Dr. Nyet

CHAPTER FOUR

"We're going to kill you!"

Cheery words; a cheery prospect. That's how they were spoken, anyway. But somehow I couldn't get into the joyful spirit of the occasion. Neither could Singh. We both fell quiet as the car moved slowly through the pitchblack streets of the crippled city.

Finally Singh broke the silence. "I do not smoke myself," he said, following it up with more relevance. "But perhaps my companion would like a last cigarette."

It was very considerate of him, but his choice of words sent a chill down my spine. Still, I did want a smoke. "Is it okay?" I asked.

The hood in the back and the one sitting beside the driver exchanged shrugs. "Go ahead," one of them said.

So I reached for a cigarette, reached down to where my pocket should have been. No cigarette. No pocket. There are no pockets in a toga; not even in a homemade toga. Nero may have fiddled while Rome burned, but he sure as hell couldn't have done much smoking in that bedsheet he was wearing. I spread my palms to indicate my predicament.

"Here." One of the hoofds passed me a cigarette.

"Allow me." Singh reached over with a Zippo lighter, which burst into flame as he lit the coffin-nail for me.

What happened then was done so quickly and so casually that it was a moment before either I or our captors realized it had happened. Just prior to it, Singh must have manipulated the window handle beside him with his elbow so the window was open a few inches. Now, as he finished lighting my cigarette, he tossed the lit lighter over his shoulder and out of the window as naturally as if it was an ordinary match. But he tossed it calculatedly and with accuracy.

The flaming lighter landed neatly in the open coat collar of a traffic cop who had just waved us past a corner. It lodged there. Jumping up and down to beat out the flames, the cop began blowing his whistle and waving his flashlight at us. These actions also served as a signal to the cop at the next corner to stop us, which he did.

It all happened so fast that both cops were alongside the car before our captors had a chance to react. The first cop was singed and mad, and he was waving his pistol around furiously. The second cop, probably more jittery than usual because of the blackout, also had his gun out.

"Did you see him jump?" Singh said loudly as the cops leaned into the car.

"Who threw that?" The first cop looked apoplectic.

"It was an accident, officer," one of the hoods tried to explain.

But Singh overrode his explanation. "I did," he admitted loudly. "But it was my friend's idea." He pointed at me.

"All right, you wise guys. Get out!"

Singh got out. The hood in back followed him. I emerged last.

"They had nothing to do with it," Singh told the cop, pointing at the hood on the sidewalk and the two still in the front of the car. "They don't even know us. We just asked them for a lift because of the power failure and they agreed."

"All right." The cop motioned the hood back into the car. "You three can go."

"But -" the driver started to protest, realizing that Singh and I were about to slip out of their clutches.

"No buts," the cop said firmly. "You wanna go to jail with these two, just hang around. Otherwise, get out of here fast before I change my mind."

The driver threw his companions a helpless look and then did the only thing he could do under the circumstances. He threw the car into gear, gunned the engine, and they sped away from the scene. Thanks to Singh we'd escaped from them.

But it didn't look like it was going to be quite that easy to get away from the cops. Mad as they were, it sure seemed we were destined to spend the night in the cooler. The remarkable Singh, however, again came up with a way out.

"You cannot arrest us," he told the cops haughtily.

"Oh, yeah? Why not?"

"Because we have diplomatic immunity," Singh announced, looking down his nose at them.

"Oh, no!" the cop who'd been burned moaned. "I might have known it!"

"Just a minute." The second cop was more suspicious. "That car didn't have DPL plates on it."

"Of course not. It was not our car. I told you that we just took a lift from them." Singh's tone said he didn't think the cop was very bright.

"Well, if you're diplomats, you must have some identification," the cop persisted. "Let's see it."

"Persecution!" Singh sang out. "You are persecuting the U.N. ambassador from Nepal!" He pointed at me, his finger quivering with outrage. "My country will lodge a formal protest!"

"All I did was ask for identification," the cop muttered, obviously somewhat intimidated by Singh's outburst.

"I have none," I said frostily, following Singh's lead. "There are no pockets in my clothing. But if you persist in detaining us, I insist on my right to make a telephone call."

"Who do you want to call?"

"The White House." I stared him down.

"What about him?" the first cop piped up, pointing at Singh. "He's wearing civilized clothes. He's got pockets. Where's his identification?"

"You are a witness that this creature implied that our native garb is uncivilized," I told Singh. "You will so testify at the international diplomatic hearing we shall demand." I turned back to the cops. "He needs no identification since he is with me, under my protection, and shares my immunity," I told them. "Now, are you going to stop badgering us immediately, or shall I have the Asian-African bloc lodge a formal protest with the Security Council?"

"I think we can count on the Communist bloc to support our resolution of denunciation," Singh added fuel to the fire.

"We'd better let them go," the first cop said. "Remember what happened to that guy who stopped a DPL for speeding? He's pounding a beat in Staten Island now."

"Yeah. And how about the guy who tried to take that knife away from that drunken ambassador? He got bused down to patrolman and sent up to Riverdale."

"I congratulate you on your wisdom," Singh told them.

He turned on his heel and started to march off. I followed him. But he stopped after a few steps, turned around, and strode back to the cops.

"What do you want now?" the one whose eyebrows had been burned off whined. "We said you could go."

"My lighter, please," Singh said politely, holding out his hand.

The cop took a deep breath, and I feared for his blood pressure. His face was a study in frustrated rage. But he handed Singh the lighter.

"Thank you." Singh rejoined me and we swaggered off together. "Where to, Mr. Victor?" he asked after a moment.

"I don't know about you, but I could use a drink," I told him.

"An admirable suggestion."

We found a little bar just off Lexington in the Sixties. It was jammed with people, their shadows dancing over the walls in the sputtering candlelight. I paused in the entrance, remembering my pocketless state and the lack of money which went along with it.

Singh sensed my embarrassment without my having to say anything. "My treat, Mr. Victor." He took me by the elbow gently and guided me into the place.

"A ghost!" some girl screamed, startled by my billowing white sheet.

"And he brought his Swami with him," a male voice observed a bit drunkenly, spotting Singh's turban.

"Spirits for the spirit," a second man told the bartender. "Haunting's thirsty work."

"That it is," I agreed, squeezing up to the bar with Singh. "Scotch on the rocks," I ordered. "Make it a double."

"The same," Singh told him.

"You fellows coming from a costume party?" the man at my elbow asked seriously.

"A seance," I assured him just as gravely.

"I am a medium," Singh added, getting into the act. "And this is a spirit I have just summoned from beyond."

"Yeah. Sure." The man edged away nervously.

"Hey, you guys, what's the latest word on the blackout?" the fellow on the other side of Singh asked. "What's going on out there?"

"It's very dark," Singh told him.

"Youre telling me? Hey, you know where I was when this thing started?"

"No, but you're going to tell us, aren't you?"

"Sure. I was in the john at Penn Station along with about a hundred other guys. It was rush hour, you know, with a whole slew of guys lined up waiting for the guys at the urinals to finish. Well, when the lights went out, it really startled some guys. I mean, they just turned around without thinking. First thing you know, I'm caught in a regular crossfire. Well, you can imagine -"

"Yes," Singh sniffed. "But I don't have to imagine. There is a decided aroma bearing out your story."

"That's too bad," another man chimed in. "But it isn't as bad as what happened to me. I was in a poker game up in the office. There's a wowser of a pot and I'm sitting there with four aces when the lights go out. By the time we get the matches out, somebody's walked off with the kitty. How do you like that? Best hand I've had in ten years and I don't even collect on it!"

"You think that's tough," a girl piped up. "I live in an elevator building, you know? Also, I work nights -"

"Doing what?" a male voice asked insinuatingly.

"Never mind that," she continued. "So anyway, I always get up around four o'clock in the afternoon and have breakfast. Well, today I get up and I'm out of coffee. I don't bother to get dressed, just throw on a coat and go down to the grocery. Only while I'm there, the power goes out and I can't get back up in the elevator. And here I am trapped with nothing on but this fur coat and what I sleep in."

"What do you sleep in?" The male voice was getting more interested.

"My skin," she admitted demurely.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.

"Sure. Only don't come too close. You smell awful funny."

"That's Penn Station toilet water," he told her accurately. "It's the latest thing in men's colognes."

"Well, I don't think it's going to catch on," she said positively. "I'd hate to tell you what it smells like to me!"

"Those people are leaving that table." Singh grabbed my arm and pointed. "Let's get out of this crush."

"Okay."

We made our way to the table. We passed a line-up of people waiting to use the wall telephone. The guy holding the receiver to his ear at the moment seemed to be having a rough time. Even in the faint candlelight I could see that he was sweating.

"But I tell you, I'm trapped. It's a city-wide black out!" he was screaming into the mouthpiece over the din of the crowd. "No, of course I'm not with another woman!" he said indignantly, squeezing the breast of the girl hanging onto him. "No, I'm not in 'some bar' either! I'm in the waiting room at Grand Central!… For Pete's sake, it's a citywide emergency! How can you be so suspicious at a time like this?… Okay, so I work for Con Ed. So what?… So you wouldn't put it past me to what?… Now, Martha, that's ridiculous… I tell you, I had nothing to do with it!… All right, dammit, you're right! I would do anything to get away from you for a night!… Okay… Okay now, stop crying… But I swear to you, Martha, I did not pull any switches just so I could have a night out… Besides, how could I, Martha? I'm only a meter-reader, remember?… I know you don't trust me, but…"

We passed out of earshot. The two men were just getting up from the postage- stamp table as we reached it, and we grabbed it fast. It was almost pitch dark in this part of the lounge. And it was so crowded I was practically in the laps of the couple at the table directly behind me. Some are born eavesdroppers, some become eavesdroppers, and some have eavesdropping thrust upon them. Right then, I fell in the last category.

"God bless this blackout," the woman was saying. "Ten years of marriage, and you've never behaved as romantically with me as you're behaving tonight."

"Yes," the man replied. "And you've never aroused me so. I don't know what it is, but your body feels warmer and softer than it ever has before."

"Oh, darling, don't," she tittered encouragingly, belying her words.

"Nobody can see." His hand slid down from her breast and dropped under the table where it squeezed a leg.

Unfortunately, it was my leg. "Watch your aim, Mac," I protested.

"Oh, sorry. It's just that the Mrs. is almost never sexy like this. I guess I got carried away." He removed his hand. "She's like a firecracker," he confided. "My wife! I wouldn't have believed she still had it in her!"

"Oh, darling!" Another trill-like giggle followed by the sound of kissing.

I turned my attention to Singh. His features were hard to make out. I more or less guessed that he was smiling at the incident. But I was wrong. His tone was serious when he spoke. And his mind was on something else. "Mr. Victor," he said, "we must talk. It is urgent."

"Shoot," I told him.

"Mr. Victor, I know who you are, and -" His voice fell away because at that very moment the lights suddenly came back on.

I blinked in the unexpected glare and managed to focus my eyes. The first thing I saw was the bartender with his hand in the till. He was stuffing bills into his pocket. Now he turned brick red and hurriedly closed the cash register.

There was turmoil at the table behind me. "You're not my husband!" the woman was screaming as she pulled down her skirt.

"And you're not my wife!" the man shouted back as he hurriedly removed his hand from inside her blouse.

"I should have known!" the woman sighed, lowering her voice.

"It was too good to be true," the man agreed. "Still, why don't we -?"

"George!" The voice roared out from across the barroom. "There you are! And you told me you were just going to the bathroom!" The lady who'd shouted charged across the room.

"Hi, honey." A man popped up alongside the woman seated at the table behind me. "Having fun?"

"Yes. I've been having fun. Come on." She stood up. "Let's go home now."

"Okay. I'm dead tired myself. All I want to do is get to sleep."

"That," the woman sighed one last sigh, "figures!"

Behind her George was still trying to explain things to his irate wife. My attention was distracted from them by a sudden shout from a man standing against a side wall. He'd been standing there a long time, it seemed obvious, embracing a lady who'd seemed more than willing to be embraced. With the lights out, they'd been attempting the vertical fulfillment of a horizontal desire. They'd almost succeeded when the lights went back on. Nor did that stop them, since they both had their eyes squeezed shut. But now he'd just opened his eyes, and as he focused on the woman, his shock sounded out over the general furor. "My lord!" he screamed. "It's mother!"

"Well," she replied, "I brought you up to stay out of bars."

"If you want to talk," I told Singh during the wave of laughter which swept over the place after her remark, "we'd better get out of here."

"My hotel isn't far," Singh suggested.

"Okay. Let's go."

My sheet and smudged face drew some stares as we walked throught the lobby of Singh's hotel. But most people jus shrugged off the sight. It wasn't the night to question the most bizarre of sights. Anything could happen – and it had. So why puzzle over a man with a dirty face wearing a bedsheet?

"What did you mean back in the bar when you said you knew who I was?" I asked Singh cautiously when we were alone in his hotel suite.

"Just that. I know who you are and what your mission is. Also, I have a similar mission. I believe we may be able to help each other."

"You mean in furthering the work of S.M.U.T.?"

"Come, Mr. Victor, there is no further need of us playing cat-and-mouse with each other. We are on the same side. You have infiltrated S.M.U.T. in the interests of your government. And I have done the same in the interests of my religion."

"What makes you think I'm a spy?"

"I don't think it. I know it. I have received instructions to cooperate with you fully."

"Instructions from whom? The Indian government?"

"I am not an Indian, Mr. Victor. I am from Nepal."

I remembered then that he'd told the cops I was the ambassador from Nepal. But why had he pretended to be an Indian? And what was his purpose in passing himself off to S.M.U.T. as a fellow member from New Delhi? How much could I trust him? And just what was his angle?

When I put these questions to him, he seemed frank enough in answering them. And there was a certain logical pattern to the answers. Logical, even though his story was pretty outlandish in spots.

According to Singh, S.M.U.T. was engaged in a complex operation involving both Nepal and India. What this operation boiled down to was well-organized thievery on a large scale. The object of this thievery was the priceless erotic temple art of Nepal. Having explained this much, Singh digressed to fill me in on the history and value of this art.

First this involved explaining to me the development and ramifications of religion in Nepal. In ancient times the tribes of Nepal followed pagan gods similar to those worshipped by peoples the world over. These ancient Nepalese were of Mongol origins and were known as Bhotias. Their gods were based on primitive concepts of sun and moon, climate and weather conditions, beasts – both real and imaginary – and cloud structures. It was this last which deviated most greatly from the primitive god concepts held by other peoples.

This phase was followed by the Gutpa dynasty which ascribed divine powers to its founder, Ne-Muni, for whom Nepal is named, and to his descendants. After the collapse of the Gutpa dynasty, Buddhism took root in Nepal. However, rather than sweeping away the older god concepts, it merged with them. The result was that Buddhism in Nepal became a far different sort of religion than Buddhism in most other parts of the world.

Then, in 1768, the Brahmans and Rajputs were driven out of India by the Muslims. These two groups, known today as Gurkhas, pushed into Nepal and eventually conquered it. The Gurkhas were Hindus, and it wasn't long before their religion was assimilated into the Buddhist-dominated, but much combined, religion of Nepal.

It should be pointed out, Singh insisted, that the Buddhists, Hindus, and other religions neither strove to overcome one another nor held themselves aloof in an attempt to maintain their purity. On the contrary, they merged to form a combined religion to which all Nepalese subscribe today. Singh would have liked to go into the nature and beauty of that combined religion at length, but he restrained himself because it was not the religion itself, but the art which had grown out of it with which we were concerned.

From the early pagan days, Nepalese worship involved all sorts of idols. As the more sophisticated religions absorbed the older ones, the religious sculpture became more elaborate, and more precious materials were used. By the time the Gurkhas and their religion had become assimilated, religious art and architecture had become something of a national pastime and the creating of it was a highly developed national skill.

Today there are 2,733 shrines in the valley of Nepal. Each one of these contains artworks of inestimable value. These sculptures and temple decorations and rugs and tapestries have a worth apart from the gold and silver, rubies and pearls and diamonds, precious silks and fine-spun velvets of which they are made. They represent a craftsmanship which outshines that of the Florentines. And they accurately reflect the collection of beliefs which make up the religion of Nepal.

It is this accuracy which sometimes shocks the Western visitor. From the time of its ancient origins, eroticism had played a large part in Nepalese religion. Their concepts of ancient gods ascribed great phallic powers to them. The Gutpas were "elephant men" – which is to say that they were god-men with large trunks between their legs. Buddhism in Nepal – as in China, Japan and India – contributed an exaggerated concept of the size of genitalia, both male and female, to the temple art of Nepal. And to these erotic god powers and outsize organs the Hindus contributed the sophistication of the Kama Sutra, their religion's ritual of love. The result is a variety of eroticism in the religious art of Nepal which is unmatched anywhere else in the world.

From my researches with O.R.G.Y., I already knew some of what Singh was telling me. I knew, for instance, that in the Buddhist temple art of Japan and China, the size of the sex organs is enlarged out of all proportion to the figures shown. Biological studies among the peoples of these countries, on the other hand, point up the fact that the actual size of Chinese and Japanese sex organs – both male and female – tends to be noticeably smaller than the world average. Psychologists have hypothesized that the actual smallness may be the subconscious reason for the artistic enlargement and exaggeration.

However, the Nepalese, with their strong Mongol bloodline, are not only more impressively endowed phallically than the Chinese and Japanese, but are also much larger in that area, on the average, than the Caucasian peoples of Europe and America. Yet the erotic temple art of Nepal succumbed to the Buddhist influence and stresses unrealistic size just as if the Nepalese were suffering from the inferiority complex of the other "pure" Buddhists.

Liberal sociologists will throw up their hands in horror at the idea of caterogizing an ethnic group in terms of the size of its sex organs. They would prefer to think it a canard that the native African, for instance, has, on the average, a larger penis than the European. Admittedly, there has not been enough investigation in this area. But what investigation there has been points to the truth of a difference in sizes of sex organs among the various ethnic groups.

Nor is the point being belabored in an effort to provide aid and comfort to racists. There is nothing to indicate that any one group is any "sexier" or more "animalistic" than another. Degrees of sexuality seem much the same the world over. And, genetically speaking, miscegenation tends to combine the strong points of the various peoples, rather than their weaknesses.

So the real question to be faced by both liberals and racists is why the very idea of a difference in sizes should be threatening. After all, the difference is almost never so great as to interfere with the sex act, or to harm either of the participating parties. Size is just one more way in which peoples may be different. And true tolerance lies in accepting differences, not in trying to ignore them, nor in exploiting them by perverting them into signs of inferiority.

This is exactly what the Nepalese have done, and done successfully. The Gurkhas who came from India were rather small phallically. The Bhotias, the original Nepalese of Mongol origin, were much larger. But today, the intermingling of the two peoples has resulted in a national average far closer to the Mongols than to the Indian invaders. And the two peoples were so thoroughly mixed that it is impossible to find anyone of Nepal whose blood is "pure" Gurkha or "pure" Mongol. Indeed, all the soldiers of Nepal are called "Gurkhas" today, but most are quite satisfactorily Bhotian beneath their loincloths.

If I seem to be spending a lot of time on this size business, it's because it's important to what Singh was telling me and to the role he would play in my quest for Dr. Nyet. Specifically, he was laying the groundwork to tell me about a particular idol which for the past 150 years had graced an ancient and hallowed temple in the Valley of Kathmandu. This idol was considered by Nepalese artists to be the most inspiring example of a jeweled sculpture representing the combined concepts of Nepalese religion in the country.

The idol stood eight feet from base to crown. Six of the eight feet were taken up by a figure sitting cross-legged. The figure was male and naked, and to the Western eye it might have looked like another example of a seated Buddha. But it wasn't. It was a figure which combined pagan beliefs with the king-god concept and the symbolism of both Hinduism and Buddhism.

This statue was made of solid gold. It was encrusted with rubies, emeralds, pearls, and diamonds. The fine etching of the musculature and facial features had been done in silver. Teeth, fingernails, and toenails were represented in platinum. Among the precious stones set into the gold were some of the most perfect gems in the world. Apart from its artistic value, the value of the precious metals and jewels used in the creation of the statue ran into the millions of dollars.

As in most Nepalese erotic religious art, the sex organ of the figure had been sculpted to portray a state of excitation. And, of course, it was exaggerated; It extended some four feet straight out from the figure itself, angling upward from between the crossed legs. The scrotum sac was the size of a regulation football.

Singh showed me a picture of the idol. "That's what it used to look like," he told me. "That's what it should look like. But it doesn't look that way any more."

"Why not?"

"Because," he pointed, "this part of the statue has been broken off and stolen."

"You mean they took his -?"

"Precisely, Mr. Victor. It was a crime against the people of Nepal, all the people. And the God of Nepal is most unhappy with his genitals missing!"

"Well, who wouldn't be?" I mused.

"A man gets over it." He reminded me gently of his own unfortunate condition. "But not a god."

"Just how did you -?" I was prompted to ask. "I mean, what happened to you to -

?"

"You mean how did I become a eunuch, Mr. Victor? Oh, I don't mind talking about it. I didn't begin life this way, you know."

Singh went on to sketch in his background for me. Singh was born and raised in Kathmandu, the capital city of Nepal. His father was a nobleman and minister at the court of the Maharajadhiraj, the supreme ruler of Nepal. Thus Singh was a member from birth of one of the most upper of upper castes.

This meant that traditionally there were only two careers he might pursue when he reached manhood – which in Nepal is really midadolescence. He might join the priesthood or the army. Singh chose the latter course.

He became a Gurkha by choice and was automatically made an officer because he was high-born. The Gurkhas are the finest force of fighting men in the world – bar none, and let the U.S. Marines argue as they will. They have a standing army of 45,000 men and a reserve force of between 70,000 and 80,000. They are professionals – even the reserves – and they pride themselves on their professionalism.

Traditionally, Gurkha units have served the British Empire. During the British occupation of India, it was the Gurkhas who provided the main muscle. They fought alongside the Tommies in the trenches in World War One and played a large part in the African and Italian campaigns in World War Two. In both wars more Victoria Crosses and other medals of valor were won by Gurkhas than by any other group in the British army.

After the Second World War, the British landed Gurkhas in Greece to cope with the revolution there. This campaign provided Singh with his first and last foreign action. It was mostly an antiguerilla action, fought in the mountains, the kind of fighting for which Gurkhas are most admirably suited since they are natural and expert mountain fighters. It was the unorthodox sort of war in which the Gurkhas' skill with the kukri, the curved native knife which every Gurkha carries as standard equipment, played a paramount part. They became masters at staging fast, commando-style raids, slitting sentries' throats silently, spraying an encampment with a deadly crossfire, and vanishing back into the hills as suddenly as they'd come. It was on just such a raid that Singh's military career was brought to an abrupt end.

"It was ironic the way it happened," he said a bit ruefully. "It was all because I had acquired this taste for Greek olives."

Perhaps it was the three throats he silently slit in preparation for the raid which made Singh work up an appetite. In any case, the sight of Greek olives on the table in the mess tent during the massacre of the guerilla diners by the Gurkhas brought saliva to this mouth. So when his comrades made haste to disperse after the flash raid, Lieutenant Singh Huy-eva tarried to cross over to the table and fill his tunic pockets with the wrinkled fruit.

Now Gurkhas are usually very neat and thorough killers. But this time someone had slipped up. This time one of the Gurkhas had been sloppy. And one of the guerillas at the table was not quite dead.

Unfortunately, it was this one who lay slumping half under the large wooden table as Singh reached over him for the bowl of olives. The half-dead Greek reached up, eased Singh's kukri from his sash, and slashed out with the deadly accuracy of a veterinarian gelding a stallion. Singh immediately clubbed him to death with his riflebutt, but by then it was too late. The damage was done. Singh was a eunuch forevermore.

It's a tributed to the Gurkha spirit that he didn't even faint. He tied a tourniquet himself and managed to drag himself back to his unit. Here an army doctor had no choice but to complete the amputation the Greek had started. A few weeks later Singh was given an honorable discharge and shipped back to Kathmandu.

"It was a difficult time for me," Singh remembered. "Again I was faced with a choice of futures. Only this one was more drastic. I would look at the women of the court, know I could never possess one, and consider the advisability of slitting my throat. I almost did, but in the end I found solace and tranquility through meditating in the temple, and decided to go on living. I wanted my life to have purpose, and so it was that I decided upon the priesthood."

Once made, this choice had carried him far. He was both bright and dedicated, and shortly after his novitiate he was given the honor of being appointed to serve in the temple of the Raj Guru himself. The Raj Guru is the high priest of Nepal and as all-powerful in the religious sphere as the Maharajadhiraj is in the government. Over the years Singh had moved up in the hierarchy of the temple until, a few years back, he'd achieved the status of being the Raj Guru's right-hand man.

It was just about this time that the thefts of temple art had started. As they grew more frequent, the Raj Guru complained more and more to the Maharajadhiraj that the government had to do something about it. Finally, when this last theft of the priceless jeweled phallus with the intrinsic desecration by castration of the jeweled idol had occurred, the Raj Guru had decided to act himself. He had assigned Singh to investigate the thefts, and above all to retrieve the four-foot phallus and restore it to its proper place on the body of the grieving god.

So Singh had investigated, and the more he'd investigated, the deeper he'd been drawn into the orbit – or was it a web? – of S.M.U.T. From the very first, his sleuthing had uncovered a geographical pattern indicating that the thievery was the work of a band of raiders operating across the Nepal border from the Gangtok passage of India. This Gangtok passage is a narrow strip of land separating Nepal from East Pakistan. Acting on this deduction, Singh took two courses of action. He prevailed upon the Maharajadhiraj to beef up the border guard facing the Gangtok passage, which effectively slowed the raids to a halt. And he disguised himself as a hill bandit and infiltrated the Gangtok area.

In this disguise, he had many adventures before he managed to trace down the gang responsible for the thefts. But once he had, the information he acquired only complicated the problem of retrieving the jeweled phallus. After stealing the temple art from Nepal, the gang had not only crossed back into India, but had kept going across the narrow Gangtok passage until they'd crossed the border of East Pakistan. It was here that they had a contact with an international fence who took the loot off their hands for a fragment of its actual value.

The complexities of tracing the idol further once Singh had established these facts stemmed from the delicate international relations between Nepal, India, and East Pakistan. Nepal is traditionally a country of determined isolationists. The mountains ringing it provide a natural geographic barrier to keep foreigners out. The attitude of the government is to maintain and strengthen this barrier. Thus the only part of Nepal which foreigners are allowed to visit is the Valley of Kathmandu. Officially, no outlander has ever set foot in any other part of Nepal. And, it's only since 1927 that even Kathmandu has been open to foreigners. At that time a narrow- gauge railway was built from the Indian border town of Raxaul to Kathmandu. Today special permission from the Maharajadhiraj himself is still required for the non-Nepalese to travel this railroad. And it is still the only means of transport into the country.

One of the reasons for this is that the Indians and the Nepalese still regard each other as natural enemies. This stems from the active role of the Gurkhas in maintaining British rule in India until the recent present. Another is the fact that Nepal still maintains cordial relations with Tibet, which it also borders, and the Indians consider Tibet a satellite of Red China and are fearful of Nepal being used as an invasion route by the Red Chinese.

Nor has Nepal particularly cordial relations with East Pakistan. There too the role of the Gurkhas in fighting for the British is still remembered bitterly. But East Pakistan is today far more concerned with its running quarrel with India to vent more than a historical dislike on Nepal. And the bitterness of this quarrel is such that there is no reciprocal extradition agreement between the two countries.

Thus Singh was faced with a gang of thieves which had shrewdly crossed two borders – the Nepal-India border, and the India-East Pakistan border – and involved three countries in their activities, three countries whose police refused to cooperate with each other. Realizing this, Singh gave up on the idea of trying to catch and prosecute the thieves. Instead, he decided to concentrate on the job of getting the priceless phallus back.

To do this, Singh went to East Pakistan and himself picked up the trail of the fence who had received the stolen works of art. The Raj Guru provided Singh with some minor sculptures to peddle to the fence. Passing himself off as a Gangtok hill bandit, Singh did this and then arranged to have the fence followed day and night. He led Singh back to India, clear across the country to New Delhi. Here an organization relieved the fence of his stolen goods. That organization was S.M.U.T.

Another year's work was involved before Singh was able to piece together the fantastic details of the S.M.U.T. operation. What it came to was this: the New Delhi chapter of S.M.U.T. was on the surface an organization pursuing two legitimate aims. One of these was a strong propaganda campaign against the birth-control program then being put into effect by the Indian government. No country in the world was suffering from the population explosion so much as India, but that didn't stop S.M.U.T. from actively opposing it on the grounds that it was a diabolical plan for the U.N. to take over India for the purpose of turning it into a colony of the U.S. which was supplying the bulk of the funds for the birth-control program as part of its imperialist plot to dominate India.

S.M.U.T.'s second public function in New Delhi was similar to its activities in the U.S. and other parts of the world. It was engaged in a crusade against pornography and pushing a drive to have all such objects, books, etc., confiscated and taken out of circulation. In India, where religion itself is interwoven with sex, there was much for S.M.U.T. to crusade against.

But Singh learned that these surface activities were also a smokescreen to obscure another activity of S.M.U.T. It was this activity which enabled S.M.U.T. to acquire the large sums of money needed to finance its operations around the world. It was this activity which lay behind the thefts of the jeweled phallus.

S.M.U.T. was the receiver of many priceless relics from temples all over Asia. All of these objects had one things in common. They were all erotic in one way or another.

Having acquired them at a fraction of their real value from bands of thieves dealing with fences in many parts of Asia, S.M.U.T.'s real profit lay in disposing of them. This was done under the table in cities all over the world. But the really nefarious thing was that after it was done, S.M.U.T. would blow the whistle on the buyers for possessing pornographic items, have the local police confiscate them, and then have a front man step in claiming to be the real owner. Since the buyer had come into illegal possession, he would be hard put to prove his claim. Usually the police were anxious to dispose of the case, and "proof of ownership" took them off the hook and saved them the trouble of prosecuting. The S.M.U.T. front man would promise to take the offending object out of the country, and this was usually enough to smooth things out all around. And he would take it out of the country – to some other part of the world where the whole process would be repeated.

Singh learned that this was what had been done with the jeweled phallus. At the time that he learned it, the object had just been sold to a wealthy Texan, and the process of recovering it with the cooperation of an extremely crooked local sheriff had been about to begin. So Singh had wangled an assignment from S.M.U.T. to go to New York and dispose of some other items to undercover buyers. His thought had been that once in New York he might continue on to Texas and somehow recover the jeweled phallus.

But he was too late. The phallus had been reconfiscated and shipped out of the country by the time he arrived in New York. Learning this, he had no choice but to continue his role as a S.M.U.T. representative and try to find out where the object had been sent. In line with this, he had contacted the New York S.M.U.T. office and accepted the invitation to go along on the brothel raid. It was his thought that by ingratiating himself in this way, he would be able to milk some information regarding the fate of the four-foot phallus.

It was quite a story, and it fit in with what I knew about S.M.U.T. as far as it went. But it didn't tell me how such Singh knew about me and my assignment. More important, it didn't explain how he knew, and so left open the question of how far I could trust him. I decided to bring my doubts out in the open.

"You said before that you know who I am and what my mission is," I told him. "What did you mean by that?"

"When I discovered the scope of S.M.U.T.'s activities, I became concerned as to what their real objective was. So, back in New Delhi, I made contact with an agent from Nepal and he relayed my concern back to the Maharajadhiraj. He took it up with the British envoy who is permanently attached to the court. As you know, Mr. Victor, our relations with the British are extremely close and extremely friendly. They go back for more than a century and are of mutual benefit. We supply Gurkha troops to the British and today they guarantee our borders against Indian aggression. Well, it seems that the British were already concerned about S.M.U.T. themselves. The word brought back to me from the Maharajadhiraj was to make contact with their secret agents and co-operate with them in every way possible. When I arranged to come to New York, the British consulted with the Americans and decided to fill me in on your involvement on the chance that our paths might cross and I might be of some help to you."

"Just what did they tell you about me?" I asked cautiously.

"That you are the man from O.R.G.Y. acting in the interests of your government. And that your purpose in infiltrating S.M.U.T. is to locate a Russian woman known as Dr. Nyet who defected from the Soviet to S.M.U.T. They did not tell me, however, just why this woman is so important."

"Well, we all have to keep some little secrets," I pointed out to Singh.

"Then you won't tell me, either. Very well. Despite your suspicions, I have some information which may be useful to you. You have been much closer to the lady you seek than you would ever dream."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you have met her. Tonight. She was one of the three girls from S.M.U.T. whom you helped to escape from the brothel."

"I don't believe it! Why would they take the risk of sending her there?"

"To hide her. What better place? You see, they know you are a secret agent. They knew you were coming, and they suspected what you might be after."

"How could they know?"

"The Russians gave you away."

"The Russians? But that's crazy! I haven't had anything to do with the Russians."

"Not recently. That's true. But," Singh explained, "you have crossed swords with the N.K.V.D. in the past, haven't you?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Then I'm afraid you and your government have underrated them. They had you under surveillance all the time you were in London. And they followed you to New York."

"But why would the Russians tell S.M.U.T. about me?"

"They didn't. But the Russian agent tailing you was in turn under surveillance by S.M.U.T. They just put two and two together, that's all."

"But why were they keeping tabs on the Russian?"

"Because he too is looking for Dr. Nyet."

"But if that's true," I said, puzzled, "then why did Crampdick take me to the brothel, Wasn't that leading me right to Dr. Nyet if she was there?"

"Because Crampdick is only a dupe. He knows nothing about you. Indeed, he knows nothing about the real objectives of S.M.U.T. He is perfectly sincere in fighting vice, and so he is useful to them. But both he and O'Steele were only foils in S.M.U.T.'s real game. Crampdick's leading you to the brothel was strictly his own idea. Once he'd done it, though, it provided the opportunity to have you eliminated."

"You mean the two hoods? Are they working for S.M.U.T. too? I thought they were on the other side."

"I'm only guessing," Singh admitted, "but I wouldn't be surprised if that vice ring is only another branch of S.M.U.T. Most of the gangsters involved in it probably don't even know that themselves. Probably the killers were perfectly sincere in believing you had to be murdered because of S.M.U.T.'s interference with their operation. And yet S.M.U.T. itself may have pulled the strings."

"But then why kill the others? Crampdick, O'Steele, yourself, even the girls?"

"We were all expendable if the menace you constitute could have been removed."

"What about Dr. Nyet? You say she was one of the girls. She wasn't expendable."

"No. That's true. But then you don't know for sure that they would have killed any of the girls. Maybe their orders were to simply abduct them and not to harm them. That would be my guess, anyway," Singh said.

"Which one of the three girls was Dr. Nyet?"

"I was unable to find out," Singh admitted.

"And did you find out who's really the top man in S.M.U.T. in New York?"

"No. All I'm sure of is that it's nobody obvious. It's none of the people who run the operation. They're all dupes dedicated to anti-vice. But their orders come from someone higher. He's probably the only one who's in on S.M.U.T.'s real purpose."

I couldn't think of anything else to say to Singh. My head was spinning with everything he'd told me. I told him good night, and just before I left we arranged to meet at the S.M.U.T. offices the next afternoon. It seemed the only place to renew both our quests.

I slept right through until an hour before the time we'd set to meet. Then I had a quick shower, got dressed, gulped down some coffee, and grabbed a cab to the midtown S.M.U.T. offices. Singh was already there, and Crampdick saw us together immediately.

"Do you know that Jock O'Steele was murdered last night?" Crampdick said agitatedly as soon as we entered his office.

We told him we knew about it.

"Every one of us who was in that dreadful place is in danger of our lives!" Crampdick continued. "That vice ring will stop at nothing to revenge itself on us. New York isn't safe. For that reason S.M.U.T. has made arrangements for all of us to leave the city."

Singh and I raised our eyebrows at each other. "Where are we to go?" Singh asked.

"Different places. I am going to Toronto myself. You are to return to New Delhi. The three young ladies will be dispersed elsewhere. Mr. Victor is to accompany you."

"Suppose I don't want to go to New Delhi?" I asked mildly.

"But you must. It's for your own safety. And it's an order. If you wish to remain in S.M.U.T., you must learn not to question orders, Mr. Victor."

"New Delhi it is, then," I agreed because at the moment I didn't have any other idea of how to pursue my search for Dr. Nyet and there seemed no point to severing the tenuous connection I'd made with S.M.U.T.

They worked fast. All the arrangements were made for us, and that very evening Singh and I were at Kennedy Airport, all set to leave for New Delhi. But while we were waiting I saw something that made me abruptly decide to change my plans.

I spotted one of the S.M.U.T. girls I'd helped escape the brothel. It was the Slavic-looking brunette who'd gone through the window with Crampdick the night before. She was standing in a line-up of people waiting at one of the gates for their plane to begin loading.

I checked the flight schedules. The plane she was waiting for was bound for Johannesburg, South Africa. I had to work fast.

I told Singh I wouldn't be going to New Delhi with him after all and waved away his questions. Fortunately, thanks to Putnam's foresight, my passport was validated for any destination I chose. Now I chose Johannesburg, bought a ticket for the same plane as the brunette, and made haste to board it.

Once in my seat, for a moment I thought I might have goofed. She wasn't aboard. I peered out the window and finally I spotted her. She was talking to a man at the gate. Her figure blocked the man's face. Then, as she turned away, I saw him. It was Peter Highman!

A moment later she boarded the plane. Shortly after that, another man came racing up just as they were removing the stairway. They held it for him, and he boarded the aircraft, much out of breath. He seemed to be looking for someone as he came down the aisle. He made such a point of not staring that I guessed that I was the man he was seeking. But when he chose the seat behind the girl, it inspired me to twist my conclusion for my own ends.

The opportunity came about an hour after we were in the air. He got up and went to the men's room. I quickly moved to take the seat beside the girl.

"Do you recognize me?" I asked in a low tone.

"Why, yes," she said, sounding surprised. "I think I do. Aren't you the one who helped me last night? Mr. Crampdick's friend?"

"That's right. I'm Steve Victor. What's your name?"

"Ilona Tabori."

"Well, listen, Ilona. Listen carefully. We don't have much time to talk. That man in the seat behind you is following you. Don't ask me how I know. Just take my word for it."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"We're on the same side, aren't we? We both work for S.M.U.T. And we're in the same fix. We're both on the lam from New York because of what happened last night. Only I think that guy following you may be one of the bunch we're on the lam from."

"Is S.M.U.T. sending you to Salisbury, too?" she asked innocently.

Salisbury! So that was it. She wasn't going to Johannesburg to hide out there. She was going to change planes for Salisbury, the capital city of Rhodesia! "Yes," I lied. "They're sending me to Salisbury, too." Just then I spotted the door to the men's room opening. "He's coming back," I told Ilona. "I don't want him to see me with you. We'll have to talk later." I scurried back to my seat.

Once there, a swarm of questions buzzed through my mind. Who was the man following me? Which side did he represent? Why had S.M.U.T. sent Ilona to Rhodesia? How come she was talking to Peter Highman at the airport? What was Peter Highman's part in all this? Why had he murdered his wife and tried to murder me? Was it more than mere jealousy? And then there was the most important question of all:

Was Ilona Tabori really Dr. Nyet?