost sight of Chiun. It happened so suddenly that Remo momentarily paused, thinking that he had blundered into a side tunnel. Then something wet and heavy brushed his wrist.

Must be Chiun, Remo thought. He reached out, and something cold wrapped around his arm.

Remo grabbed for it with the other hand and felt a slick length of sinew. He pulled at it, and his fingers encountered little flexible pads. And in that instant the image of an octopus' suckers flashed into his mind. His blood ran cold.

Chapter 18

Smith trembled.

He lifted his long thin fingers from the Folcroft terminal keyboard and they actually shook. He cleared his throat as he reached into the upper-right-hand desk drawer for relief.

The drawer contained an assortment of antacids in tablet, liquid, and foam form, aspirin in regular, double-strength, and children's strength, and five bottles of Alka-Seltzer. After a few moments Smith decided his headache bothered him more than his ulcer. He shook out three pink-and-orange children's aspirin tablets and chased them down with mineral water from his office dispenser.

He returned to the screen, rubbing the spot between his eyes where his eyeglasses rested on his nose, and where the headache seemed situated. His hands were steady again.

The screen stared back at him. The word "BLOCKED" flashed on and off in glowing green letters.

In all his years of CURE operations, Dr. Harold W. Smith had never encountered such sophisticated methods of denying computer access. He had searched Social Security records for data on the name James Churchward.

The file existed. But he couldn't get into it.

He logged into the regional IRS computer banks around the country. He never learned if there was a file for the man because, somehow, his requests were transferred to another computer at an unknown location. A keyboard light flashed like an angry red eye, warning Smith that his probe was being back-traced. Smith logged off hastily.

All other attempts to access routine records on James Churchward met with similar rebuffs. It was incredible. As if the person, although plainly in several data banks, did not exist. Or was not supposed to exist. In all cases, there wasn't even an access code that would allow someone who was presumably authorized to access those files. This left no doubt whatsoever in Smith's mind. Whoever he was, James Churchward was no ordinary man. These programs were too sophisticated. Smith recognized the probe transferral as a Moebius Siphon, a program he himself had devised years ago for CURE purposes. Obviously he was dealing with an operation as sophisticated as his own.

Baffled by his computer's inability to resolve the problem, Smith sent the terminal humming back into its desk well. Normal CURE resources had failed. Smith had only his own wits to fall back on.

He had to get into that house. Somehow.

Chapter 19

At first the Master of Sinanju mistook the blackness for a cavern opening. Then he noticed that the edges were misty and cloudlike. The blackness was spreading.

Chiun found himself enveloped in a blackness that was beyond even the ability of Sinanju-skilled eyes to penetrate. Chiun kicked around, looking for Remo. There was no sign of his pupil. He did not panic. Like Remo, he had enough oxygen in his lungs to survive over an hour underwater. But if the thing he suspected was lurking in these waters got hold of Remo, an hour might not be enough.

Chiun swam back to Remo's last position. His hands made sweeping patterns before his face. His stroke served him both as protection and as sensor. He prayed he would reach Remo in time, for Remo had been trained to battle many things, but not the minions of Ru-Taki-Nuhu.

Remo felt the constraining tentacles wrap around his legs, separating them. He struggled. Normally his strength was equal to just about any human foe. But underwater he lacked the leverage needed for most Sinanju defensive techniques. He floated in the grip of a many-armed monster. His free arm became entangled. In the blackness; which he understood was made by octopus ink, Remo couldn't tell if he was getting anyplace. He had no reference points. His only hope was to reach a coral outcropping.

But then Remo felt the unseen slimy bulk press closer to his chest and a thousand frightening images flooded his mind. In spite of his training, his ability to repress fear, this was a situation so primal that it triggered long-repressed phobias. Remo threshed wildly. The clinging octopus moved with him. But he couldn't shake it free. He felt the suckers gripping his bare arms like eager mouths. He sensed its dumb brain near him, thinking inchoate thoughts.

Then through the inky haze a dim something became visible. It looked like a shelled egg. Remo stared at it and realized it was staring back. Of course, the octopus' eye. Just the idea of that bloated, wrinkled head so close to his face was unnerving.

Remo shut his eyes. The memory of his too-long fingernails popped into his head. Remo raked at the afterimage of the eye that remained in his mind.

He felt something greasy collecting under his nails and raked again. The tentacles tightened and that was enough. Remo had something to work against. He jerked one arm suddenly. The tentacle clung, but he felt it go a little slack.

Then there was something hard and gritty cutting into his back.

Coral!

Reaching around, Remo grasped an outcropping. He steadied himself, and twisted sharply. He felt the octopus move with him. Sensing it strike with the coral, Remo struck again. Tentacles uncoiled and slapped his face and arm, but it wasn't enough.

Remo struck out with his hands. He felt them smash into the boneless head. He struck again and again, until the dark hide ruptured. The thing released him at last. Then Remo was kicking with all his might, not knowing or caring in which direction he was swimming--only anxious to get clear of the many-armed horror.

Chiun sensed rather than saw something glide past him. He hesitated, his cheeks puffed out. At intervals he expelled air bubbles. After a moment's thought he reversed direction. Ahead, there was a faint lightening of the murk.

When he could see again, Chiun saw that he was swimming behind Remo. Remo's T-shirt was in rags, and there were red marks along his arms and chest. They told the story of Remo's encounter.

Chiun knew better than to touch Remo in his current state. Cocky as Remo was in even the most dangerous situations, this was a place alien to him. Chiun decided to swim under and show himself ahead to Remo, the better to reassure him.

But that stopped being an option when Remo suddenly reversed direction. He came at Chiun.

Chiun saw the look of terror on Remo's face. He swam to him and took his shoulder, mouthing the word "What?" silently.

Remo pointed back. Chiun pushed him aside to see. There were a dozen of them. They filled the narrow tunnel, their mouths gulping and dribbling bubbles. Their black eyes were unwinking.

But it was not their fishy faces that concerned Chiun. It was the razorlike spines that covered their oblate bodies. Stonefish. And they were heading in their direction. Behind them, Chiun saw two grinning Moovians swimming in place. A big rattan basket drifted beside them. It was clear that the Moovian octopus worshipers had released the stonefish from the basket and sent them on their deadly way.

Chiun pushed Remo to one side, signaling him to stay clear, and then arrowed for the stonefish like a speedy dolphin.

One stonefish swam a little ahead of the others and Chiun dealt with him first.

With an index finger, Chiun speared the fish through its open mouth. With the other hand he shaved the deadly spines with sharp flashing strokes.

In a twinkling the stonefish was as harmless as a guppy, its spines drifting to the tunnel floor like discarded toothpicks.

Chiun made quick work of the next three.

The effect on the remaining stonefish was remarkable. They turned around and wriggled their tails in the opposite direction. The Moovians saw them coming. They lost their pleased grins and climbed all over one another in their haste to get out of the way. One made it. The other got a stonefish tangled up between his legs. He struggled for a short time. Bubbles erupted from his open mouth, and he sank to the floor in slow motion.

Chiun signaled to Remo. Remo kicked off from the coral wall and swam after the Master of Sinanju. His face was calmer now.

Around a turn in the tunnel, the light increased. Moonlight. The tunnel turned vertical and Chin paused under the blue-coral well while Remo caught up.

When Remo arrived, he looked up in time to see two bare feet disappear from the water. Two more stonefish floated disconsolately.

Chiun pointed to Remo's long fingernails. Remo nodded a yes. It was not a very firm nod, but his face showed anger, which pleased Chiun. His fears were abating. They went up.

Chiun performed his barbering trick on his fish, ran it through for good measure, and then looked to Remo. Remo was like a man trying to catch a live mine in his hands. The stonefish twisted viciously. Remo dodged. In frustration, he grabbed its tail and smashed it against the coral. Stunned, the fish floated listlessly.

Chiun touched Remo on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow carefully. He led Remo up to the coral mouth of the natural well. He stopped under the surface and waited. Nothing happened for a long time. Then a Moovian face suddenly broke the still surface. The man looked down to see what was happening.

Chiun pinched the Moovian's nose between two fingers and pulled him into the water. Remo broke his spine with a chop across the back of the neck. The Moovian sank like a dead starfish.

Chiun then made a series of complicated motions that Remo interpreted as "Go take a look."

Remo gave the Master of Sinanju a "Who, me?" look. Chiun nodded.

Reluctantly Remo went up. No sooner had he broken the surface than he felt hands wrap around his ankles and he was floating beside Chiun, his face furious.

Chiun's motions asked, "See anything?"

Remo shook his head angrily. Chiun smiled and went up. Remo kicked his feet angrily as he followed him up. When he broke the surface, Remo demanded, "What was that all about?"

"I had to know it was safe."

"And I was the guinea pig?"

"You were in no danger. I had your ankles."

"And I almost had a freaking heart attack. Do you know what I went through back there?"

"You met a child of Ru-Taki-Nuhu. And why don't you speak up? Not all of our enemies may have heard you."

"We'll settle this later," Remo promised, pulling himself out of the well. When he stood up, his stocking feet made puddles.

Chiun shook his kimono skirts of excess water. Then he began to wring out the hem.

They were on the coral reef they had seen earlier. It was a mad jumble of blue outcroppings and hollows streaked with white lying about thirty feet from shore. They stood on one end, the sea to their backs and coral ridges before them.

"When this is over I'm going to have nightmares for a week," Remo said in a bitter voice.

"Now you know why the octopus is called the Enemy of Life. "

"Yeah, and remind me to write the National Geographic people a nasty letter."

"Hush, Remo," Chiun said quickly. Remo froze. His ears became attuned to their surroundings. The slosh and suck of waves on coral predominated. But through selective attuning, Remo focused those sounds out until they became distant background noise.

Other sounds surfaced. Lungs respirating. Hearts beating, measured, but loud. There was a gurgle that Remo recognized as a man's bowel contents shifting.

"I count nine of them," Remo whispered.

"No, three."

"Listen again. Nine. Nine hearts. Nine pairs of lungs."

"But three opponents. Trust me, I know."

And the seriousness of the Master of Sinanju's tone made Remo feel a thrill of supernatural disquiet. Flashing afterimages of his underwater fight with the octopus came back to him. He shook them off:

Then came the scrape of sandals against coral. It was all around them. They were surrounded.

"I have never trained you for this, my son. For that, I am sorry. But I had thought these octopus worshipers were no more.'

"We can handle them," Remo said gamely. But his eyes were nervous.

"Remember that they will use fear to conquer your spirit before they attempt to conquer your body.

"We're Sinanju. We can take them," Remo repeated woodenly. And the pad and scrape of sandals inched closer. A head appeared over the top of an outcropping. It was gray and bulbous with frighteningly large orblike eyes. It was the head of an octopus. Remo wondered what it was doing out of water, when a hardwood club appeared next to the head. It was being held by a human hand. Remo figured it for another octopus worshiper climbing along the top of the coral ridge. But it moved more swiftly that a man should be able to crawl.

It stepped out from behind the ridge. It was over twelve feet tall.

Then, seeing what made it so tall, Remo laughed out loud.

"Look at those fools," he yelled, pointing. He laughed again. It was with relief.

For the thing with the head of an octopus was a Moovian man. He was riding the shoulders of another man, who rode atop a third, who in turn carried them both with surprising agility.

"What is this, the Moo circus?" Remo chortled. "They look like acrobats."

"Have respect," Chiun warned. "For you face a foe twice your height, with three minds to outthink you and six arms with which to fight. In olden days, this was the feared octopus pyramid."

"If they're trying to be a human octopus," Remo pointed out, "they're two arms short."

"They use their feet as well."

"I stand corrected. Now, you stand back. I want this one for my own."

"I have two others to deal with."

Remo peered over his shoulder. Another octopus pyramid was striding up behind them. A third clambered up from the sea, dripping water. They waved their many arms and made hooing sounds that reminded Remo of owls. Each hand clutched a weapon-a bone knife or war club or blowgun.

Remo went for his man-or men. A blowgun puffed from the middle component in the human octopus construct. The moonlight silvered its path. Remo dodged it with ease.

He twisted around the thing in a series of eye-defying steps. Once behind it, Remo kicked out. The bottom man's knees buckled and the three-man pyramid wavered. A hardwood club swiped at Remo's head, but he avoided it. A knife sliced at him and he danced out of the way. The puff of a dart came on its heels, and Remo had no time to spot it. He dropped and rolled.

When he came up, Remo blinked. The bottom man was now on top. He hadn't seen it happen, but he knew it was true. He had recognized the bottom Moovian as one of the traitorous Red Feather Guard.

Remo cursed his mistake. He should have kicked the front of the kneecap to shatter it. He had clipped the man in the back of the knee where the natural buckling reflex had absorbed the blow. And now the man had somehow changed places so that his damaged knee didn't matter.

Well, Remo wasn't going to make that mistake again. Chiun was counting on him. A hasty glance showed the Master of Sinanju poised between two lumbering totemlike groups. Silhouetted against a full moon, it was a fantastic sight. As if the tiki gods of the Grove of Ghosts had come to life.

Remo circled his foe, but the creature-Remo had already started to think of it as such-kept shifting with him. The occasional dart puffed out. Remo was forced to keep his distance so he could maneuver. Every time he shifted closer, they tried to nail him. Already Remo was beginning to feel respect for these octopus worshipers.

The Master of Sinanju let them come. No fear touched his heart. Not for himself. He was concerned for Remo. The last Master of Sinanju to vanquish an octopus attack was Lu. He had used the Bursting Seed attack. That would not do here. And these octopus worshipers might know of that famous battle and have devised a defense. They had had centuries in which to consider the matter.

Chiun let the demons come for him. They were easily evaded in the clear light. The things made their ridiculous hooing sounds.

A hardwood club smashed down. Chiun's hand intercepted it. The club shattered. The shock traveled up in the low man's arm. He howled in his agony, and the sound was fearsome.

"Aiiee!" Chiun cried, adding a fearsome sound of his own. The octopus pyramid behind him froze. That was enough. Chiun moved for the group with the injured limb.

His leap carried him to the height of the second man's head. Chiun's sandal touched the head and found purchase. The other sandal kicked one way, his arms slashed the other. The middle limbs suddenly let go of their weapons, and another howl came forth. Chiun floated up to the top man, who was hooing forlornly.

Chiun caused him to drop his blowgun with a slashing of fingernails. The hand came off at the wrist, pumping blood. A chopping blow shattered the opposite shoulder.

Chiun leapt to the ground and whirled.

The octopus man was howling and screeching in pain. Its limbs waved feebly. Chiun added to their symphony of agony with a brutal groin kick.

The lowest man collapsed in pain. The octopus fell apart on the coral, and, once more facing mere men-injured ones at that-the Master of Sinanju went among them, liberating their brains from their skulls with quick, bone-crunching blows.

Proudly Chiun turned to the remaining octopus man. "Come," he taunted in Moovian. "You think you are one mighty creature, but I will make of you three corpses." Remo decided that the heads were the creature's weak spots. This time he would take out the man on the bottom and then the others would fall into range of his hands-like pulling down a sand castle.

If only they would stop making that eerie sound. It was starting to get to him.

Remo feinted to the left. The thing shifted with amazing speed. It was as if all three brains were hooked together. He moved right, and went for the bottom head.

Suddenly the thing split into three men. Remo felt his reflexes react automatically to deal with the new situation. A mistake. But he couldn't help himself. Whoever these guys were, they had a way of fighting that took Sinanju training into account.

Remo was suddenly surrounded by three club-waving Moovians all staring like owls. He looked for the one with the blowgun. He was the only one who concerned Remo.

Remo sidestepped a speeding dart. He moved in. Then the blowgun was tossed to another hand, and another dart came from that direction. Remo shifted, and one of the clubs came at him.

He ducked under the blow and took the man's wrist, using the force of the Moovian's attack to flip him.

The man skidded along the coral, but found his feet with the agility of an acrobat. He suddenly leapt onto the blowgun man's back and the third scampered atop them. They stood joined again and resumed their frenzied octopuslike gesticulations.

Remo dodged behind a coral ridge. He needed time to think. And he wouldn't get it while he was preoccupied with avoiding darts.

Behind the coral, Remo considered the ridiculousness of his predicament. In his time, he'd weaved through heavily armed hordes of killers. But these circus-freak Moovians had him on the run. Remo had been trained to deal with opponents either singly or in groups-but not freaking octopus worshipers. He'd have to find a different approach.

The octopus head of the tallest Moovian suddenly topped the ridge above him. It went "Hooo-hoooo."

And Remo had an idea.

He went up the ridge until he was in the Moovian's face.

"Boo!" Remo said. And he jellied the man's face with the flat of his palm. Remo knocked the top man off the human pyramid and took his place.

It happened so fast that the middle Moovian didn't know how to react. While he was giving it thought, Remo staved the top of his head in and pushed him aside.

The man on the bottom found himself surrounded by the dead bodies of his comrades. Then whose legs were those wrapped around his neck? he wondered. He looked up. "Hoooo?" he said.

"Me," the foe with the face like milk said. And then a double fist came at his face and the world turned first red, like blood, and then black, like octopus ink. Or like death. Remo jumped off the man's back. His feet hit the ground just ahead of the Moovian's pulped face. Remo dusted his hands off with pride.

"Nothing to it," he said, "once you get the hang of it." He looked around for Chiun. The Master of Sinanju stood framed against the silvery-black water. He was in a defensive crouch, an octopus pyramid of men stalking him. They hovered over the edge of the water, many feet below. Remo saw three other Moovian bodies sprawled nearby.

The Master of Sinanju knew that his pupil had succeeded in vanquishing his opponents. His heart swelled with pride. Now, together, the two of them would make short work of his last pyramid of octopus worshipers.

"Remo, to me!" he called.

Remo came up at a trot. And Chiun decided that here, the last battle between Sinanju and the octopus cult of Ru-Taki-Nuhu would take place. It would be best, and read best in the Book of Sinanju, if both the Master Chiun and his white pupil vanquished it. He would show Remo the correct attack method and they would do it together.

"Hurry, Remo," Chiun called, considering how to word this last skirmish in his scrolls. Perhaps it would be better not to mention that Remo was white.

"What's the rush?" Remo asked as he casually joined the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun looked at him.

"Are you mad? There is one of these monsters left. Here, I will show you the best way to defeat him."

"Hold your horses, Little Father," Remo said.

The octopus pyramid suddenly stopped waving its many limbs. Its hoooing sound began to die like a failing wind through a hollow tree.

Remo walked up to the thing, not bothering to raise his arms to ward off the blows that would surely come. "Remo!"

"Yes?" Remo asked, turning casually. It was unbelievable. Had Remo learned nothing from his battle? Turning his back on the evil thing like that.

Chiun flashed into action, his sandals beating the ground, his hands reaching out to yank Remo from harm.

Then Remo turned back and waved good-bye to the octopus pyramid. The silent thing waved its arms back. They were feeble little shakes. Then, stepping up to it, Remo pushed the lowest man in the chest.

The entire octopus man fell back like a fallen tree.

It struck the edge of the coral cliff, and without breaking into individual men, splashed into the ocean below. The Master of Sinanju peered over the edge into the water.

"They did not fight you," Chiun said in disbelief.

"How could they?" Remo asked. "They were already dead."

"Already?"

And from a back pocket Remo pulled out a blowgun. "I took this from my guy. One of them, anyway."

"You . . . YOU . . . " Chiun sputtered.

"Neat, huh? I figured, why screw around with them? Well, aren't you going to say something? Aren't you proud of the slick way I handled my end?"

"Proud?" Chiun screeched. "Do you know how this will look in the Book of Sinanju? This was the last battle with these creatures."

Remo's face acquired an injured look. "Why should I care how it will look? I got them. Dead is dead."

"It was ridiculous. And you used a weapon. What will the High Moo say?"

"He'll say it's about time. He thinks you forgot your weapons."

"I am mortified," Chiun said huffily.

"You're just pissed because when you write in your dippy scrolls how Sinanju conquered the last octopus worshiper, I'll get all the credit."

"Glory hound," Chiun spat.

"I knew it," Remo laughed. And laughing felt pretty good after all he had been through.

Chapter 20

Remo finished lashing the bamboo poles together.

"I think it's long enough now," he called to Chiun. "Then bring it here," Chiun said testily.

Remo hefted the pole onto his shoulder. To his surprise, it held.

The sun was coming up. Pinkish rays tinged the Pacific. There were birds calling now. Not the twittering birds of the States, but the cacophony of jungle birds. Mynahs. Parakeets. Terns.

The Master of Sinanju finished lashing the hands of one of the octopus worshipers behind his back with a vine. "Give it to me," Chiun said.

After Remo had handed over the pole, the Master of Sinanju ran it up under the man's bound feet. It passed up his back, under his tied hands, to the next pair of bound ankles, and then to the next lashed wrists.

Remo lifted the hands as necessary, until the pole's end bumped the shattered skull of the topmost man.

"This is ridiculous," Remo said for the twelfth or thirteenth time as he examined the monstrosity that lay on the ground.

All nine octopus men had been joined into one huge octopus man. Remo had been harangued into retrieving the group he had knocked into the water. They had been easy to handle because they had stiffened into position from the effects of the poison darts.

But the others had to be reassembled one by one and their limbs set and then broken so they were locked into place. Chiun had done that. He knew how to crush bone and joints so that they fused.

"Now what? As if I can't guess," Remo asked.

"Take your end. I will take mine."

"On a count of three," Remo said, bending down. "One, two, three. Lift!"

The bamboo pole groaned, but it held. The bodies hung off it like slaughtered chickens. Tongues lolled. Some of the eyes stared glassily.

"Now, carefully," Chiun said, "back to the palace."

"The mighty hunters return, huh?"

"Say nothing about the blowgun," Chiun said in a sour voice.

They trudged down to the water, sloshing inland and through the jungle. Dead Moovian heads bounced like overripe fruit. They stopped to pick up the other bodies they had vanquished along the way, piling them unceremoniously atop the others. When they neared the village, Chiun suddenly called a halt.

"Lay it down," he ordered.

"Tired, Little Father?" Remo asked solicitously.

"Do not be ridiculous," Chiun countered, joining Remo in front of their burden. "I am reigning Master. To me goes the honor of entering the village first."

"Oh," said Remo. "I guess that means the back of the bus for me." And without another word he took Chiun's place at the end of the bamboo pole.

When they entered the village outskirts, Chiun began to call out in a loud singsong voice.

"Arise, O children of Moo. See what Sinanju has brought you. No longer need you fear the darkness. For the last of the spawn of Sa Mansang, known to you as Ru-Taki-Nuhu, has been vanquished! Arise, O children of Moo, to greet a new day and a golden era."

The children were the first to poke their heads out of the grass huts. Then the adults. Runners were sent to the palace, and Chiun smiled.

Amazed voices lifted at the sight of the round red sucker marks that decorated Remo's chest and arms. "Ru-Taki-Nuhu!" they whispered. "The white one has fought Ru-Taki-Nuhu and lives!"

When they at last came to the feast circle in front of the Royal Palace, the High Moo stood waiting with folded arms. His daughter hovered at his side.

Red Feather Guards stepped forward as Remo and Chiun set down their burden. They poked and stabbed at the corpses with spears, seeking signs of life.

"All are dead," one reported to the High Moo. The High Moo strode up to the Master of Sinanju. "You have brought me twelve kills, and twelve is the number the traitor of a royal priest swore served Ru-Taki-Nuhu. The octopus cult is no more. You have lived up to your word, Master of Sinanchu and have earned the full fee due to you."

"Payable on demand," said Chiun.

"I will be glad to store it for you in the royal treasure house for the length of your stay," the High Moo suggested.

"And I accept," Chiun said with a quick bow.

"The full hospitality of Moo is yours."

"My ... slave and I are weary. We have had a long journey and ate much this evening. We require rest. A few hours only."

"Come, rooms have been prepared in my palace. Dolla-Dree, show Remo to his room. I will escort the Master of Sinanchu to his quarters personally."

"Hello again," Remo said when the Low Moo came to take him by the arm.

"Will you tell me how you vanquished them before you sleep?" she asked, admiring the red marks on his arms.

"Sure," Remo said.

"Do not believe all he says," Chiun warned. "He will try to take more credit than is his due."

"No, I won't," Remo said, winking at the Low Moo. "Chiun helped. Some."

And Remo hurried into the palace ahead of Chiun's flurry of invective.

Chapter 21

It was raining when Dr. Harold W. Smith's flight landed at Boston's Logan Airport.

He waited ten minutes at the underground exit of Terminal B for a free MBTA bus to the Blue Line subway stop. He rode the rattling train five stops to Government Center, walked upstairs, and switched to a Green Line trolley, riding it one stop to Park Street. The rain had tapered off to a sullen sprinkle when Smith emerged on the corner of Tremont and Park streets at the edge of Boston Common. He walked down Tremont.

The office of Michael P. Brunt was above an antiquarian bookstore on West Street. Trudging up the dingy steps, Smith found an empty reception room.

He stood for a moment, uncertainly clutching his briefcase. He wiped rainwater off his rimless glasses. He cleared his throat.

The inner door opened and a square-faced man built along the lines of a refrigerator in a blue serge suit poked his unshaven chin out.

"You Mr. Brown?" he demanded.

"Yes," Smith lied.

"You look more like Mr. Gray. But come in anyway. Sorry about the secretary. I sent her out for some bullets. I kinda ran out on my last case."

The office was cluttered, Smith noticed, as he entered. Papers overflowed a wastepaper basket. The window was a film of grime that looked out over row of graying buildings so nondescript they might have been painted on the glass by an indifferent artist.

Mike Brunt dropped behind his desk. His wooden chair squeaked loudly. The set looked as if it had once seen service in a high school. He leaned back and set sizethirteen brogans on the desktop, showing Smith the color of his left sock through a hole in the sole. It was white. On the wall behind him was a framed cloth saying: "When in Doubt, Punt, Bunt, or Shoot to Kill." It was done in needlepoint.

"I will come right to the point," Smith said, seating himself primly on a vinyl chair, his briefcase on his knees.

"I don't charge for the initial consultation," Brunt said, running a toothpick under his nails. He made a little pile of grayish ash on the desktop. "Unless you hire me. Then I try to sneak it into the expense sheet somewhere." He grinned disarmingly.

"Yes. Well, I have a matter that only someone in your profession can handle."

"You got the crime, I got the time," Brunt sang.

"I have had an important personal item stolen from my home. I know who stole it and I know where this person lives."

"And you want it back?"

"Yes. It is quite important to me. The police say they can do nothing. My suspicions aren't enough for them to question the man."

"Okay, I'll bite. What's missing? The family jewels? Gorbachev's birthmark? The Bermuda Triangle?"

Smith hesitated, wondering if he shouldn't feign a weak smile. He decided not. He was growing uncomfortable with this man, who seemed to take nothing seriously. Doesn't he want work? Smith's computers had spit out his name as one of the least prosperous private investigators in the Northeast. Certainly such a man would be desperate for clients.

"It's a tea service," Smith said at last.

Brunt cocked a skeptical eye at Smith. "A tea service?" he said dryly.

"Sterling. It's been in my family for over a hundred years. It has great sentimental value."

"At my prices, you'd be better off switching to coffee."

"It's an heirloom," Smith said stubbornly.

"Takes all kinds," Mike Brunt said laconically.

"The man's name is James Churchward. He lives at 334 Larchwood Place in Rye, New York. I happen to know he is away on vacation this week, but I do not know where. This would be the ideal time to search his house for my property. I have taken the liberty of writing out a check for your usual one-day fee." Smith started to rise, the check in hand.

"Whoa! Did I say I was taking this case?"

"No. But it is not a difficult task. A simple break-in."

"Break-ins are illegal."

"Yes, I know. But I have nowhere else to turn. And I understood that people in your ... ah ... profession do this type of work all the time."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean Mike Brunt stoops that low. Hey, you may not know it from his office, but I have scruples. Somewhere. Maybe in that filing cabinet. Under C, if I know my secretary."

"Well, then, I won't waste any more of your time," Smith said, starting to rise again.

Mike Brunt put up a hamlike hand.

"Slow down, sport. Let's see the color of your money." Smith passed over the check. Brunt examined it.

"A money order?" he said doubtfully.

"Naturally I do not want to give you anything that could be traced back to me."

"This must not be the first time someone walked off with your teapot. You really ought to hide it when company comes." Brunt took his feet off the desk and sat up. "Okay. So what happens if I'm arrested?"

"I will take care of you in that eventuality."

"Connected, huh? I had you figured for Mafia the minute you walked in."

"I have political connections," Smith said testily.

"This is a lot of potential fuss for a lousy tea service."

"It has sentimental value," Smith repeated, thinking that perhaps he should have made up something more elaborate than a tea service. But anything too valuable might tempt a man such as Brunt to consider pilfering the house of other valuables.

"That so? Come on, Brown. Spill it. Nobody lays down cash in advance over a tea service. What's in it? Diamonds? Gold? Is the exact location of Blackbeard's treasure worked into the filigree? You can tell me. The office cockroaches have taken a vow of silence."

"It is a tea service," Smith repeated stiffly. "And if you are not interested in the matter, we are wasting each other's time."

"Tell you what, Brown. I'll take this little caper. Strictly for chuckles, you understand. Maybe I'll get lucky and your friend will come back while I'm in the house."

"Why would that be lucky?" Smith asked, his voice filling with horror.

Just then the outer door banged open and the click of high heels announced the entrance of Michael Brunt's secretary. A thirtyish blonde in a beehive hairdo stuck her head in the office.

"Here you go, shamus," she said, tossing a box onto the bare desk. Mike Brunt grabbed it and shook it apart. Shiny brass cartridges spilled over the desktop like wayward marbles.

Michael Brunt unholstered a worn .38 revolver and began stuffing slugs into the cylinder. When he was done, he answered Smith's question with a cracked grin.

"Maybe I'll get into a shoot-out."

"You wouldn't," Smith croaked.

"Suuuure, he would," the secretary said wryly, closing the door.

"Perhaps I should see someone else," Smith began. "I do not want any unnecessary complications. This must be done in such a way that the homeowner is unaware of the entry."

"Too late, pal," Mike Brunt said, pulling open a desk drawer and plunking a bottle of Old Mister Boston in front of his face. Two shot glasses came up next. "I've already spent your money. Why don't we just drink a toast to our new business relationship."

"No, thank you," Smith said. "I must be going. The number at which I can be reached is on the check."

"Good," said Michael Brunt, pulling the top off with his teeth and spitting it onto the desk. "I hate drinking with clients. It usually means less booze for me." He then proceeded to drink straight from the bottle. When he was done, he belched.

Smith left the office feeling very ill. It was raining when he got out on the street. It was a three-block walk back to the subway, and Smith hunched his shoulders against the rain. Taxis drove by in each direction, but Smith disdained them. A cab would cost several dollars, and the subway ride back to the airport, even with two changes, was only sixty cents.

Chapter 22

Remo woke to a strange rustling sound.

"Arise, you lazy slugabed," a familiar squeaky voice said. And Chiun entered the room.

"Did someone steal your clothes?" Remo asked, propping himself up on one elbow. "Or have you just gone native?"

Chiun puffed up his thin chest. "You do not like this gift from the High Moo?" He spread his skirts. They were made of rattan strips woven together with vegetable fiber. He wore a blouse of rough-weave wheat-colored cotton over it. Belled sleeves copied from his kimono design rounded out the ensemble.

"It's a new you," Remo said, sitting up on his bed mat. He pulled on his stiff trousers. He left his rag of a T-shirt. "What time is it?"

"Time passes differently on Moo, but you have slept nearly six hours. Are you ill?"

"No," Remo said evasively. "I just felt like sleeping."

"We are summoned to the Shark Throne. Come." Remo reached for his shoes, then realized that he had left them back at the Grove of Ghosts. He pulled on his socks. They would do for now. When he stood up, he noticed his fingernails were even longer than before, almost twice as long as he remembered from the previous night. He rubbed his face. He needed a shave too. He reminded himself to ask Chiun about getting the Moovian equivalent of a barber.

Bare-chested, Remo followed Chiun down a maze of stone corridors to a central room.

Guards stood outside the open door, on the inside, and at every corner of the room, Remo saw as he entered. Chiun bowed before the High Moo, who sat on his low Shark Throne. The Low Moo sat to his right, on an even lower stool. There was an empty stool on the left that Remo assumed belonged to the late royal priest.

"My Red Feather Guard has returned from scouring the island," said the High Moo without preamble. "Emboldened by the trophy you have laid at my feet, they even ventured into the Grove of Ghosts. They found no living men, there or anywhere else. I hereby proclaim today the Dawn of the Era Without Octopus Worshipers."

"Sinanju is pleased to serve," Chiun said simply.

"Full payment will be tendered to you upon your leave-taking of Moo. A leave-taking I and my daughter beg is not soon."

"I have not discussed this with Remo as yet," Chiun said.

"Actually, we can't stay long," Remo said in Moovian. The High Moo frowned. The Low Moo gasped.

"What Remo means," Chiun inserted hastily, "is that we have responsibilities elsewhere. Other clients. None so generous as you, of course. But it does not mean that we cannot pass the span of, say, one moon on Moo."

"So be it," said the High Moo, mollified. "The full moon saw the end of the octopus cult. The next moon will see your going-unless you change you mind before then."

"All things are possible on Moo," Chiun said, bowing.

"Have you any requests?"

"My son has not yet breakfasted. I would like to prepare for him his favorite. I will need lemons and eggs."

"And I could do with something for my nails and beard," Remo added, showing his hands.

Chiun looked at Remo's hands curiously.

"You should have cut them before we left America," he said under his breath.

"I thought I did," Remo shot back.

And Chiun allowed himself a tiny smile of satisfaction. They were in the royal dining room, a roofless cubicle in one corner of the palace, when a steaming kettle of egg-lemon soup was brought in by a topless cook. Remo was relieved to see it wasn't the old woman from the feast this time, but a comely maiden.

He said, "Ola." The girl smiled shyly and began to fill a wooden bowl.

Another girl came in with a handful of objects. Remo saw a couple of bone knives and a fist-size stone.

"What's this stuff?" he asked, tasting the soup.

"You asked for these," the girl replied, kneeling at his feet. She took one of Remo's hands and examined the nails critically. The cook took one of the other knives and approached Remo from the other side.

"Looks like I'm in for the Moovian version of a shave and manicure," Remo said, pushing his soup aside.

Chiun frowned. "Do not forget your soup," he said evenly, pushing the bowl back under Remo's nose.

"It can wait," Remo said, eyes on the sinuous bodies hovering over him. They smelled nice too, he noticed. Like coconuts.

"No," Chiun said suddenly. "The other thing can wait. Shoo, shoo!" he said to the maidens. "Come back later. My son has fought a hard battle and needs to replenish his strength. "

The native girls fled the room on bare feet. "Hey! What's with you?" Remo demanded.

"You must eat first. Keep up your strength."

"I like to set my own priorities," Remo growled, his unhappy face watching the girls scurry down the corridor.

"Eat," said Chiun.

Reluctantly Remo started in on the soup. After a few tastes he was greedily devouring it, the girls of Moo forgotten.

"I can't seem to get enough of this stuff," he said.

"I will tell the hens to continue laying," Chiun said blandly, "so that you do not run out for the duration of our stay here."

"We can't stay here a whole month," Remo protested.

"We are due a vacation. This will be it."

"What if Smith needs us?"

"Then he can summon us, as always."

"How? There aren't any phones here."

"How is that my fault?" Chiun squeaked. "According to my contract, I am permitted to vacation where I will. Nowhere does it say that the Master of Sinanju is obligated to call ahead to see if there are telephones at his chosen retreat. Besides, I did not know the number of the High Moo."

"Smith is going to be very upset," Remo cautioned.

"Let him be upset. If he complains, I will tell him that he is not the only worthy emperor in the world. He has a rival, the High Moo."

"I don't think he'll appreciate that. And what happens after the thirty days?"

"Who can say?" Chiun said mischievously. "Thirty days is a long time from now. We live in an uncertain world. Anything is possible. Moo sank once. Perhaps America will be next. Then you will thank me for bringing you to this lovely land."

"Dream on," said Remo, starting in on his second bowl. After he was done, Remo said, "Okay, call back the girls."

"For what?"

"For these," Remo said, showing his nearly half-inchlong nails.

Chiun took Remo's hands in his. "If you let them grow, soon they will curve inward like mine."

"Not interested," Remo snapped, withdrawing his hands.

"Why not? We are on Moo now. You no longer have your lame excuse not to grow them long."

"Chiun, I'm supposed to be an agent for my government. I gotta blend in with the natives, so to speak."

"Now that you are on Moo, you can blend in with Moovian natives."

"I don't see any long-nailed people on Moo either."

"Nor do I. But where we are now, Emperor Smith's absurd secrecy mania is not in effect. We walk this land known for what we are, admired for our work, and honored for our skills. Wear your nails with pride, Remo. Who knows, you might come to like them."

"No chance," Remo snapped, grabbing up a sharp knife. He attacked his left hand with the serrated edge. The blade dug in and Remo made furious sawing motions. Dust rose up. Remo paused. To his chagrin, he saw the nail was intact. And the knife had lost its edge.

"Hey!" he said, looking up. He noticed that Chiun had been bent over his shoulder, watching intently. "Look at this. "

"Ah, wonderfully strong."

"Are you kidding? This knife's a joke."

"I meant the nail."

"Maybe I can find a metal knife."

"Not on Moo. All metal is saved for coins and jewelry. And you have ruined a knife of the finest bone."

Remo looked at the knife. It was white and polished. And over a foot long.

"Wonder what kind of animal they have on the island to make a knife this long?" he wondered.

"The fiercest, most dangerous one," Chiun said.

"Yeah?"

"Man."

Remo dropped the knife. "This is a human bone?" he asked.

Chiun picked it up. "Yes, and from the freshness, I would say it was made from the femur of one of the octopus worshipers we vanquished last night."

"They use human bone for knives?" Remo said in a dumbstruck voice.

"Hush, Remo. How many times have I told you never to criticize another empire's way of doing things?"

"But human bone. It's barbarous."

"That is easy for you to say, you who come from a land where everything is wasted. Do you know that I have a steamer trunk full of perfectly good toothpicks that careless waiter persons tried to throw out simply because they had been used once?"

"They were made to be used just once. It's unsanitary to reuse toothpicks."

"They are washable. On Moo, toothpicks would be handed down from generation to generation by people who know the value of property."

"I give up," Remo said. "If you'll excuse me ..."

"Where are you going?"

"I left my shoes back at the grove."

"You can retrieve them when we leave-if we leave."

"No ifs about it. We're leaving. In a month."

"Before you waste your time, examine your feet."

"For what? Athlete's foot?"

When Chiun didn't answer, Remo sat down and pulled off a sock. His toenails were very long. Too long to accommodate his shoes.

"Damn!" he said. "How'd you know that?"

"Perhaps I am psychic," Chiun said with a smile.

"I'm going after my shoes anyway," Remo said, pulling on his sock and storming out the door.

"I will join you."

"Suit yourself," Remo growled.

Chapter 23

Remo stepped into the blinding tropical sun of the palace courtyard. The courtyard was empty. The ashes of the feast sifted in the breeze. The smells of meat clung to the air. They offended Remo's sensitive nostrils.

Chiun materialized beside him. "Where is everybody?" Remo asked.

"Working, of course."

Remo frowned. "I thought islanders lived the life of Riley. "

"Who is Riley?"

"A figment of someone's imagination. Why do people have to work here? They have the sun, all the fruit and fish they could want. This place is a paradise."

"Come," said Chiun.

"I want to get my shoes back," Remo said.

"What I have to show you is on the way to your precious shoes."

Remo shrugged. He followed silently as Chiun began speaking. The jungle all around them steamed with a pleasant warmth.

"I have heard you speak of Moo with ill-concealed mockery in your voice. You think Moo is small?"

"It is small."

"Once it was larger."

"I'll bet Old Moo was nothing to crow about either, otherwise why wouldn't anyone have heard about it?" Chiun stopped and whirled.

"Sinanju has heard of it. And the nation that is looked upon with favor by the House of Sinanju needs nothing else especially the approval of a nation that is only two hundred years old."

Remo sighed. "Point taken. Shall we just try to keep up the pace?" he suggested.

Chiun turned and stalked off. It was a while before the dark flush left his face and he resumed speaking.

"Once, Moo was the great seafaring empire in the world. Before Egypt it was. Before Greece it was, and before the oldest settlements in Africa."

"Okay, it's old. So's the moon. So what?"

"Before Sinanju it was," Chiun continued. Remo's face registered surprise. It was rare that Chiun gave anything credit that dimmed the shining beacon that was Sinanju.

"Yeah?"

"For in truth, when Moo became a client of Sinanju, Moo was old. Its glory days were waning like the moon that we will behold tonight. It had withdrawn its mighty fleet from the world's seas. Moo had turned inward, beset by octopus worshipers and internal strife. But strong it was still. And its coins were the most prized of all currencies. "

They walked along a winding jungle path. On either side, Remo saw rice and sweet-potato fields tended by young boys and girls. They stood in the rice fields, ankle-deep in brown water. Their bare brown backs were bent. They paid Remo and Chiun no heed.

"The rice did not grow itself in the days of Old Moo, either," Chiun remarked dryly.

"They could live off the coconuts."

"You could live off egg-lemon soup if you wished. But variety is preferable."

"I wouldn't mind a steady diet of it."

"Good," Chiun murmured.

"What's that?" Remo asked.

"Moo was strong because it produced abundant food," Chiun went on as if he hadn't heard. "It is a tradition that the current High Moo holds dear. Each year, they grow more rice than necessary. This way they never want."

"How come I see only boys and girls? Where are the adults? Fishing?"

"Some fish. The women do that."

"What about the men?"

"Have you forgotten the coins of Moo?"

"Oh, right," Remo said as the path began to dip toward the lagoon. "The mines."

"Moo had the most powerful currency because Moo had the greatest treasury. Its treasure house held stack after stack of the great round coins. For the Moovians were great miners in those days."

"These days too," Remo said, jerking a thumb at a shored-up hole in the side of a creeper-overgrown hillock. It was the third abandoned mine they had spotted during their walk.

"They have fewer mines, but they work them very hard. So the High Moo told me."

They came at last to the lagoon where their junk lay anchored.

"Still there," Remo said.

"Of course. Why should it not be?"

"No reason. I was just thinking it's our only ticket home."

"Assuming that it does not sink," Chiun said.

"Don't even say it out loud."

Chiun turned. He allowed himself a gentle smile.

"I merely jested. Can you not take a joke in return, O teller of Moo jokes?"

"Touche," admitted Remo. He jerked his thumb to the right. "The grove is over that way."

"Soon, soon. For now look to the east."

Remo shielded his eyes from the sun. It was at its apex. High noon. Remo wondered what time it was back in America.

"I see water," he said.

"Do you see the far water that touches the very sky?"

"You mean the horizon? Sure."

Chiun nodded. "Now look to the south. Do you see that horizon?"

"Sure. "

"And north? And west?"

"That's a lot of water."

"If you could see twice as far in all directions, still your gaze would not encompass the whole of the Empire of Moo. "

"From where I stand, Moo is about three square miles," Remo said flatly. "Most of it vertical."

"I feel like a swim," Chiun said brightly. "Will you join me?"

"Is that an invitation or a command?"

"Did it sound like an invitation?"

"Yeah, but I'm wondering what will happen if I decline."

"Do not decline and you will forever have a mystery to ponder," Chiun said.

Remo considered. "Lead on," he said. "I don't know where this is going, but obviously it's going somewhere. Without another word, Chiun waded into the water. When it was up to his chest, he slid onto his stomach and began striking out for open water. Remo dug in after him. Three miles out they had left the junk behind, and Chiun paused, treading water.

"Come, Remo. I want to show you something."

And Chiun disappeared as if something had pulled him down by the leg. Remo jackknifed in place. The water closed in over his head. It was cool, and clearer than he had expected.

Remo homed in on the trailing air bubbles left by the Master of Sinanju. A hammerhead shark cruised into view, but left them alone. Other, more colorful fish scattered out of Chiun's path. Remo kept his eyes out for octopi, but he saw none. For as far as the eye could see, the ocean floor was a fairyland of multicolored coral formations.

Hundreds of feet below, Chiun alighted on a sprawling pink coral outcropping. Remo settled beside him, his stocking feet touching the sandpaperlike coral.

Remo faced Chiun. Sea shadows dappled their faces. Remo made a question mark with a finger.

Chiun bent over and chopped away a chunk of coral with his hand. Under the coral, a flat gray surface was exposed. Chiun continued chipping away. Finally he had a man-size place on which to stand. He stamped his foot once and disappeared. There was only a hole in the gray surface to show that he had stood there.

Remo hesitated, thinking of octopi. Then he dived into the hole.

Inside, Remo found himself in a square room. Dead seaweed clung to what he recognized were stone benches. There were murals on the walls. They were made up of colored tiles. There was just enough sea-filtered light coming in that Remo could make out scenes of a great city with tall towers and golden domes. People dressed like Greeks, in togas and short skirts, were visible on the depicted walkways.

Remo realized he was inside a sunken house of Old Moo. Chiun disappeared into an adjoining room. Remo swam after him.

Though not impressive by the modern standards of Western architecture, for buildings that were thousands of years old, they were magnificent.

Remo touched pottery jars, wooden chests that had fallen in from the eroding action of the sea. They swam down a long tunnel with muraled walls. The light grew dimmer.

Eventually they came to a huge vaulted room. Remo sensed the expanding space. He kicked himself up to the ceiling, and touched stone blocks. He started pulling them loose. The mortar was brittle. He got through to pink coral. A series of rapid straight-fingered blows brought the coral floating down in chunks.

Greenish light flooded the room. Pushing off, Remo joined Chiun.

The Master of Sinanju floated like a jellyfish. His legs scissored, keeping him upright. With spread arms he indicated the distant walls.

Every wall was the same. Row upon row of glass vessels. They were huge. Each wall had been built up with shelves so that the vessels covered every available square foot of wall.

Remo swam for one of them and floated before it.

He touched it. It was like a jug, stoppered with a glass plug. The edges were sealed with clay or tar to make them waterproof Inside, a man floated. He was shriveled into a near-fetal position. Remo saw a wizened face, the eyes closed as if in sleep. He went to the next vessel. A woman, young and peaceful of face, hung up against the glass. Her feet touched the bottom, but the narrow base kept her from slipping into a pile of inert flesh. Her shoulder leaned against the wall nearest Remo, and Remo felt as if he could reach out and touch her.

Every vessel contained a body floating in a reddish fluid.

Remo paddled away from them, suddenly horrified by the great number of dead people.

He found Chiun searching among the vessels. Remo had started toward him when the Master of Sinanju suddenly darted away like a frightened fish.

The walls trembled. The water stirred. Remo felt a sudden current. He saw wood particles swirl up from a top shelf. The shelf began to tilt. Remo moved, impelled by an unexplained fear. He got under the shelf, took it in both hands. His kicking feet sought purchase. They touched a glass stopper and, in fear of upsetting the jug, recoiled.

Chiun swam into view. He made quick lifting motions with his hands. Remo nodded. He understood. He was to hold up the shelf. Chiun would do the rest.

One by one, Chiun wrapped his frail-appearing arms around the vessels and carried them to the floor. He made an arrangement of them until the shelf was bare. Then Remo yanked the shelf free and sent it floating away.

Chiun began making hand signs toward the roof opening. Remo nodded. Then a wall cracked. The shelving held, but one vessel teetered. Remo darted for it. He was too late.

The jug broke apart soundlessly. Red fluid billowed and spread like a bloody cloud. Remo kicked into reverse. He tasted alcohol. Wine. The bodies had been preserved in wine. He spit furiously, knowing that alcohol was dangerous to his system.

The body-it was that of a middle-aged man in a toga-lay covered in glass. One foot floated away, severed by glass. It looked as if it were trailing blood, but Remo knew that the dead didn't bleed.

Chiun was suddenly tugging at his bare forearm and Remo floated for the ceiling opening. Chiun squeezed through easily. Remo had to break off more coral before he made it.

Emerging from the outcropping, Remo was suddenly aware of the vast falling-away of the ocean floor on this side of the encrusted building. For miles to the east, there was rank upon rank of the strange coral formations. Not all were coral. There was a shattered tower not far away. A dome like an inverted cracked bowl expelled a string of blue-green fish. Silt kicked up from the ocean floor.

And Remo felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the ocean temperature. He was looking upon Old Moo-what was left of it.

When his head broke the surface, Chiun was already there, taking measured breaths.

"It's all down there, isn't it?" Remo said. There was moisture on his face that wasn't seawater. His voice was twisted.

"Yes, my son," Chiun said sadly. "You have been privileged to visit that which no man-not even Moovian man-has seen since the young sun of earth's past touched those buildings. Old Moo."

"We shouldn't have disturbed them. Look what happened. "

"Have no regrets, Remo. We did not cause that disturbance. It was a shifting of the ocean floor."

"Moo really sank. The whole thing. And it stretched forever in all directions."

"Think not that any empire is forever. Even your America exists only at the whim of the universe."

Remo was silent a long time. "What was that place? With the bodies?"

"The Royal Tomb of the Line of Moo. The High Moo told me that it would be found there."

"You led me there on purpose. Why?"

"You were just along for the ride," Chiun said. "I wished to behold the face of the High Moo whom Master Mangko knew. "

"Why?"

"Call me sentimental," Chiun said. And Remo laughed. They struck off for land. Chiun paused at the junk and climbed aboard. Remo waited at his command. Chiun threw over a bag. Remo caught it. It jingled. He didn't have to open it to know it contained the coins given to Chiun by the Low Moo.

"Planning a shopping spree, Little Father?" Remo asked when Chiun splashed to his side. Chiun had donned an emerald-and-gold kimono.

"The High Moo kindly offered to store the entire payment in his treasure house while we sojourn on his island."

"I wish there was someplace we could store this junk."

"The typhoon season is months away," Chiun assured him.

They made land at the coral reef where the night before they had fought the octopus men. Remo passed the coins to Chiun while he plunged into the Grove of Ghosts. He found his shoes where he had left them and, sitting on the ground, tried to put them on. They wouldn't fit. His toenails were too long.

Cursing, he carried them out, past the totems. He knocked one off its base out of pique.

"Don't say you told me so," Remo said when Chiun saw him carrying his shoes.

"I won't."

"Good. "

"But I did."

Remo's retort died in his mouth. Plunging through the jungle was a bouncing-bosomed maiden.

"Wiki-wiki! Oh, come! Men of Sinanchu!" she cried. "An assassin has struck down the High Moo. Hurry! Wiki-wiki!"

Chapter 24

Shane Billiken recognized that people had different tastes. He could get next to that concept. It was real. People were individuals, after all. We shared the same planet. We were all connected, all part of the dao, but human diversity was one of the universal constants too.

"Okay, so you don't like cheese," he said. He tried to keep his voice even. It was hard when you were facing a half-dozen mercenaries armed with automatic weapons and there was no place to run. Unless you counted a hundred square miles of ocean. "But you could get used to it," he added hopefully. He smiled under his Ray-Bans.

"Cheese gives me gas," said Dirk Edwards, AKA Ed the Eliminator. He had decided that since they were over a hundred miles out of Southern California and the wind was good, it was time to chow down.

He had gone below to the larder whistling. He came up like a rogue elephant. When the word passed through the crew that the provisions aboard the newly christened New Age Hope consisted of three kinds of hard cheese and two soft, Shane Billiken, taking his turn at the wheel, found himself surrounded.

"I once wrote a whole book about cheeses," Shane went on quickly. "Do you know it's the perfect food? It provides calcium and iron, reduces stress, and is a natural anticarcinogen. Best of all-and I know you guys will appreciate this-when you apply it to boils and wounds, it promotes healing."

"Sounds like Southern California bullshit to me," growled Dirk Edwards.

"Maybe you heard that penicillin was first discovered in moldy bread. They used to apply moldy bread to wounds. It helped. It really did. My discovery is like that."

"That will come in real handy if we decide to shoot you," Dirk Edwards said.

"You wouldn't do that."

"We will if we don't eat."

"I'm sure there are other kinds of food on the island."

"We can't wait that long. Okay, men," Dirk said, turning to his people. "Keep an eye out for pleasure boats. Maybe," he laughed, "we can arrange a swap. In the meantime, we eat cheese."

No one looked happy. Their stony expressions darkened when they heard Shane Billiken answer Dirk's next question.

"Where's the water supply?"

"The bucket's down with the cheese," Shane told him.

"Bucket?"

"Yeah, and I brought a rope. You can help yourself," Shane said, flinging his arms out to encompass the entire Pacific with its cool sweet water.

Dirk Edwards blinked. In a too-low voice he said, "Excuse us a sec."

As Shane watched, the contingent retired to the bow. They formed a circle and conferred. Some of them began to shout. Others waved their arms. Angry glances were flung in Shane's direction and he went into an immediate mental calculation of the swimming distance back to Malibu. He decided it was N. G. Maybe, he thought, this would be a good time to get back into astral projection.

Finally the argument subsided and Dirk joined him at the wheel.

"My men and I have decided."

"I noticed you were getting in touch with your feelings back there."

"If we come across a pleasure boat or island where we can get food before dawn, we won't shoot you in the belly, dump you overboard, and sail for Central America."

"What's in Central America?" Shane asked in an attempt to redirect the conversation.

"A lot of good fighting."

"I brought binoculars," Shane said suddenly. "Why don't I go up the mast and see what I can find?"

"You do that," said Dirk Edwards, taking the wheel. Two of the others worked the rope that sent the boatswain's chair up the mast. Shane Billiken searched the sea in all directions. He decided that he had made a mistake paying those men in advance. It took away their motivation. Imagine battle-hardened guys that talked mutiny just because the water was a little salty. Some of them looked like they drank carbolic acid.

The sun went down, the moon came up, and the seas remained as bare as newly laid asphalt.

But hours before dawn, Shane spied running lights on the water.

"Ship off the port bow!" he cried. Everyone surged to the port rail.

"No," Shane called. "The other direction."

They surged to starboard and Shane winced at the looks being thrown up at him.

It was a cabin cruiser. Music floated across the water. A party boat. Or maybe night fishermen.

"How many aboard?" Dirk called up.

"I count five."

"Okay," Dirk said. "Tex. J.D. Go below and get them on the radio." He kicked the engine into idle. The New Age Hope settled in the water and described a lazy circle.

As Shane watched, the cabin cruiser abruptly heeled and came in their direction.

"Someone want to let me down now?" Shane asked as Tex and J. D. came up from below and gave Dirk the thumbs-up sign.

"Better not," Dirk said laconically. "You might catch a stray."

"Stray what?" Shane asked as the sudden eruption of automatic-weapons fire drowned out his words.

Across the water, the cabin cruiser began spitting splinters. The man in the wheelhouse corkscrewed into a pool of his own blood. The partiers dived under the gunwales. But the gunwales were methodically chewed down to deck level by a fusillade of bullets. One man jumped overboard. Bullet tracks crisscrossed the water in front of him. Unwittingly he swam into them. He bobbed like a cork when they hit him, and floundered briefly before going down.

When Shane Billiken pulled his hands away from his Ray-Bans, Dirk was lowering the dinghy over the side. He rowed for the cabin cruiser. Minutes later he returned with several coolers filled with beer and raw steaks. After the New Age Hope got under way again, the cabin cruiser exploded. Bat-size splinters rained from the boiling fireball that lifted over the place it had been. "Time-delay fuse," Dirk remarked as they lowered Shane to the deck. Shane's legs collapsed under him.

"Beer?" asked Dirk nonchalantly.

"No, no," Shane croaked. "Did you have to kill them?"

"Hell, you hired us to kill, didn't you?"

"But that was different. Those were real people. "

"Hell," Dirk Edwards chortled, hoisting a can to the burning patch of water, "we do real people too. No extra charge. "

Chapter 25

They found the High Moo seated on his Shark Throne. It stood in the open courtyard. The High Moo clutched one muscular bicep. Blood trailed crazily from an unseen wound. Moovian maidens came with pestles of hot ash, which they carefully applied to the wound.

The Low Moo paced distractedly, pulling at her hair. "Not all the octopus worshipers have been purged," the Low Moo complained. She stuck out her sensuous lower lip like a pouting child.

"Impossible," said Chiun. "The priest did not lie."

"He was a traitor," growled the High Moo, wincing as the cauterizing hot ash stung him. "Of course he lied."

"The priest could not lie, O High Moo," Chiun went on stubbornly. "No man is capable of untruth when the iron hand of Sinanju squeezes from him his inmost thoughts."

"I was attacked on this very spot. I did not see the traitor. But I struck him with my war club. I drew blood. I would have slain him had I not been felled."

Remo's eyes went to the war club resting against the High Moo's muscular calf. The dark wood was crushed in one spot, and flecks of skin and blood clung to the patch.

"A man of royal blood should not raise his hand in combat," said Chiun. "Leave such distasteful chores to us, your assassins."

"No man who is a man runs from combat," spat the High Moo.

Chiun winced. He composed himself and pressed on. "For twenty coins I will bring you his carcass."

"Bring me his head and I will not keep the coins you falsely earned when you claimed to have rid my island of octopus worshipers."

Chiun's hand went to his wispy beard. His mouth opened as if to speak. What manner of emperor was this, who sullied his hands with weapons and did not understand the inviolateness of the word of the Master of Sinanju? Chiun stroked his beard in silence. His eyes narrowed. When he spoke, his words were like pearls sinking into a jar of thick honey. Slow but clear.

"I will bring this wicked one to you alive, that he may tell you the truth of my words himself And if his words please you, I will ask again for twenty coins."

"I have ruled this island for all my adult life," the High Moo said. He seemed to be speaking to the Moovians surrounding him and not to Chiun. "And my father before him and his father before him, back to the days when Ru-Taki-Nuhu first closed his slumberous orbs. No High Moo ever faced such ingratitude for the gifts he has bestowed upon his people. No High Moo was ever less appreciated."

"I know how it is to be unappreciated," Chiun said proudly. "And I vow that once this matter is settled, I will see to it that henceforth no Moovian will fail to pay proper respect to his liege." And Chiun fixed the gathering crowd with his steady gaze while Remo stood aside, his arms folded, trying to follow the rapid stream of Moovian words.

The High Moo waved the Master of Sinanju away, as if to dismiss his protestations of loyalty as trifling.

Chiun's kimono skirts swirled with the force of his sudden about-face. He marched off.

Remo caught up a few minutes later.

"The High Moo's in a bad mood, huh?" he offered.

"He is entitled. For he is surrounded by ingratitude. A common problem among those who are heir to long lines of honorable ancestry. Some believe that distinguished parentage is not earned."

"Really?"

"Orphans and the lowborn are especially susceptible to this fallacy," Chiun said pointedly.

"You can't mean me," Remo said ironically. "Being an American, I was probably born on the upper floor of a hospital. "

Chiun did not reply. Remo noticed that his eyes had fixed upon the ground, Chiun led him off the foot-beaten path and into the jungle. Remo saw a drop of blood glisten on a leaf. Another darkened the soil many feet beyond it. Chiun was following the blood spoor of the failed killer. Like malignant rubies, the drops led to one of the many mines which dotted Moo like empty eyes. This mine had fallen into disuse. Foliage had overgrown its bambooshored mouth. A few branches were broken and trampled. "How do you say 'Come out, come out, wherever you are' in Moovian?" Remo joked.

The Master of Sinanju brushed past him and stormed into the dark tunnel.

Remo had to duck to get through the entrance. Ahead of him, Chiun walked tall and defiant. The High Moo's accusation had stung him, and Remo knew that the would-be killer faced a terrible fate once Chiun laid hands on him.

Remo crouched as he walked. His hands brushed the loose tunnel walls. They were dry and gritty like pumice. Probably volcanic residue. The tunnel meandered like a snail track, as if the burrowing Moovians had followed the metal deposits as they found them rather than systematically working the mine. The moisture increased the deeper they went, and Remo realized they were below sea level.

The tunnel ended in a cul-de-sac of mud. The floor was a brown puddle and the lower walls were mud. And squatting in the water was a young Moovian with hunted eyes.

He bared his teeth at Chiun's approach.

"You have committed a foul deed against the House of Moo," the Master of Sinanju told him.

"I will no longer work the mines," the Moovian spat. "All my life I have worked in the mines. And all the coins end up in the High Moo's treasure house. None for his workers. None for the people." He felt his hair. His hand came away sticky with blood.

"You are not an octopus worshiper, then?" Chiun asked.

"No." he sneered. "I am Ca-Don-Ho, slayer of kings."

"The High Moo lives, and after you have repeated your words for him, you will die," Chiun promised gravely.

"Wait a minute, Chiun," Remo put in. "Let's hear this guy out. I think he has some valid complaints here."

"He is a hater of royalty. I know his ilk. I will listen no more." And so saying, the Master of Sinanju stepped into the mud to retrieve the man for his emperor.

Ca-Don-Ho uncoiled like a spring. His hands sought the Master of Sinanju's wattled throat. But the Master of Sinanju was quicker still. He struck the man in the side of the head. Ca-Don-Ho went down. He shook his head angrily.

And then, reaching for a knife tucked in his loincloth, he attacked the mud wall. He threshed and splashed, causing the Master of Sinanju to withdraw hastily-but only to avoid having his kimono soiled by mud.

"He is mad," Chiun whispered in English.

"I don't think so," Remo said, jumping for the man. Remo was too late. The muddy wall suddenly crumbled and a torrent of water surged over the man. He went down, laughing wildly.

Remo backpedaled. Chiun was already ahead of him. They ran swiftly, whipping around twisting corners just ahead of the wall of water that chased them all the way to the surface.

Remo and Chiun shot out of the mine as if propelled. They kept moving. The water crested and collapsed. The ground soon drank it up. The body of the would-be king slayer floated out with the last blurp of water and was deposited on the wet turtle grass.

Remo walked up to him.

"Guess he won't be telling the High Moo anything."

"You were witness to his words," Chiun said. He gave the dead man's ribs a vicious kick. The splintery sound that it brought was muffled.

"The High Moo may not buy it, you know."

"And why not?"

"Because he thinks I'm a slave."

Chiun said nothing for a long time. He kicked the dead man's ribs again. "Bring this bag of meat."

As Remo stopped to pick him up, something glinted in the water-disturbed soil. He plucked it up,

"Hey, I found one of the High Moo's coins."

"Good. We will return it to the High Moo."

"Why? I found it."

"All coins belong to the High Moo. This is why his face adorns them."

"That's what this guy said. But what good is money if you don't spread it around?"

"It is power," said Chiun, putting out his hand.

"I say it's mine," Remo countered. He looked at the coin again. "Check this out, Chiun, it's got a different High Moo's face on it."

Chiun snatched the coin away. "All the more reason to return it promptly. All coins are melted down and recast when a new High Moo ascends the throne. This one bears the face of an earlier High Moo. It will soon bear the profile of the High Moo we serve . . ."

Chiun's voice trailed off. He lifted the coin to the light. "Don't tell me it's counterfeit," Remo said.

Chiun frowned. The coin disappeared up one voluminous sleeve.

"Pick up the dead one," he said, starting off. "And say nothing about this coin to anyone."

"Yeah?" Remo remarked lightly, hefting the body over his shoulders. "Do I smell a mystery?"

"It is probably your socks," Chiun said haughtily. "They reek. "

Chapter 26

The High Moo would have none of it.

"He confessed to being lazy," Chiun insisted. "He did not like to work in your mines, the ingrate. But he was no octopus worshiper. He told us so. Tell him, Remo." Chiun pushed Remo before the High Moo like an idiot child about to recite an important school lesson.

"It's true," Remo said. "I heard him say so."

"You bring me a dead body and the word of a mere slave?" spat the High Moo.

"Told you so," Remo whispered to Chiun in English. He couldn't resist throwing in a knowing grin.

"He is dead. The last octopus worshiper is no more," Chiun went on in an agitated voice.

"He is not dead enough," said the High Moo, who then took up his hardwood club and proceeded to beat the body into a shapeless bloody lump. He took his time about this, working around the body methodically. He saved the head for last.

Remo, watching the High Moo at work, said, "I'm cutting out. This isn't my thing."

Even the Master of Sinanju was sickened.

The Moovians watched stonily. They neither turned away nor seemed ill-at-ease. They looked, if anything, resigned. Only the Low Moo looked away. She was plucking hibiscus blossoms. She discarded them carelessly until she found one she liked. Then she put it in her hair over her left ear.

When the High Moo was finished, he stood on bowed and sweaty legs.

"Take this thing away," he ordered his Red Feather Guard. "Boil the traitorous flesh from his leg bones and I will have them for swords. They will remind all plotters of their fate."

The body was carted off by four guards, each lugging a wrist or ankle.

"I speak the truth," Chiun told the High Moo after he had sunk back onto his Shark Throne. The High Moo wiped sweat off his brow. His underarms exuded a sweaty stench that made Chiun's nose wrinkle distastefully.

"We will soon know," said the High Moo. His chest heaved from his exertions. "For if no one harms my person between now and the next moon, I will allow you to take away your full payment."

"One who is protected by Sinanju need fear nothing," Chiun said flintily.

"I look around me and my stomach is uneasy," the High Moo said pointedly.

Chiun clapped his hands. The thunder sent birds winging from distant trees.

"Why are you all standing around?" he cried. "Your emperor is safe. Get you to your work. The rice fields need tending. The mines are empty. Be gone, you lazy sons and daughters of the greatest empire of ancient times."

Moovians scattered in all directions. Children fled for the safety of their mothers. And Chiun, seeing the effect of his words, turned to the High Moo and bowed once, formally.

"See that my kingdom runs smoothly," said the High Moo through heavy-lidded eyes, "and I will reward you handsomely upon your departure."

The Master of Sinanju did not observe the cunning smiled that wreathed the High Moo's face as he took his leave.

Chiun found Remo walking along the eastern shore. The sun beat down on Remo's bare chest and the Master of Sinanju noticed that the red sucker marks on his arms and chest were very red. Remo's face was tight and troubled.

"Nice emperor you serve," Remo remarked acidly when Chiun padded up beside him.

"We serve," Chiun corrected. But his bell-like voice was subdued.

"Not me. I'm just a lowly slave. And an orphan." Chiun said nothing. The sun was setting and the shadows lengthened along the white beach. They walked together, Chiun's hands inside his belled sleeves. Remo rotated his thick wrists unconsciously. It was a habit that surfaced when he was preoccupied.

"A month is too long," Remo said, breaking the silence.

"I have been making a list," Chiun said, as if not hearing. "I have been listing all kings and princes who still rule kingdoms in the modern world."

"Maybe next time you'll remember the crossword puzzles."

"It is a very short list."

"Life goes on," Remo said in a bored voice.

"And my life has gone on longer than yours. Perhaps in the next century, as Westerners reckon time, the world will right itself and sane statecraft will prevail once more. There may again be kings and princes aplenty in the years to come. But I may never know them. You may, Remo, but I will not. Not that I am old."

"No, not you."

"But I live a dangerous life. And the future is unknowable, even to a Master of Sinanju."

"But you've got the past locked down tight."

"The High Moo may be the only true emperor my Mastership will know. I have a month. A month to savor true service. Would you begrudge me that month, Remo?"

"No. But we both have to answer to Smith. And he pays better. He pays in gold. Not silver or platinum or whatever those coins are."

Chiun separated his sleeves to reveal the coin Remo had found in the ground.

"This is more precious than silver. Rarer than platinum. Any patch of dirt will yield those metals. But coins such as these were thought lost when Moo was lost."

"I'll bet we have a time figuring out the exchange rate when we get back," Remo joked.

Chiun regarded his wavering reflection in the coin's polished surface.

"Come," he said abruptly.

"Where?"

"I must compare this coin to those in the High Moo's treasure house."

"Why not? It'll kill an afternoon."

As they picked their way inland, they passed the mines.

Men were hauling coconut shells heaping with dirt out in fire-brigade fashion and making a pile. In the fields, the children toiled. No one looked happy, and Remo remarked on that observation.

"For islanders, they're a pretty morose lot."

"You first saw them at their best. At the feast. Do you really believe your fantasies of happy brown people basking in the sun indulging in free love all day and night?"

"Oh, I don't know," Remo said airily, rubbing the red marks on his arms. "Some myths might have a kernel of truth."

Chiun eyed him doubtfully. He went on: "You see the Moovians as they are in their ordinary life. Would you judge Americans by their behavior during the festival of the Nazarene?"

"I might if I knew what that was."

"The feast's name escapes me. Jesus Time, I think it is called. "

"You mean Christmas?"

"Possibly. The exact names of unimportant pagan festivals are not worth memorizing. "

"That sounds really convincing coming from someone whose national holiday is the Feast of the Pig," Remo said dryly. "Where are we going, by the way? I don't remember having the treasure house pointed out to us."

"It is no doubt in a secret location. But we will find it. We have only to go to the source."

Chiun led Remo into the village proper. He walked with his head cocking to each side, listening. Chiun homed in on the sound of metallic clickings and hammerings. It came from a one-story stone hut behind the palace.

Chiun entered.

"Greetings, metalsmiths to the High Moo."

A circle of bronze faces looked up from their work. The men squatted before a stone oven. They were beating lumps of coin metal into the proper shape. In a corner one man, with skin like dried and stretched beef, was etching the High Moo's profile into the finished coins. A neat stack of newly minted coins sat beside him.

No one reacted to Chiun's intrusion. Their faces were sullen.

"By order of the High Moo, I have come to escort the newest coins to their proper place," Chiun said in an important voice.

The old man gathered up his coins in a square of cloth. He tied the four corners into a knot and presented himself to Chiun, the coins clinking in the makeshift sack.

"I will be your guard," Chiun told him.

The old man muttered something out of the side of his mouth that Remo didn't catch.

"What did he say?" Remo asked in English.

"Something about foreigners taking away all the coins."

"Meaning?"

"I think he resents that we will one day leave Moo with some of the fruits of his labors."

"What's it to him?" Remo asked. They followed the men into the forest. "The coins all belong to the High Moo anyway. "

"Some people grow intolerant as they get along in years."

"No!" Remo said in a mock-aghast voice.

Chiun nodded sagely. "Indeed. Wisdom is not always the end result of long life."

"My last illusion is shattered. I have met my first emperor-in-the-raw and he looks like a Hawaiian wrestler, and his wise subjects aren't wise at all, only bigoted."

"Do not judge all Moovians by one cranky example," Chiun warned.

The old man brought them to the center of a cleared area. Lightning had blasted a banyan tree and it had toppled across the stump of another tree that had been leveled by hand. The old man set down his bag of coins and pushed the tree aside. The easy way in which he accomplished that feat indicated that it was hollow.

The old man took a bone knife and inserted it into the tree stump. He levered the flat top upward and set it aside.

Remo and Chiun gathered around. As they had expected, the stump had been hollowed out. Coins glinted in stacks directly beneath the opening. They stood in nearly three feet of water.

"Some treasure house," Remo said. "A tree stump."

"Which coins are mine?" Chiun asked anxiously.

The old man shrugged. "Whichever the High Moo decrees."

"But the coins presented me by the Low Moo are special coins."

"They are all the same. I know. Of all others, I know."

"No. Those are historic. They are artifacts of the first contact between our two houses in generations."

The old man shrugged as if to say that Chiun's excited protestations were as important as the distinction between grains of beach sand.

"What's the big deal, Chiun?" Remo asked. "Gold is gold. Silver is silver."

"They were special coins," Chiun squeaked, peering intently. The stacks were closely packed. None stood apart from the others.

The old man knelt beside the stump and lowered his arms into the water, setting the coins atop different piles. "He is covering every pile!" Chiun snapped. "He is mixing the coins. This is terrible!"

When the old man was done, he replaced the stump lid. Remo put the shattered tree back. When he was done, he noticed that the old man had left without a word of farewell. "Get what you came for?" Remo asked.

"I saw the coin faces. They were minted in the Fifth Year of the Third Cycle."

"Yeah?"

"That is the year the current High Moo ascended the throne. Fix that in your memory, Remo, for it is important."

"I'd write it down, but at the moment I'm strangely bereft of crayons."

"This coin," Chiun went on, holding the other one up, was minted in the Fifth Year of the Third Cycle also."

"So? The High Moo is dead. Long live the High Moo. Isn't that the way it usually goes?"

Chiun's papery lips thinned. He replaced the coin in his robes.

"Say nothing of this to anyone." And Chiun marched off.

"My lips are sealed," Remo said to the surrounding forest. "Even if I knew what the heck you were talking about-and I don't-who would I tell? Every time I try to speak two sentences in Moovian, everyone for three miles around breaks out in hysterics."

Chapter 27

The credit-card bill went to a post-office box in Lander, Texas, where a postal employee, who thought that monthly supplementary check came from the CIA, was under instructions to send it to a mail-forwarding service in Chicago, which relayed it to Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, by express mail. With the current state of the U.S. Postal Service, this system took a minimum of six weeks and sometimes as long as nine.

Thus the bill was already overdue when it finally crossed Smith's desk. He put it aside for the moment as he tried once again to contact Michael Brunt in Boston. Brunt's secretary informed him that Mr. Brunt was out of town. Smith distinctly heard the sound of gum cracking as he hung up in distaste.

Then the blue-and-orange express envelope caught Smith's eye. He opened the nearly indestructable Tivek envelope with shears.

Inside, there was an American Express credit-card bill made out to Remo Robeson, one of the many fictitious identities and accounts Smith had created for Remo's use. This was the name on his American Express card. Smith examined the bill.

It listed a variety of purchases, including a tractor lawn mower and a big-screen projection TV. Smith couldn't imagine what Remo would need a lawn mower for, but in years past, odd items had cropped up on his expense accounts, the most puzzling of which was an industrial ice-scraping machine whose only purpose was to clear the ice between hockey games. Smith never asked what Remo had needed with such a thing. Not after the time five refrigerators showed up on the account and Remo had informed Smith, when asked, that he had given them away to deserving families who had been burnt out of a split duplex apartment house in Detroit.

The other charges were an airline flight and something purchased from a concern called Malibu Marine. Smith blinked.

"Can't be," he muttered. "This must be in error."

The charge was sixty thousand dollars. Smith called the airline first. He was informed that the flight originated in New York City and terminated in Los Angeles, with no connecting flight booked on that airline. Was there a problem with the charge?

Smith said no and hung up. The Malibu Marine charge was dated one day after the airline flight. He called Malibu Marine.

"I am calling about a charge on my American Express card," he told the manager. "Can you verify that price? Sixty thousand dollars."

"That's right. Is there a problem?"

"I'm not certain. Exactly what was purchased?"

"It's your card. Don't you know?"

"I am co-signatory. My nephew also has use of this card."

"Well, I hope you have deep pockets. He bought a junk. Right now, he's somewhere out where the buses don't run."

"Junk," Smith gasped, envisioning Remo purchasing the contents of an entire junkyard for some frivolous purpose. "He spent sixty thousand dollars on junk!"

"No, not junk junk. A junk."

"Beg pardon?"

"He bought a Chinese junk. Sailed off in it right away, too. "

"Oh. Did he say where he was going?"

"No, he and this elderly Chinese guy just hopped aboard and sailed off. They had a gal with them."

"Did they say anything that would lead you to guess at their destination?" Smith inquired.

"Nope. Once the charge was verified, they went out with the tide. Say, you can cover these charges, can't you?"

"Yes, of course. Thank you for your time." And with that, Dr. Harold W. Smith hung up. His face was an etching. The title might have been "Pain." Without looking, he reached into his desk drawer and brought out a bottle. He needed an aspirin badly.

Smith was so intent on his thoughts that he failed to notice that he was chewing on an Alka-Seltzer tablet and not aspirin.

Remo and Chiun had left the country. They had gone without a word. What could have happened? Had he offended the Master of Sinanju somehow? And would Remo have gone with him if he had?

All that Dr. Harold W. Smith could imagine was that Remo and Chiun had returned to the village of Sinanju on the West Korea Bay. And he was alone against whoever had bought the mysterious house next to his own.

Suddenly realizing that he had eaten an entire aspirin without benefit of water, Smith drew a paper cup of mineral water from the office dispenser and drank it. For the remainer of the day he wondered why his headache persisted and he kept belching uncontrollably.

Chapter 28

Remo heard the scream and reached for his pants. "Excuse me," he said as he darted from the room. It was night. The Royal Palace of Moo was dark except for the odd places where moonlight cast geometric patterns of light.

Chiun emerged from his bedroom, his face grim. Together, without a word, they ran down the corridor leading to the High Moo's bedroom, their bare feet slapping the cool stones.

The High Moo confronted them at the door. He waved his war club angrily. It was spattered with blood, as was the High Moo's greasy chest.

"There were three of them," he thundered, gesticulating wildly. "Two have gotten away."

Groans came from behind the High Moo. He stepped aside to show a Moovian sitting on the floor. The man was holding his red-splashed arm. His forearm was bent below the elbow joint. A jagged spear of bone stuck out. It was broken.

"They forget. How easily they forget." The High Moo grinned.

A Moovian girl slipped up behind Remo. She held her bare breasts in fear. Her mouth gaped open.

"What is that peasant girl doing in my palace?" the High Moo thundered. "Is she another traitor?"

"No, she's with me," Remo said evenly. Chiun turned on Remo.

"With you?"

"We were together," Remo said. "You know."

"We will speak of this later," Chiun warned.

The Low Moo crept out from an adjoining room. She took one look at the peasant girl, and the girl retreated in fear.

"Are you safe, my father?" the Low Moo asked.

"Traitors. I am beset by traitors," he said bitterly.

"Let's round up the usual suspects," Remo said in English.

"Allow me to dispatch that base traitor," Chiun said, pointing to the broken-armed assailant.

"He is nothing. The ones who roam free are the threat," the High Moo said. His Red Feather Guard showed up at that moment.

"We could not find them," the captain of the guard reported.

"Then it is up to Sinanchu," the High Moo said pointedly. "If they hope to leave Moo with their full measure of coins."

Remo and Chiun left the palace. Out in the courtyard, Remo said, "He's sure getting a lot of service for payment that was supposed to be in the bag."

"That man was not an octopus worshiper. He will admit that later. At this moment we must get the other two."

"Want to split up?"

"No. Stay with me." And Chiun flashed through the foliage. People were stirring at the sight of them; faces retreated into doorways.

"Reminds me of when I was a cop," Remo said unhappily.

"Their fear will vanish once we have eliminated the plotters. "

"At the rate we're going, we're on our way to depopulating all of Moo."

Chiun was following tracks in the dirt. The tracks veered off into the jungle, and from there the trail was one of broken stems and crushed grass that slowly straightened.

The trail led down to the south beach and into the water.

The Pacific sparkled. No shadows dotted its surface. "Looks like we lost them. Octopus worshipers or not." Chiun watched the water. When he was certain no swimmer would surface, he spoke.

"I do not think they were octopus worshipers, although they fled into the ocean. Come, we must inform the High Moo."

As they walked back, Chiun spoke up. "That girl. What was she to you?"

"I don't know. I'd only known her ten minutes when the trouble started."

"Ten?"

"She came in through the window."

"Obviously a tramp," sniffed Chiun.

"If she was, that's how they grow them on Moo." Chiun stopped.

"There were others?"

"Yeah," Remo admitted.

"A few." Chiun's eyes became slits.

"How many?"

"Oh, five or sex-I mean six."

"So many!" Chiun demanded hotly. "You have lain with five or six maidens in three nights?"

"Actually, I'm just counting tonight. I don't know how many there were on the other nights."

"Aiieee!" Chiun screeched. "Are you mad? Have you given no thought to the diseases these girls may carry?"

"Little Father," Remo said gently, "we're on an island with maybe two hundred inhabitants, tops. And with the way these girls behave, one sexually transmitted disease would have wiped everyone out long before we got here."

"I cannot believe you."

"Hey, this is an island. No radio. No TV. No place to go that doesn't look like every other place here. I'm bored. Besides, it was their idea. They keep sneaking in through my window."

"You could have turned them away," Chiun huffed.

"I'm entitled to a little fun."

"And did you have it? This fun?"

"Well, I'm not sure. It's interesting, but you know how it is with sex when you're a Master of Sinanju."

"Yes, you do it properly and get it out of the way so that you can go on to important things."

"That's been my problem with it, all right. I get up to step two in the thirty-seven steps to sexual fulfillment and the party of the second part has been to cloud nine and back twice while I'm left waiting for the fireworks that never come. So to speak."

"Sex is a drug. It is better to be the supplier than the imbiber. "

"I used to like imbibing. But you know what's strange, Little Father?" Remo's voice sank into a hushed tone, no longer testy.

"Many things are strange, you most of all."

"These island girls are just like I always imagined they would be. Except for one thing. Sex is like chewing bubble gum to them. Once it's over, zoom, they're out the window. Wham, bang, thank you, Remo. I don't even get to ask if it was good for them too."

"I told you American women would be more to your taste. Unlike Moo girls, they are raised to think of sex as a forbidden riddle. They spin webs of magic and mystery around the simple act itself. No wonder they spend more of their time talking about it than doing it. No wonder all your Western songs are dirty."

"That's a gross generalization. Which songs are dirty?"

"'I Wanna Hold Your Hand' is a prime specimen."

"That's not dirty."

"It always starts with hand-holding," Chiun snapped. "Come, the High Moo awaits. Say nothing of your night escapades to him."

"I was hoping I could ask him a few questions about Moovian courtship practices."

"Such as?"

"Why the marks on my arm, for one thing."

Chiun skidded to a stop. He examined Remo's extended arms.

"These marks are redder than before," he murmured. "They should be fading."

"The octopus-sucker marks are fading," Remo pointed out. "These are fresh marks."

"I do not understand."

"They're ... uh ... bite marks."

"Bite?"

"That's what I'm talking about," Remo said excitedly. "They don't kiss. They bite. I can't figure it out."

"Who bites? Which has bitten you?"

"The girls. All of them. They don't seem to know what kissing is. I hope this isn't some kind of savage engagement ritual, because if it is, look out, I'm betrothed to half the female population of Moo."

"The peasant girls bite?" Chiun repeated. He turned Remo's arms over. The rose-colored marks were everywhere. Even under Remo's armpits, he saw with revulsion.

"The Low Moo does it too," Remo told him.

"You slept with the Low Moo!" Chiun demanded, his nails digging into Remo's arms.

"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 he 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 shoulder 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.

Two men jumped onto the reef and took hold of thrown lines. The schooner was made secure, the anchor dropped. Most of the natives were dead. Shane Billiken saw as he clambered onto the reef. One moaned, and Dirk Edwards beckoned him to the body.

"Finish him off," Edwards said.

"I don't know if I can," Shane muttered.

"It's easy."

"Isn't this your job? I hired you, after all."

"Look, we gotta head inland before the sounds get everyone on this rock organized. We're gonna need every man. So you're either part of the problem, sucker, or you're part of the solution."

And to a man, the mercenaries pointed their weapons at Shane Billiken.

Reluctantly Shane pointed his rifle at the native's twitching head, closed his eyes, and squeezed the trigger. The weapon gave a short snarl.

"Is it over?" he asked limply.

"Yeah," Dirk Edwards said politely. "You can look if you want."

Shane did. At the sight of the blood-streaked brains oozing out of the man's shattered face, he broke and ran for the waters. He got down on his stomach until he had emptied it into the beautiful blue water.

The mercenary team laughed uproariously.

"You'll get used to it. Now, come on. Let's find that village. "

For three hours they penetrated the lush rain forest. They climbed a thickly overgrown hill. The terrain was rough. Shane's Adidas running shoes began to fall apart.

Finally they reached the crest of the hill. Below lay a mist-filled valley. Beyond the mists a tall shape loomed blue and indistinct.

"Let's make camp here," Dirk said. "The fog ought to burn off by noon. Maybe we can spot the village. Save us some humping."

They settled down to wait. As the morning progressed, the mists began to thin. A hill came into view. And another. And between them a tall landmark that was definitely not a hill.

"Shit!" said Dirk Edwards. "What the fuck is that?"

"It's the temple," Shane shouted. He was ignored.

"Looks like a building," said Gus.

"I know it's a fucking building. What I want to know is, what kind of building. Who's got the binoculars?" Someone passed them to him. Dirk stood up and trained the lenses on the rapidly clearing object.

"I thought we were supposed to be looking for a primitive island," he said bitingly. "This thing is huge."

"We are," Shane Billiken said uncertainly. "I mean, it was supposed to be. Maybe it's some kind of mirage."

"Yeah? Well, this mirage says the 'Oahu Hilton' on it."

"What does that mean?" Shane wanted to know.

"It means, you flaky fuck, that we're in Hawaii and if we don't get out of here before those bodies are found, our asses are grass."

At that, everybody started running down the mountain at full tilt. In between puffing breaths, there was a discussion about whether to shoot Shane Billiken for getting them into this mess.

Shane Billiken was immensely relieved when the vote was decided, five to two in favor of not shooting him because one more shooting would only bring more trouble.

"Outstanding," said Dirk Edwards. "We'll wait till we're at sea."

Chapter 32

Dolla-Dree, Low Moo of Moo, ran to her father's palace. Her bare feet skipped over the stones in her path. She felt light. Tonight she would enjoy the privilege that had not been accorded a Low Moo in hundreds of moons. The gift of a white man.

The oral tales of Moo were full of stories of the white men who once came to this remnant of Old Moo. None had come for so long that many believed the whites of the world had died out.

Dolla-Dree learned differently when she landed on the land of white men. But she had been on a mission. She could take no white man while she was a prisoner of the cruel magician who wore smoked glass over his eyes, yet was not blind.

Now she was home. Now she would ask her father. Remo would be hers. Forever.

"Father! Father!" cried Dolla-Dree as she approached the palace.

The High Moo, Tu-Min-Ka, emerged from the palace, his face questioning.

"Is there trouble?" he demanded.

"No, no," said Dolla-Dree, dropping at his feet. She knelt before her father, bowing her long tresses. "I crave a boon. One that will make me one with the Low Moos of the past."

"Go on, daughter."

"I wish to buy the slave Remo. For I crave him greatly."

"He is no longer a slave. He has been freed. We do not have slaves on Moo."

"Only because there are not enough Moovians to have slaves as well as workers. We had slaves in the days of the white sailors."

"Which we freed at the proper time."

"And I vow to follow that tradition. I will buy Remo, and before I take him into myself, I will free him."

"Well-spoken. But he is already a free man."

"Oh, he will not be a slave long," the Low Moo implored. She grabbed her father's legs eagerly. Her face lifted. "I will treat him as we treated the white men of the long-ago days. He will be mine forever, one with my heart, identical with my soul, the flesh of my flesh."

"The Master of Sinanchu cares for this man," the High Moo reminded.

The Low Moo reared to her feet, her dark eyes snapping. "You deny me? Your daughter? The one who, alone in the world, loves you?"

The High Moo winced under the tongue-lashing. He relented.

"I will speak with the Master of Sinanchu," he said. "I will see what his feelings are toward Remo."

"I will await his decision," the Low Moo told him coolly. "Do not disappoint me, for I am all you have." She promptly disappeared into the palace, her haughty back radiating scorn.

His war club in hand, the High Moo called to his Red Feather Guard. They surrounded him as he set out in search of the Master of Sinanchu. The golden plume on his fillet crown dipped with each heavy step he took. It was a difficult thing his daughter had asked of him. The rite had not been performed since Rona-Ku was High Moo.

The monkeys chattered at him as he walked, and the High Moo shook his fist at them as if they were the cause of all his troubles.

They were nearing the rice fields when one of the guards walking before the High Moo seemed to stumble. He fell against a tree. He did not rise.

"See to him," the High Moo said shortly. "His head must have struck a stone."

The other guards surrounded the man. They shook him. He did not stir. They rolled him over on his back and everyone saw his glassy sightless stare. And they knew.

It was the High Moo who spotted the thorn sticking from the guard's foot. He pulled it free. A tiny drop of blood dripped from the tip.

"A stonefish spine," he growled. "It must have been set into the ground to trap me."

A rustling of the foliage ahead caught their attention. The remaining guards started after the skulker.

"No," cried the High Moo. "Do not leave me. There may be others lurking about. We will attend to that one later. I must see the Master of Sinanchu. You will carry my scared personage so that I do not fall prey to another vicious trap."

The Red Feather Guard hesitated. They looked down at their naked bronze feet.

"I have bestowed upon you the gift of being my guards," the High Moo growled. "Any who do not wish to enjoy the comforts that go with it may choose between the mines and the fields."

The guards looked at one another and two men took the High Moo by the legs while the third reached under his armpits. In this fashion they carried him from the path. They went with ginger steps, their questing eyes anxious.

When the Master of Sinanju saw the High Moo being carried in a supine position, his heart leapt at the thought that he had lost the only true emperor he had ever known.

"What has transpired?" he demanded of the guards as they set their ruler on his feet. "Is the High Moo ill?"

"I have escaped another base attempt upon my life," said the High Moo. "A stonefish spine placed in the road. One of my guards lies dead."

"He died knowing that he served you well," intoned Chiun. "He could ask for no greater destiny."

"I saw the one who did it," said a guard. All eyes turned to the man. "Through the trees. I recognized his face. It was Uk-Uk."

"Then Uk-Uk must die!" cried Chiun. "Point him out to me and I will rend him apart with infinite slowness." Like yellow talons, Chiun's hands flashed in the sunlight. He clawed the air, making flamboyant sweeping gestures. He hoped the High Moo would be impressed. But the High Moo's next words stunned the Master of Sinanju.

"No," he said unhappily. "Uk-Uk is my metalsmith."

"The old one?" Chiun demanded.

"Truly. I had thought him loyal. But he cannot die, for there is no other with the skill to fashion my coins."

"Then what would you have me do to him?" asked Chiun, who had never known an emperor to show mercy to a traitor. "I could pluck out one eye as an object lesson."

"No, for if he loses the other to disease or bird attack, he will be useless to me."

"I will leave the eyes, then. Select a limb for removal."

"I do not know," said the High Moo after a long pause. His broad coppery features were troubled., "But I have something more important to speak of now."

"Yes?" said Chiun, his eyes bright. What could be more important than the intrigues of the Shark Throne?

"My daughter, the Low Moo, has come to me. She craves your freed slave, Remo."

"Do you propose joining our houses in marriage?" Chiun asked slowly.

"If that is necessary to satisfy my daughter's need. But I would prefer to buy him."

Chiun's beard quivered. "Buy Remo? My Remo?"

"He was your slave in the outer world. Here, only we know that he has been liberated. Perhaps there is an honorable way you could unfree him. Then I would be prepared to discuss a price."

"Buy? Not marriage?" Chiun squeaked.

"I will do whatever is necessary, for my daughter's happiness is dear to me."

Chiun considered. "I will think on this matter. But I make no promise," he said hastily.

"Understood. Now I must return to my palace. For only there am I safe, it seems." The High Moo motioned for his guards to lift him off his feet.

Chiun watched as the High Moo was carried off. Then he went in search of Remo. He wore a slight smile of amusement on his parchment face, but it disappeared when he caught sight of Remo standing with his arms folded and looking bored while the miners worked half-heartedly.

"I have spoken with the High Moo," Chiun said solemnly. "His daughter desires you beyond all others."

"I got that impression when I talked to her."

"Indeed?"

"Yeah. She said she wanted to poon me."

"She said what?"

"Poon. Is it dirty?"

"It is obscene."

"Sounds interesting," Remo said. "I don't suppose you'd care to share a few details?"

"No. And you must have misunderstood her. Your command of the Moovian tongue is atrocious."

"Well, we'll find out tonight. She and I are having a tryst. "

"Do not go to her, Remo. The High Moo has offered to buy you from me. I was going to tell you that I entertained the idea, but only as a jest. Now I tell you in full sincerity, do not meet with the Low Moo."

"I was starting to look forward to it. She's probably the only Moovian maiden I haven't made it with. Don't these people believe in marriage?"

"They marry. But it is not like other people marry. They are free to dally with whomever they wish. All children born on Moo are considered children of the mother and of the village. The concept of the father exists only in the royal house."

"That would explain the singular absence of irate husbands."

"There is other news. The metalsmith. Uk-Uk. He tried to kill the High Moo with a stonefish spine set on his path. "

"Brrrr. Nasty," Remo said. "Does that mean he is an octopus worshiper?"

"Anyone can break a spine from a stonefish. And octopus worshipers are slaves to ritual. They always dress in imitation of Ru-Taki-Nuhu. Or leave a symbol of their evil, like the jug which contained a living octopus which was hurled at the High Moo. No, it means that the list of those who desire to topple the Shark Throne is longer than I would have believed. For the young assailant knew not of the metalsmith's designs."

"If you ask me, the way these people are worked, anybody could be out for his skin."

"We must expose the plotters tonight," Chiun said firmly. "All of them."

"Yeah? How, pray tell?"

"The metalsmith does not know he was seen. You will follow him if he leaves his hut tonight. I will guard the High Moo."

"What about the Low Moo? She's expecting me."

"Have nothing to do with her."

"That's gonna be hard. We're stuck on the same island."

"She is not your type, believe me."

"Since when do you know what attracts me?"

"On Moo, every swaying teat attracts you. I am surprised you have not been chasing the female monkeys."

"Har de har har har," Remo said. But his face flushed in embarrassment.

Chapter 33

The physician in charge of patients at Folcroft Sanitarium was a rotund little man named Dr. Aldace Gerling. His white smock bulged at its lower buttons and Smith wondered as they walked down the two-tone green corridors of the sanitarium's psychiatric wing how a man could be a physician and yet allow his stomach to get so out of shape. If wasn't for his salt-and-pepper goatee, Smith would have suspected him, with his baby-fat features and soft voice, of being in the late stages of pregnancy.

"As I told you, Dr. Smith," Dr. Gerling was saying, "all rooms and patients have been accounted for."

"I know. But it's been nearly two weeks. I'm now convinced that Grumley never left the premises. There would have been police reports or incidents if he had."

"Then we will triple-check," Dr. Gerling said. His voice was a frown.

As they went from room to room, matching room numbers with a patient list Smith carried on a clipboard, Smith reflected that he had gotten nowhere with his other problem. Perhaps devoting more attention to this one would help clear his head. And there was still that nagging feeling he had that the two matters were connected somehow.

"And here is the unfortunate Mr. Purcell," Dr. Gerling said. They stopped at a heavily reinforced door.

"Oh, yes, Jeremiah Purcell," Smith said, peering in through the wire-mesh-reinforced porthole.

The walls of the room were gray and padded. A youngish man sat on the floor, wearing a strait-jacket that confined his arms. He stared at a far corner of the ceiling as if it held the image of God.

"I have never seen such a case before," Dr. Gerling remarked, pursing his wet lips. "The man's mind is totally blank. His state is beyond catatonia."

"He has not been a problem?"

"No more than a patch of catnip. He sleeps, he eats, he uses the toilet although sometimes he forgets to put down the seat and falls in. Then he cries. Other than that, nothing. No words, no complaints. No nothing. His is a sad case."

Smith looked at the young man for several minutes. His hair was long and blond and the texture of cornsilk. His eyes were so blue they looked like neon points. But in back of them lay an uncomprehending opacity.

Jeremiah Purcell has been brought to Folcroft by Remo and Chiun. He was perhaps their greatest enemy living-a white man who possessed the powers of Sinanju and an additional faculty: the ability to project his thoughts as visible hallucinations. In their last encounter, the Dutchman-as Purcell was also known-had snapped mentally. His mind was an absolute blank slate.

No, Smith thought. Purcell would have nothing to do with this. This was not his style. There was no point to it. And every staff doctor had pronounced his mind a roiling confusion of thoughts.

Smith checked Purcell's name off and walked on.

"And this is Mr. Chiun's room," Dr. Gerling said when they rounded the corner to the guest wing.

Smith started. "Mr. Chiun?"

"Yes, the Alzheimer patient. The one who prattles on in the most astonishing ways. His stories about his village were most entertaining, if preposterous. As I recall, Dr. Smith, he once confided that he considered you to be his emperor. Is there a problem?"

"Mr. Chiun left us last month. Along with his guardian, Remo."

"Oh? Then who is in this room?" asked Dr. Gerling. Smith pushed the door open. A man lay on a narrow bed. He slept. Smith shook his shoulder and the man roused slowly. He blinked uncomprehending eyes at them. "This is not Mr. Chiun." Smith said.

Dr. Gerling looked at the patient's face. His own face loosened like a deflating balloon.

"But . . . but this man is Grumley," Dr. Gerling sputtered.

"Grumley! Are you certain?"

"Absolutely. I know Grumley. But what is he doing here?"

"Obviously he's hiding here. Why didn't you check this room more carefully?" Smith demanded.

Dr. Gerling drew himself up sternly. "You instructed me in quite explicit language, Dr. Smith, that the patient Chiun was not to be disturbed by the staff for any reason."

"Yes, yes, you are right. I did," Smith said distractedly.

"And you further neglected to inform me that Mr. Chiun had been discharged."

"It was quite sudden, actually," Smith admitted.

"Well, here is the solution to our little mystery. I shall escort Mr. Grumley back to his room."

"Yes, carry on. Thank you, doctor," said Dr. Harold W. Smith. He left the room hurriedly, clutching his clipboard. Despite his acute embarrassment, Smith was relieved. He had indeed neglected to brief Dr. Gerling when Remo and Chiun had abruptly moved out of Folcroft. He had no idea where they had gone after that. They had promised to communicate with him once they were settled in a new location, but had not. It had been Smith's policy to relocate them at intervals. They had ended up residing at Folcroft by default.

Wherever they were, at least the disappearance of Gilbert Grumley had no connection with Smith's main problem. And that eliminated the possibility that Folcroft had been compromised.

Now it was time to close out that other matter.

Chapter 34

Darkness fell upon the tiny island of Moo.

The cooking fires were doused with water. The riotous birds of day fell silent. Shining clouds hid the moon. Yawning and stretching, the peasants of Moo retreated to their grass huts. The High Moo had already retired to his palace.

"I don't see the Low Moo," Remo whispered. They were on the roof parapet of the Royal Palace. The entire expanse of the island lay before them.

Chiun's face lifted to the freshening sea breeze, like a cat catching a scent.

"She is the least of our concerns this night," he said quietly. His hazel eyes, like polished agates, searched the village huts scattered like so many haphazard dice around the palace.

"You haven't seen her when she's angry."

"I will go below to guard the door to the High Moo's quarters," Chiun remarked after the last Moovian had slipped into his home.

"Check," Remo said. "I've got Uk-Uk's hut in my sights."

"If he leaves, or anyone else acts suspicious, take them alive. "

"No problem."

"I go now. Remember-have nothing to do with the Low Moo this night."

"Yeah. Sure," Remo said vaguely.

Chiun paused. Then he slipped down the stone staircase. Remo was a willful pupil, he ruminated. But in the end, he could handle himself. It was not for Remo's safety that Chiun feared his tryst with the Low Moo. Remo had always had bad luck with women. He did not need a further shock to his opinion of the other sex.

Hours passed and Remo was growing bored. The clouds parted long past midnight, bathing the island in silver illumination. The moonlight was strong, but not strong enough to pick out colors. The breeze-worried jungle was a gray-and-white expanse. Out beyond the eastern shore, the Pacific danced with diamond-hard lights. The Jonah Ark bobbed like a grotesque cork.

Dolla-Dree, Low Moo of Moo, sauntered into the village far into the night. Remo watched as she stepped in and out of patches of moonlight. Her face was radiant with expectation. Her hips moved like the palms and Remo felt a momentary pang at the thought of Chiun's admonition to avoid her.

But business came first. Maybe he could explain it to the Low Moo before the night was over.

Then the Low Moo padded up to Remo's quarters and slipped in through the window.

Remo hesitated. He considered dropping to the ground to talk with her. But a stealthy shadow flitting from hut to hut drew his attention. He followed it with his eyes.

The shadow disappeared into a mangrove thicket. Probably a Moovian with an assignation, Remo decided. It was not Uk-Uk.

Then other figures crept out into the open. They went in different directions, apparently oblivious of one another. Some gathered together in the darkness and slipped off in groups. They were not always of opposite sexes. Oh, well, Remo thought. Anything that people did in civilization, they probably did on Moo.

The metalsmith, Uk-Uk, came out after most of the skulking had quieted down. Remo went over the parapet, hung by his fingers, and dropped to the dirt with no more sound than the clap of a baby's hands.

He trailed the metalsmith at a safe distance. The old man loped along toward the great cluster of mines cut into the sheer western wall of the Moovian plateau.

Along the way, Remo's acute hearing picked up voices. "The High Moo must die tonight," a male voice whispered. "I will tear his eyes out with my bare hands," a lilting young girl's voice promised vehemently.

Fixing the metalsmith's location in his mind, Remo slipped off the path. He eased in the direction of the voices. He dropped to one knee and parted the high turtle grass.

Three Moovians squatted under a banyan tree. They were discussing, in quiet, forceful tones, a variety of ways to kill the High Moo. Remo, concerned that the metalsmith would get away, memorized their faces and glided away unseen.

Other voices rose from the jungle as Remo crept along the path. "The tyranny must end. We are as worthy as he is."

"The Low Moo is less royal than I am. Let her work in the mines."

"Why should we toil to fill the High Moo's coffers when all he fills is our stomachs?"

"Most of the stored rice goes to the insects anyway. We do not need to grow so much."

Remo counted twenty-seven plotters in groups of twos and threes. Worried, he pressed on. The ground dropped off sharply. Remo had to climb down.

Uk-Uk, the metalsmith, ducked into an active mine just as Remo caught up with him.

Remo drifted up to the entrance and put an ear to the solid bulwark of earth that framed its black maw. Vibrations of muttering voices carried through the dirt.

"No, not tonight." It was Uk-Uk's raspy voice. "Others plot tonight. Let them have their chance. If we have to kill them too, we will. But after the High Moo and his she-whelp are food for the sharks, only Uk-Uk will know the place where the coins are stored."

"What about the Master of Sinanchu and his slave?" someone asked.

"Let them return to their world. Moo is not for those with white skins."

"But the Master of Sinanchu has yellow skin."

"I have seen how he consorts with the white one. The Master of Sinanchu is like a banana. Yellow on the outside, but the meat within is white and soft."

The metalsmith's words were greeted with murmurs of assent.

"Let us retire to our homes and await future events," Uk-Uk said when quiet returned.

At that, Remo retreated. He had heard enough. It was time to tell Chiun the bad news. Let him figure out how to break it to the High Moo.

The Master of Sinanju stood resolute. He stirred not. He blinked not. He was an unmoving rock standing between the High Moo and those who would topple him from his throne.

The corridor leading to the High Moo's quarters was darker than the stomach of an octopus. Darker even than the dreamless slumber of Ru-Taki-Nuhu, who dwells far from the life-giving rays of the sun. But Chiun saw it as clearly as if illuminated by pure moonlight. A spider scuttled into a crack and Chiun saw it plainly. And the spider, even with many eyes, saw him not.

Chiun had deployed the Red Feather Guard at every entrance. No one could enter the palace unchallenged. And if any did, he would face the Master of Sinanju.

Sinanju had lost few emperors in its long and glorious history. This Master of Sinanju was determined that the High Moo would not be one of them.

It lacked but an hour until dawn when angry, stealthy footsteps padded through the palace halls. Chiun's immobility melted. He stepped forward to confront the approaching figure.

The padding was familiar.

The silhouette coming down the hall, Chiun saw at last, was the swivel-hipped Low Moo. Her face was a tight mask.

"I would speak with my father," she said in an icy voice that pleased Chiun. It meant Remo had not met with her this night.

"He sleeps," Chiun said blandly, joining his hands within the open sleeves of his emerald-and-gold kimono.

"Then I will wake him. Or would you deny me the right to see my own father?"

Chiun stood unmoving. His thin lips parted and he bowed silently.

"I serve the House of Moo, of which you are an honored part." Chiun stepped aside silently.

The Low Moo pushed open the bamboo-and-rattan door. "Father, I would speak with you," she called loudly. The door spanked shut behind her.

Chiun stood listening, his face intent, as the sounds of a low, intense argument began.

"He did not come to me," the Low Moo complained in a cat-spitting hiss. "And he is not in his room."

"I would have told you this," said the High Moo, "but you were nowhere to be found."

"I walked the beaches. I breathed prayers to the god of the waves who brings whites to our land. I thanked him abjectly, for you promised you would make this thing happen for me."

"You must be patient. The Master of Sinanchu has not yet given his blessing."

A bare foot spanked the stone floor. "I will not. I want him now. My hunger for him is great."

"He is not mine to give to you." The High Moo's voice was resigned.

"Then I will take him," the Low Moo hurled back.

"I warn you, do nothing to antagonize the Master of Sinanchu. Only he stands between our throne and these treasonous plotters."

"I will have him! I will feel the fire of his white kuna in my belly!"

"You are my daughter. You will obey me!"

"I am the Low Moo. I will not be denied the privileges that Low Moos of past time enjoyed."

The High Moo's answer was a strangled inarticulate rage. The Low Moo spat back a pungent curse. The exchange escalated and the Master of Sinanju heard a meaty slap, and there was the sound of a body falling.

There was silence in the room for a long time after. When the Low Moo emerged from the room, her cheeks blazing with shame. One darkening eye had already begun to swell.

Chiun looked for tears, but there were none.

"My father slumbers," she said, closing the door after her. Her feet slapped the stone flooring angrily as she disappeared around a turn in the corridor.

The Master of Sinanju resumed his resolute stance before the High Moo's chambers. He was once more the impenetrable rock of safety for his emperor.

Remo Williams slipped up to the palace like a drifting shadow. He might have been a trick of the light caused by the moon ghosting in and out of low-flying cloud scud. He decided to climb in through his bedroom window in order to avoid the Red Feather Guards at every entrance.

"Remo, you have come." The voice was sullen. But it lifted toward the last.

"Dolla-Dree?" Remo asked. A shadowy figure sprawled on his sleeping mat.

"I have spoken to my father. He no longer stands against our union. I have waited long for you to come to me."

"Yeah? Gave us his blessing, did he?"

"Come," she said, rising on her hands. She lay there like a great tawny cat. Remo picked out the dark spots of her nipples. She wore only the lower portion of her costume. Her eyes were wide and unwinking, like black jewels. Her pupils were so distended that the smoky iris was all but invisible.

Remo joined her on the sleeping mat.

"I wanted to talk to Chiun first," he said uncertainly.

"It lacks but an hour until the sun's bright eye returns. Let us do what we will while he cannot see us."

She leaned into him, her smooth arms wrapping around his neck. She nipped at his right earlobe. Then playfully bit into the left. Remo felt his desire for her stir within him. It was more curiosity than need. Sinanju had burned out raw lust a long time ago. But the Low Moo was an attractive creature. The word popped into Remo's mind unbidden. She seemed in the half-light less a woman than a woman-child, and perhaps not quite that. There was something feral in her eyes. They were sullen and sexy at once. They made Remo feel a new emotion. Something subliminal. An anticipation, and a kind of tingling anxiousness too.

Remo sought her lips, but, teasing, she avoided them and sank perfect white teeth into his shoulder.

"Cut it out," Remo said lightly. The teeth tightened. Remo frowned.

"I need you, Remo. I need your strength," she said through her tightening teeth.

"How about you need me a little less hard?" Remo asked gently but firmly, pushing her head away. He took her face in his hands.

"I get ahead of myself," she said. "Why do you not lie back?"

"You want to get on top?"

"I want you. All of you."

Remo let himself be pushed down. There was something in the air, something that was sexual but somehow outside of sex. He didn't know what it was. But he felt a little thrill course along his spine and the short hairs of his forearms lifted as if from static electricity.

Whatever the Low Moo had in mind, it was going to be very different, Remo decided. He closed his eyes as she mounted him. Let her surprise him.

The Master of Sinanju smelled blood.

His wrinkled face lifted suddenly. He sniffed in all directions. The scent emanated from the High Moo's quarters.

Chiun went through the door like a charging ram.

The High Moo lay on his bed, the golden plume of kingship drooping from his crown so that it brushed his broad nose.

A bone knife slanted up from the middle of his breastbone. He was not breathing.

Chiun fell upon the man. He didn't touch the knife. It had probably severed veins or arteries, and its blade might have sealed off the severed ends. To withdraw it would risk the free flow of royal blood.

Instead, the Master of Sinanju placed a fist over the High Moo's heart. It beat sluggishly. His mouth was open like a fish's.

Chiun pounded the fist with the flat of his other hand. Once. Again. Again. And again. The High Moo's bulk quaked and trembled. A whitish foam spilled from his lips and the coughing began. His eyes fluttered open stupidly. "Move not," Chiun admonished. "I will tend to you."

Chiun examined the knife. It seemed to have gone in deeply. But when he touched the hilt, it wobbled. The blade had snapped going in. He lifted it free.

The blade had gone in at an angle. There was less damage than had been apparent. Chiun left the tip in.

"Sit up," Chiun said.

The High Moo pushed himself so that his torso and head were supported by the wall behind his sleeping mat. "Who did this?" demanded Chiun.

"I know not," mumbled the High Moo. His eyes were glassy and blank. He seemed to be in shock, although the blood loss was insignificant.

The Master of Sinanju flew to the open window. He stuck his head out. A Red Feather Guard stopped pacing the open courtyard.

"You! Guard!" Chiun called. "Where have you been?"

"Here," the guard replied hastily.

Chiun motioned him close, and when he was within reach, the Master of Sinanju smashed the bone spear from his hand, and taking him by the throat, forced him to his knees. "Your emperor lies wounded by base assassins. I will ask you again. Who entered this window?"

"But, no one." Chiun squeezed harder. The guard's eyes bulged like frightened grapes.

"I swear by the moon," he said.

Chiun's visage drew tighter. But the fear in the guard's voice told him that he spoke the truth as he knew it. No one had entered by the window. And only one person had entered by the door.

"See that no further harm comes to the High Moo," Chiun warned, "or it will be on your head." He released the guard and swept out of the room like a harried specter.

The Low Moo was not in her quarters. She was not in the eating room. Chiun began to ascend the stairs to the second floor, when he heard voices. Remo's. And one other.

He padded back to the first floor. The voices came from Remo's room.

Chiun burst in.

"Chiun!" Remo said in surprise. He lay on his back, the Low Moo atop him. She was pulling at her skirts, loosening them.

"Don't you believe in knocking first?" Remo asked sheepishly.

"I have learned who desires the High Moo's death," Chiun said.

"So have I," Remo said.

"Then why do I find you like this?"