The Last Dragon

Destroyer 92: The Last Dragon

By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

Prologue

On the first pass, they missed it.

The earthquake had opened up great red-brown holes in the green African veldt, and the imaging analysts thought it was one of those. But a sharp-eyed photo enhancement analyst named Narvel Buckle saw the black blotches and bands dappling the elongated Halloween-pumpkin orange shape.

"I think it's alive," he muttered to himself. He told no one.

On the second pass, twelve hours later, it had moved three meters. Alive. Definitely.

His curiosity roused. Narvel made another search for it on the third pass. He told the satellite console operator that there were signs of volcanic activity. The government of Gondwanaland, he explained, would pay well for topographic photos of an emerging natural disaster like a volcano.

"They'll throw it into the package with our quake shots and they can double their foreign aid request," he said.

That was all he needed to say. The operator signaled the low-orbit Gaiasat camera to suppress all vegetation and bring up the warm end of the spectrum.

Luck was with Narvel on that third pass. The black-and-orange thing happened to be looking up as the satellite snapped a clear photograph that captured the upward-looking eyes. It was looking directly at the sun, which reflected as twin pinpoints of hot light.

"I know what that dadgum thing is!" he breathed, nearly dropping his jeweler's loupe.

And since he worked for a commercial satellite company which specialized in selling natural disaster damage assessment images to foreign countries-whose reputation could be ruined if they dared to put the photos on the international market-Narvel Buckle slipped the entire set into his briefcase, and set about peddling them out of his Chevy Chase apartment.

The National Enquirer laughed at him; they printed photos just like it every week. This week's issue was headlined BAT BOY FOUND LIVING IN CAVE! The managing editor's eight-year-old son had posed for it, and the computer graphics people had added the pointy ears and filed-to-chisels teeth.

Did Narvel have any shots of Liz or Madonna sunbathing in the nude? Preferably together? Maybe even kissing? No? Call when you do. Toodles.

The Smithsonian Institute in Washington kept shunting him back and forth between departments. The paleontology department couldn't have been less interested if he had been trying to sell them osteoporosis insurance.

"Our interests are restricted to old bones and fossils," a voice that sounded as if it had belonged to one of the latter said.

"But this is the real thing!" Narvel explained. "You can render it to the bone or something. Like they do with tired old horses to get glue."

"Try Natural History. I shall see if I can connect you."

The attempt was a magnificent one. Thirty-seven different people lifted department phones, ranging from anthropology to zoology, and tried to talk all at once.

Narvel Buckle finally hung up and asked the switchboard to connect him directly. After he explained what the satellite photos had disclosed, the chairman--or whatever he was-of the Smithsonian natural history department inhaled through his nose with a sound like a tiny elephant exhaling through his trunk.

"Impossible," he added.

"I got the photos," Narvel retorted. "And they're only two thousand dollars for the set of three."

"As I said, it is impossible. No such beast could be roaming the heart of Africa."

"Why the hell not?"

"For there to be one, there must be many."

"I don't follow."

"Follow this simple equation: One creature necessitates two parents. Two parents requires four grandparents. A quartet of grandparents implies a large sustaining population. No such population has ever been discovered on the African landmass."

"Hey, we're talking Africa here! It's not exactly Vegas."

"Africa has been satisfactorily explored. And certainly by now, an orbiting satellite would have snapped portraits of specimens such as you describe."

"That's what I got! High-resolution satellite images. In color. Nine by twelves. Glossies. "

"Impossible. Sorry. Try the paleontology department. Let me connect you."

"I don't want to be-"

Narvel Buckle hung up just as the bone-dry voice of the head paleontologist was saying "Yes?"

No other museum seemed interested. Narvel thought he had a sale to the Harvard Museum of Comparative Zoology, but when they wanted the president of the Gaia Satellite Reconnaissance Company to personally vouch for the authenticity of the photos in question, Narvel had to admit that he was selling his photos under the table. The curator hung up without another word.

Then someone at the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto told him to try the cryptozoologists.

"The what?"

"Try the International Colloquium of Cryptozoologists in Phoenix. This is exactly their sort of meat."

Narvel didn't know what a cryptozoologist was, but he called the number the Phoenix directory assistance gave him.

A woman answered. She had a pleasant voice that made him think of Michelle Pfeiffer, and as he told his story, he could hear her breathe into the receiver, at first in warm, measured intervals, and then with increasing excitement.

"We are very, very interested in your photographs," she told him.

"Five grand for the set of three," Narvel said instantly.

"Can you supply the longitude and latitude of the sighting?"

"That'll be $39.99 extra."

"Done."

"Deal."

"One question," Narvel asked.

"Yes."

"What the heck is a cryptozoologist?"

"Cryptozoology is the study of hidden animals," the blondish-sounding voice explained. "That's what crypto means: hidden. We are interested in creatures common zoologists dismiss as mythological, or which are mistakenly believed to be extinct."

"Oh. No wonder you want these photos."

Narvel faxed muddy photocopies of the photos that very day and patiently waited for a return call. It never came.

The check arrived the next day by UPS Express. Narvel waited until the check had cleared before fedexing the three high-resolution color photographs that the Smithsonian Institute had turned down, along with the exact longitude and latitude at which the satellite had snapped the shots. He never heard back from the International Colloquium of Cryptozoologists, and none of the photos ever appeared in print. But Narvel Buckle didn't care about that. He was thinking that he should have asked for ten grand. At least.

Chapter 1

Dr. Nancy Derringer was starting to have second thoughts.

The heart of equatorial Africa was no place for second thoughts, never mind fear. But Nancy, blond as corn silk, willowy as bamboo, and tough as Arizona sagebrush, was experiencing both.

Those who knew her well claimed she was as fearless as the crocodiles she had spent her short adult life studying.

As the chief paleontologist and herpetologist for the International Colloquium of Cryptozoologists, Nancy Derringer had trudged through Himalayan snows for Yeti, plumbed deep-water lakes all over the Americas and the British Isles for surviving plesiosaurs, and penetrated abyssal depths in quest of garagantuan cephalopods.

Africa was a different matter. It was a hothouse for tropical diseases like river blindness and monkey pox, the reputed incubator for AIDS. A Caucasian had to undergo two months of inoculations before embarking on an expedition into the continent's humid heart.

They injected her twice against cholera, twice against typhoid, subjected her to a precautionary rabies injection that they warned might do no good if she were bitten in the wild, gave her a tetanus booster shot, and then sugar lumps impregnated with polio vaccine to take orally.

Nancy had been so anxious to get going she asked to be injected and inoculated all in one day. The doctors vetoed that. No less than four weeks between the yellow fever and hepatitis vaccines. And she would have to go to London for her yellow fever inoculation. It was unavailable in the U.S.

It had been painful and annoying, and she had taken it all without complaint, sustained by sheer adrenalin.

The flight from London had gone well. And the stopover in Port Chuma, capital of Gondwanaland, former European colony of Bamba del Oro, and now sovereign nation on the brink of social and economic catastrophe, was interminable.

Now, trudging through the Gondwanaland bush, popping her daily antimalaria tablets dry, Nancy was nervous.

She would have preferred a more politically palatable sponsor than the Burger Triumph hamburger chain. But the nature of the expedition was not exactly National Geographic cover material.

The major colleges had been too broke. She had been laughed out of corporate boardrooms from Manhattan to L.A. Even PBS had said no.

Until that day she met with Skip King, vice president in charge of marketing for the Burger Triumph Corporation, in his thirty-fourth floor office in their world headquarters in Dover, Delaware.

She had felt foolish even requesting the meeting. But a colleague had suggested it, and then faxed her one side of a Burger Triumph food bag that looked as if it had been designed by a precocious child. It showed the planet earth and boasted of Burger Triumph's new biodegradable packaging that conserved seven million tons of waste annually, not to mention the gasoline conserved and pollution cut by dispensing with the old cardboard containers.

"Planet-pleasing packaging" it was called.

A note scribbled on the fax said, "They're rich, they're environmentally conscious. Why not try?"

"They're trying to rehabilitate their reputation," Nancy snorted. But she made the call and got an appointment for the very next day.

There, she had made a short self-conscious presentation and laid the unmarked manila envelope on King's desk. Wordlessly, he had taken it up, unwound the flap-securing string, and shook out the three eight-by-ten glossies that had been taken from an earth observation satellite from a distance of over one hundred miles above Africa.

King had stared at them for five silent minutes, going through them briskly at first and then slowly the second time. At the end, he set the three photos side by side on his desk and stared at them a long while.

His face was too sharp to be called handsome. It had a foxy cast to it. Or maybe it was more wolfish, Nancy had thought. The nose, the thin-lipped mouth, even the high-tolerance cut of his jet black hair was too severe.

He looked up, and his eyes, black as volcanic glass, regarded her without any emotion she could read.

"You say they're alive?" he asked tonelessly.

"There is just one, as far as we know."

"How big?"

"Judging from the photos, forty feet from nose to tail."

King looked down and frowned. "Most of it is neck and tail," he muttered in a vaguely disappointed tone. "How big would you say the body is?"

"Oh, less than half of that."

"Fifteen feet, then?"

"At a rough estimate."

"Tall?"

"With the neck lifted, we estimate-"

He shook his head impatiently. "No-how tall from underbelly to the top of the spine?"

Nancy had frowned. "Possibly eight feet."

Skip King took up a pencil and began making calculations on a notepad. He crossed out columns of numbers instead of erasing them, and when he got an end figure, he looked up and said, very seriously, "Probably weighs eight tons, not counting head, neck, and tail. Ten tons in all."

"That sounds about right," Nancy had admitted, thinking, This man is asking all the wrong questions.

But King seemed so completely professional. Button-down, no-nonsense, and thoroughly unruffled by the prospect of making zoological history.

"And you want Burger Triumph to fund your safari?" he had asked.

"Expedition. And we think it could be accomplished for less than two million dollars," Nancy told him.

"That include shipping costs?"

"Shipping?"

"Bringing the beast back alive."

"Back! How would we get it back? I mean, could we get it back. The government of-"

"Gondwanaland? Don't make me laugh. It's run by a tub of butter who's backpedaling away from Karl Marx so fast he's trampling his immediate ancestors. BT is a multinational company. We could buy Gondwanaland, if we wanted. Cheap. But it'll be a lot easier to grease a few official palms." He paused for breath, then said, "Miss Derringer, I believe I can get you an approval on this."

The suddenness of the statement had taken her breath away. Nancy had expected polite interest, and weeks-if not months-of corporate buck-passing until an answer was handed down.

"Are-are you sure? I mean, arrangements will have to be made about creating a suitable environment for the animal. And there is the question of a receptive zoo-"

Skip King raised a quieting hand. "Please calm down," he said. "All these things will be taken care of."

And they were. Within forty-eight hours, Skip King had called. His voice was smooth as champagne.

"It's set," he said, as if he were talking about a day trip to the Smokies.

"It is?"

"The CEO had sanctioned all the funding we need. A suitable transportation vessel is being chartered, and by the time we return with it, a climate-suitable habitation will be waiting."

"Where?"

"Somewhere near Burger Triumph World Headquarters. Maybe in it. We have a rather large basement."

"What!"

"We have a very large basement. It will be converted into a suitable temporary habitat."

"As long as it's temporary," Nancy had told him.

"We estimate we'll be able to leave in three to four weeks."

"Impossible."

"Not for us."

"Us?"

"I intend to lead this safari, Miss Derringer."

The statement floored her. But it had been delivered with such calm self-assurance that Nancy had been taken utterly off guard.

"Do-do you have any experience in this sort of project?" Nancy had stammered.

"Miss Derringer, special projects are my life."

"That's not what I mean. I meant field experience."

"Miss Derringer, I happen to be a graduate of the Wharton School of Business. I'm sure you've heard of it."

"Somewhere. And if you don't mind, it's Dr. Derringer."

King had sniffed thinly-the first hint of his true character, Nancy realized now. "And where did you go to school?"

"Oh, let's see. B.A. from Columbia-"

"A nice school, I hear. But no Wharton."

"-received my master's from Texas Technological University, and studied herpetology at the University of Colorado."

"You studied herpes?"

"Herpetology," Nancy said patiently, "is the study of reptiles. I've done extensive field work all over the globe for the Colloquium, and additionally I'm a member of the Crocodile Specialist Group of the International Union for the Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources."

"Oh," said Skip King in a tiny voice. "Well, I graduated magna cum laude."

Nancy suppressed a sigh. Two could play at this infantile game, she thought. "Summa cum laude."

"Second place is nice, too," King said smugly.

"Summa cum laude means highest honors, Mr. King. Magna cum laude happens to be second place. And unless you want to contract a wide variety of pernicious tropical diseases," Nancy added firmly, "we're not going until we've been thoroughly inoculated."

There was a protracted pause on the line. When his voice returned, it was almost a croak.

"Does that mean needles?"

"Yes. Long, sharp ones."

"I hate needles." And his voice was so dead that for a moment Nancy was afraid he would call the whole thing off.

He hadn't. But now, weeks later, Nancy was beginning to wish he had.

It had started when he had shown up at the departure point wearing a "Safari Til You Puke" T-shirt.

Nancy was able to overlook that. But when they reached Port Chuma, he had insisted the native bearers wear Burger Triumph T-shirts and pith helmets-and address him as B'wana King.

Ralph Thorpe, the British guide, had coaxed the Bantus into humoring King. Behind his back, they grinned and laughed. It was a big joke.

To Nancy, Thorpe had confided, "I've seen this happen before. Our Mr. King has gone 'bushy.' "

"Bushy?"

"Intoxicated by the African bush."

"But we aren't there yet."

"Let's hope it wears off by the time we do," said Thorpe.

It hadn't. It had only gotten worse. And they nearly lost their bearers when, on the first day out, they had broken out the provisions and King had insisted upon keeping the best food for the white expedition members and feeding the natives reheated Bongo Burgers, cheesefries, and flat soft drinks.

"Why are they spitting out their food?" King had complained. "Each Silly Meal is five bucks American. That's more than these guys make in a week."

"They are used to real food," Thorpe had warned. "And if they do not receive it, we shall all be fending for ourselves."

King had relented. And complained and complained.

That was when Nancy started to wonder if King was not "bushy" after all-just a few fries short of a Silly Meal.

Now they were walking single file through the bush. Ahead loomed the denseness of the rain forest, packed like green, leafy lettuce and cabled by hairfine lianas and thick creepers. They were coming to the impenetrable Kanda Tract, where even the Bantus seldom ventured.

Nancy was walking in the rear, with the native porters. She had wanted to take a lead position, but Skip King had vetoed that, saying, "Your place is at the back of the pack."

She had let it go. There was some logic to it. If anything happened to her, there was no expedition. Simple as that.

Then he had made a remark that made Nancy want to strangle him. He had been thumbing through guide books, and calling out facts he found interesting. "Hey, Nancy! Do you know that among the Tswana tribe, they have only one noun for women?"

"That is not unusual among tribal cultures."

"Their word is monad-and it means 'the one who remains behind and at home when men go to work.' You'd better hope we don't run into any Tswana, or you'll be in big trouble."

"I can handle myself, thank you," Nancy said tightly.

"Don't let it get to you. Remember, B'wana King is here to protect you."

"But who is going to protect B'wana King?" Nancy said through her clenched teeth.

Up ahead, King, flanked by the British guide, called, "Collluuumn, halt!"

The column halted. A misty haze was rising over the Kanda Tract. Sunbirds flashed through the air.

"Break out the videocams!" King called.

Nancy groaned to herself. "Oh, no. Not again."

The lead bearers unpacked the triple-wrapped videocams. Someone from the PR team lifted a light meter to the sky. Someone else took a makeup puff to Skip King's thrust-forward face.

Then King opened his eyes and said, "Where's the little lady herpes specialist?"

"Here," Nancy said in a voice that seemed to cool the surrounding by twelve degrees.

King waved her on. "C'mon up here. Let's get you into this shot."

"Coming," Nancy grumbled. She worked her way forward.

Skip King smiled broadly at the sight of her.

"Why don't you get in this shot?" he said. "I can't hog all the face time on this safari, now can I?"

"Very kind of you."

"Besides," he added as she took her place and submitted to a brief dusting of makeup powder, "we could use a little sex appeal, Nancy."

"Why don't you just call me Dr. Derringer, Mr. King?"

"Why don't you call me Skip? After all, how will it sound on TV? The expedition leader and his gal Friday not being chummy?"

"It will sound professional, Mr. King."

"Does that mean I can't chide you into unbuttoning your blouse a button or two?" King wheedled.

"Shall we just get this over with?"

"Okay, I'll wing it as usual."

Skip King cleared his throat and put the dead weight of one arm around Nancy's shoulders.

"We are standing at the edge of the fabled Kanda Tract," he began, "home of a creature not seen on this earth in a trillion years."

Nancy winced. The man had no conception of geologic time.

"Although incredible dangers await us, we have no fear. For we are corporate Americans, smart, savvy, and determined to fulfill our mission: to bring 'em back alive!"

He grinned into the camera lens like a Cadillac with an ivory grille and held the smile for twelve full seconds.

"Okay, cut! How was that?"

The PR man shot him an A-OK sign. "Super!"

"One-take King, that's me." He smiled down at Nancy and asked, "So-how was I?"

Nancy threw his arm off and stormed away.

"Must be that time of month," King muttered. And as the cameras were repacked, he turned to the expedition medic and said, "Okay. Prep me for the great adventure."

He unrolled the sleeves of his safari jacket as a native porter took off his leopard-striped bush hat. Someone wiped the makeup off his intent face.

They sprayed him down with insect repellent. The medic began affixing flesh-colored patches to his arms, neck, and cheeks.

"Antinausea wristbands," the medic announced.

"Check," said King, as they were adjusted.

"Antimalaria patch."

"Check."

"Nicotine patch."

"Roger."

"Vitamin A patch."

"Check."

"Vitamin C patch."

"Rickets and Scurvy are covered."

"Vitamin E patch."

"Just in case I get lucky." And King leered directly at Nancy. She turned her back.

The medic stepped back. "You're all set."

"Not yet. Where's the antileech shield?"

"There hasn't been a leech sighted since we got here," Nancy exploded.

"Take no chances, that's my motto."

Somebody handed him a furled black cloth rod.

And announcing to all within hearing, "Here's where we separate the men from the wusses," Skip King opened his black umbrella and walked into the Kanda Tract boldly and without fear.

"I don't believe this," Nancy muttered, falling in behind him.

The rain forest was like another world. The sky was a thing glimpsed from time to time through the cathedrallike canopy of overhanging branches and leaves. Sunlight, filtering through the green plant life, was a watery green hue. It was almost like walking through an underwater world of heavy, breathable air in which insects tweedled and cheeped and monkeys watched from branches with orbs wiser than human eyes.

Ralph Thorpe dropped back to walk beside her. He toted a big-game rifle on his muscular shoulder. His pith helmet was decorated front and sides with the big golden Burger Triumph corporate crown logo. He had scraped off the legend "Sponsored by Burger Triumph" and had made inroads on the crown itself.

"His back makes a tempting target, what?" Thorpe undertoned.

"Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind," Nancy said aridly.

"If we get what we're after, it'll all be worth it. Don't you forget that."

"Keep telling me that. I need it."

Three hours later, they broke into a clearing and Skip King immediately fell down.

"Quicksand!" he screamed.

They rushed to his aid.

"It's just a hole!" the PR chief said reassuringly.

"No, it's not," Nancy said in a squeezed-dry voice.

"Of course it's a hole," King was saying as they helped him to his feet. His sharp face hung slack and his dark eyes seemed on the verge of tears. He had smashed his antileech umbrella against a tulip tree. It was ruined.

"Everybody get away from the hole," Nancy said. The excitement in her voice made them all look at her.

"Get away from it!" she repeated. They jumped. Her voice was that loud.

Nancy paced around the deep depression in the earth, her features holding on to composure with twitching tentativeness.

"It's a hind foot," she decided aloud.

Skip King canted his head from side to side as if trying to get a crick out of his neck.

"It is?"

"The track of one."

King came closer. "Are you sure?"

"Rear tracks have five digits with claws on three. That's according to the fossil record. These are exactly the same."

She expected him to shout something macho. Instead, he gulped, "It's bigger than I thought."

She looked up. "Afraid?"

King squared his padded shoulders. "Honey, I'm fueled by testosterone. Fear isn't in me."

"Then you won't cry over your broken umbrella, will you?" And she pushed ahead.

Skip King went pale and started after her calling, "Hey! What are you doing taking the point? That's a man's job!"

The earthquake had felled trees all over the Kanda Tract.

Mighty kapok trees had toppled, so thick around that they flattened smaller saplings to juicy splinters. Here and there, thin-boled bamboo had splintered at their bases, their fall interrupted by the creeper-festooned forest canopy.

There were splits and fissures in the earth, great red-brown wounds that had already-two months after the quakebecome green again with new plant life.

In some places the ground was as soft as peat moss poured from a plastic sack. The smell was about the same-heady, almost sweet.

The trail had petered out to a narrow path the rain forest was swiftly reclaiming. The hot air grew heavy in their lungs. The rain forest seemed to press in on them like a green, leafy stomach.

The first unusual event was the dragonflies.

Flying in arrow formation, they zipped across a break in the trees, their doubled wings flashing like iridescent vanes.

"Those can't be dragonflies," Skip muttered, freezing in his tracks.

Nancy had her Leica up and clicking.

"Fabulous."

King looked at her. "Dragonflies? Fabulous?"

"Modern dragonflies are not known to grow that big."

"Do African dragonflies behave like American dragonflies?"

"How do you mean?"

"Do they-do they sew up people's mouths?" King gulped.

"You must be joking!"

"This is my first time in Africa. You can't expect me to know every little thing."

"American dragonflies don't sew mouths. That's an old wives' tale."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Can't be too careful." He called over his shoulder. "Who's got the Black Flag?"

"Don't you dare!"

"What's the problem? We're not here for dragonflies."

"If we can catch one, it will be just as important as capturing the beast."

"Not to Burger Triumph, Incorporated."

"Need I remind you that I'm the scientific leader on this mission?"

"Yeah, but I'm the bankroll. What I say goes. We push on."

King shoved past Nancy Derringer and took the lead. He walked with one hand rubbing his jaw absently, but Nancy knew that was a precaution. If the dragonflies got close, he was going to cover his big mouth. Nancy prayed for dragonflies in the thousands.

But the dragonflies flashed away in three different directions, like prehistoric helicopters.

The giant frogs were the next surprise.

They had been squatting, sides throbbing, in the rank grass of a small pond of standing water.

As one approached, it hopped once, landing in the middle of the road. It rotated nervously until it faced them with its unblinking bulgy eyes. Its throat pulsed like a great green heart torn out of a monster's chest.

"What the fuck is that!" King said hoarsely.

Ralph Thorpe came up, rifle in hand.

"Hah! It's an effing Goliath bullfrog!"

"It looks like the effing mother of all toads," King groaned.

"Aw, don't get your knickers tangled up, Mr. King. It's only a bleedin' frog."

"I don't like the way it's staring at me. Shoot it."

"No need to go to all that bother." Thorpe hefted a smooth flat stone in the frog's direction and it bounded away with a spastic kicking of its hind legs.

"See? There. Nothing to it, what?"

"I hope you'll be able to hold yourself together when we locate our quarry," Nancy said pointedly.

King said through his uplifted hand. "Hey, I had a bad experience with frogs when I was little."

"Oh? Did one eat your fly collection?"

King frowned. "The girls on my staff don't talk to me like that."

"Hire women next time."

King's frown deepened. They trudged on. Further along, he snapped his fingers and said, "PMS! Am I right?"

And it was all Nancy Derringer could do to keep from wheeling and slapping him silly.

The hurrunk cannonading through the green trees dispelled her anger like a breaking fever.

"What was that?" King muttered.

Nancy closed her eyes and seemed to be beseeching lurking jungle gods. "Oh, God! Could it be? Oh, please let it be what I think it is."

King's dark eyes went wide. "You think that's the sound it would make?"

"No one knows. There is no fossil record of natural sounds."

"Thorpe! Fetch that native guide."

The Bantu guide came padding up. He was tall and lean with a narrow wise face that looked ageless. Except for his Burger Triumph T-shirt, he might have been the genus loci of the rain forest.

"Ask Slim if that's the sound N'yamala makes," King demanded. Thorpe addressed the native in his own tongue. The man gesticulated and ended up pointing at King, while spitting out a sparse sentence.

"What'd he say?" King asked excitedly.

"He asked that you not call him Slim," Thorpe translated.

"Why not? It's only a nickname."

"Slim is what the city blacks call in English, AIDS. Tyrone doesn't savvy American-style English very well, but he recognizes the word. He doesn't like it."

"Is everybody having a bad day?" King muttered darkly. "Okay, tell him I'm sorry. Then get me my answer. "

Thorpe and the native fell into a low exchange. At the end, the British guide said, "He says the sound we heard is the cry of N'yamala."

King cupped hands to his mouth. "Okay, look sharp everybody. This is it. We're going to make history. Somebody hand me a trank gun."

"I don't think that's wise, Mr. King," Thorpe warned. "These rifles are not toys."

King pulled the rifle out of Thorpe's hand and said, "You're in charge of policing this ragtag group of natives. I suggest you set the proper example for instant obedience."

And King turned on his heel, rifle at the ready.

Watching him tramp forward, Nancy told Thorpe, "Everything he knows about Africa, he learned from watching Jungle Jim reruns."

Thorpe scowled. "A wanker what would call a fine rifle a gun should be shot with an elephant gun."

The column resumed its march.

The undergrowth became thicker. There was no trail and no way to hack one out. They had to squeeze between boles and hand packs across the narrow passages by hand.

The smell of standing water came into the air and it was rank as dishwater in a heat wave.

"Watch him fall into the bleedin' water," Thorpe muttered for Nancy's benefit.

Then the cry went up. This time it seemed to shake the impossibly green leaves, and frightened monkeys flashed from treetops.

HARRUNK!

Skip King's voice volleyed back, high and excited.

"It's just ahead!"

And he went plunging into the brush. They lost sight of him before anyone could react.

"That idiot!" Nancy hissed.

The boom of the rifle echoed back like a cannon blast.

"Oh no!"

King's voice seemed to be all round them in its exultant joy. "I nailed it! I nailed it!"

"That colossal idiot!"

They almost collided with him. King was threshing back the way he had gone. His foxy eyes were bright and wide.

"I bagged it! I bagged it!"

"Not bloody likely," Thorpe spat.

"Did it go down?" Nancy demanded.

"I didn't wait to see," King said excitedly. "Isn't this great? I'm the first man ever to bring down a dinosaur."

They pushed past him.

The ground became mushy. The bush grew thicker, more impenetrable, and rank as swamp grass.

Ralph Thorpe went right up to the edge of the great lake. There was no bank or shore. The trees just stopped and there was water and open sky.

And in the center of the pool, a vast shape loomed.

It was orange and black and glossy as a wet seal. But no seal ever grew so big. The neck was banded in black, and along the ridged back it was dappled in orange blotches as large as fry pans.

And as they stood looking at it, it swung its undersized serpent's head around like a crane and looked at them with goatlike eyes that were as big as their own heads.

The eyes were dull and incurious. the mouth was moving. Some leafy greenage was in its jaws and the jaws were working, lizard fashion, up and down.

The leafage quickly disappeared down its gullet and the black-and-orange bands of the neck began pulsing in time with the long bands of throat muscles.

King was shouting, "I hit it! I hit it dead center! Why is it still on its feet?"

"It doesn't even know it's hit," muttered Thorpe, the British nonchalance in his voice evaporating like the morning rain.

"Bring the cameras," Nancy whispered. "Hurry!"

Skip King stumbled back, his face flushed. He paled when he saw the great beast looking back at him, unfazed.

"What's with that thing?" he complained. "Doesn't it know enough to lie down when its been tranked."

"Evidently not," Thorpe said dryly.

"Well, I'll fix that!"

And before anyone could do anything to stop him, Skip King brought the rifle up to the leather-padded shoulder of his safari jacket and began pumping out rounds, deafening everyone around him.

"You unmitigated cretin!" Nancy screamed.

"It isn't going down!" King shouted. "More guns! We need more firepower!"

The beast in the jungle pool began to advance. The ground shook. Water sloshed on their boots.

And the Bantus began lining the pool.

Thorpe took command. "All right, lads. Make the best of a bad situation, now. Let's bag the brute!"

Rifle stocks dug into sweaty shoulders. Fingers crooked around triggers.

And the rifles began to spit thunder.

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and he was explaining to the assorted rapists, cannibals, and serial killers on Utah State Prison's death row that he was from the American Civil Liberties Union.

"I already got me a lawyer," snorted Orvis Boggs, who had been scheduled to die of lethal injection on October 28, 1979 for eating a three-year-old girl raw because his refrigerator had broken down in a heat wave, spoiling three porterhouse steaks he had shoplifted from the local supermarket.

"I'm not a lawyer," Remo told him.

"You an advocate, then?" called DeWayne Tubble from the adjoining cell.

"You might call me that," Remo agreed. Agreeing would be faster. He would tell the quartet of human refuse anything they wanted to hear.

"Yeah? Well, advocate us out of this hellhole. My TV's been busted for a damn week. This is cruel."

"Reason I'm here," Remo said.

"Huh?" The huh was an explosive grunt. It exploded out of the mouth of Sonny Smoot, along with a yellowish red spittle, because when he felt uneasy Sonny liked to gnaw on the toilet bowl despite the fact that his tooth enamel always came out second best. Sonny had been educated in assorted juvenile detention centers, and somehow proper dental hygiene had not been inculcated in him.

"I'm with the ACLU's new Dynamic Extraction Unit," explained Remo with a straight face.

"You a dentist?" asked Sonny.

"No, I'm not a dentist."

"What's that in real talk? Dyna-"

"It means that in our infinite wisdom, we've decided that your complaints are not without merit," Remo said, choosing his words with Raymond Burr in mind.

"Not without merit. That means what?"

"That means, yes, the 247 appeals we've filed on your behalf claiming that 15 years on death row constitutes cruel and unusual punishment have been deemed sound, and we have decided to take emergency measures to remedy your plight."

"Plight? We got plights?"

"Situation. Or whatever Perry Mason would say."

"Our situation is that we're stuck in stir," Orvis grunted. "Hah!"

"And I'm the remedy," said Remo.

"What's that?"

"The CURE," said Remo.

"They letting us go?" wondered DeWayne.

"No, I'm pulling you out of here."

"ACLU can do that?"

"If the four of you will kindly keep your voices down long enough for me to get your cell doors open," Remo said.

Immediately everyone shut up. Except Sonny, who grunted like a pig and asked, "You got the key?"

Remo held up his index finger. "Right here."

"That's a finger. And this here's an electronic lock. You gotta have one of them magnetic credit card things."

"Pass cards," Remo corrected. "And I don't need one because I got a specially trained finger."

And Remo began tapping the lock housing. At first tentatively, then with increasing rhythm.

There was a red light on the lock. It winked out, and immediately below it a green light came on. Remo knew he had exactly five seconds to open the door, before the electronic mechanism automatically shut down.

Remo yanked open the door and said, "Hurry it up!"

Sonny Smoot came out in a cloud of body odor.

Remo went to the next door. Boggs's. Smoot crowded close, his eyes intent upon Remo's finger.

"You're in my light," Remo told him, breathing through his mouth so Smoot's microscopic scent particles would not enter his sensitive nostrils, to lodge there for the next seventy-two hours like petrified snot.

"Ain't no light. It's lights out."

"Don't argue with a trained professional," Remo said.

Sonny Smoot obligingly went around to Remo's opposite side and hovered there like an upright turd.

Remo worked the lock. He had the rhythm now, so the red light was replaced by green in jig time.

Orvis Boggs came out.

"I can't believe it! Free!"

"Not until we get past the guards," said Remo, attacking DeWayne Tubble's cell door now. It came open and Tubble came out.

Last to exit was Roy Short-sleeve, the last person on death row. He had been a participant in the lawsuit against the state of Utah, citing their lengthy sojourn on death row as cruel and unusual punishment, and contrary to the eighth amendment of the Constitution.

He had one question. "Is this legal?"

"Only if we don't get caught," Remo told him.

"Then I'm staying."

"You are?"

"Breaking jail won't clear my name. I'm innocent."

"Me, too!" said Sonny Smoot.

"Innocent, that's me."

"Likewise."

"But I'm really, really innocent," Roy Shortsleeve said quietly.

Remo looked into the man's soft eyes. They were dark and wide-pupiled as a cat's, and his long, haggard face was sincere.

"Okay," Remo said. "You get to stay. But only because you're innocent."

"Wait a minute," said Sonny Smoot. "ACLU will bust us out of stir, but not an innocent guy?"

"That's the ACLU way," Remo said. "Innocent guys aren't that much of a challenge. Besides, I thought you were innocent, too."

"We are," said Orvis Boggs. "We just ain't innocent the way Roy's innocent."

"Yeah," DeWayne added. "We were born innocent and got a little lost, is all. Roy stayed innocent clear through to today." He grinned in the gloom. "That's why he's gonna eat needle, and we're gonna sleep with whores tonight."

"Only if you follow me, and do exactly what I say," Remo said flatly.

"Can that finger get us past the guards?" Orvis asked.

"It got me in, didn't it?" Remo countered.

"Oh."

As Remo led them away, Sonny had a question.

"Where can I get a finger like that?"

"This is an ACLU-issue finger. You can't just go into a Walmart and buy it."

"Can a guy boost it, then?" No.

In the darkness, the faces of Orvis, DeWayne, and Sonny grew long with disappointment.

"Well, maybe I won't ever be back this way again," Orvis allowed.

"Guarantee it," said Remo, pausing at an area-control door.

There was a guard seated beside it. On the floor. His head was lolling to one side and he looked peaceful and contented sitting there on the shiny floor.

Sonny grunted. "Hey, I know that screw. He done me a bad turn once. Think I'll cut his face."

"You cut his face," Remo warned, "and my finger will turn off the red light in your eyes."

"Can your finger do that?"

"My finger can do whatever I want it to," Remo told the man.

The three dead men exchanged looks in the dark as Remo went to work on the lock.

As he tapped in the darkness, Orvis whispered to DeWayne. "Maybe we should just jug this guy and bite his finger off."

"What if it won't work after it's off?" asked DeWayne.

Orvis grinned broadly. "Then I'll swallow it down. That way it won't go to waste."

"You'd eat a man's finger?"

"Sure."

"Thought you only ate little girls."

Sonny backed away. "Yeah. You queer, or something?"

"No, I ain't no queer. You know that."

"I can hear every word you say," Remo called back.

"Your ears magic, too?" Orvis demanded.

"I can hear you fart before you do."

This impressed the trio. "Forget what we said about that finger, man," DeWayne said quickly. "That your finger. You just let it do its stuff and don't worry about us none."

"Much obliged," said Remo, and the green pinpoint light came on. They passed through.

Remo took point. In the gloom, he did something that would have astonished and frightened the three trailing convicts. He closed his eyes.

Remo could see fairly well in the darkness. But for what he had to do, his eyes would be less useful than the magnets in his brain.

For over twenty years now, Remo had been aware of the magnets. He never thought of them as magnets, but as pointers. Since learning to breathe properly through his entire body and not just his lungs, he had been able to find his way in complete darkness by paying attention to the pointers in his head.

Remo wanted to go north. By closing his eyes, he knew exactly where north was. He was walking north.

It wasn't until recently, after he had read a magazine article claiming scientists had discovered that the human brain was riddled with tiny crystalline biological magnets, that Remo realized the pointers were magnets. If he had thought about it at all, he would have realized they had to be magnets.

According to the scientists, the magnets were present in the brains of many mammalian species, including man. They explained salmon returning to their spawning places, bird migrations, and even how the lost family cat could find its owners, who had moved clear across the country. Remo couldn't quite make the leap of faith that last example required, but he could accept natural magnets, which the scientists had said also explained how people got brain tumors from living too close to high-tension wires and other electromagnetic sources. The magnetic fields screwed up the delicate balance of the magnetic webs, causing the tumors.

Remo had no tumors. He didn't need a CAT scan or an X-ray to tell him that. His own brain told him it was tumorless. And that the magnets were guiding him unerringly north.

Other things guided him, too.

He felt a faint breeze on his cruel face and exposed hands that told of air currents coming from under doors. Remo had memorized every door on the way in. And every twist in the path. He knew exactly where he was. All he had to do was escort the three suffering butchers to the garbage disposal area.

"This ain't the way to the front door," said Orvis Boggs, a trace of suspicion darkening his voice.

"We're not going out the front," Remo said.

"It ain't the way out back, either," DeWayne muttered uneasily.

"The front and the back are always the best guarded places in a prison," Remo explained with more patience than he felt. "My ACLU bosses made a careful study of this before sanctioning a dynamic extraction."

Sonny winced at the word extraction, and felt his bicuspids.

"You do this before?" he asked.

"Actually, this is my first time," Remo said.

"What if we get caught?" Sonny wondered.

"We blame my superiors, and throw ourselves on the mercy of the guards."

"We do?" said DeWayne.

"The ACLU isn't exactly the CIA," Remo said pointedly. "It's every man for himself."

"I like that philosophy," said Orvis.

"I knew you would," said Remo, suddenly opening his eyes.

They were on the threshold of the central crossroads of the prison. Most prisons had central crossroads, much like traffic interchanges and performing the same function.

Remo knew this well. He had twice found himself on death row, once in his earlier life as patrolman Remo Williams, when he had been framed for the murder of a lowlife pusher, and the second time, when he had been warehoused in a Florida prison, his memory wiped clean, because of a screwup in the organization that had framed him in the first place.

That organization was not, and never had been, the ACLU.

Oh, there were some letters in common between the ACLU and CURE. But a world of difference lay between. The ACLU stood for some self-appointed mandate to meddle in an already muddled judical system, such as taking up the cause of a knot of death row inmates first by helping them stave off their lawful punishment-dragging the appeals process on ad nauseum-and then using the extended period as a justification to let them off the hook, citing the constitutional guarantee against "cruel and unusual punishment" as an argument.

CURE had been set up to deal with situations like those caused by the ACLU. CURE was no anagram, but a prescription for America's ills. Conceived by a president who died in office too young, his promise unfulfilled, it was set up to balance out the often imbalanced scales of blind justice.

Remo was CURE's enforcement arm-judge, jury, and executioner if need be. Today, he was just executioner, thank you. The judge and jury had done their job long ago. Remo's task was to see to it their hard work and sacrifice had not been in vain.

At the crossroad, Remo looked through the square glass window in the door. On the other side was a guard in a glass-enclosed booth. He was preoccupied with a copy of Playboy.

Remo went to work on the door lock, using the same technique that had opened the other locks. He couldn't explain it, any more than he could have explained the magnets in his head, but his sensitive fingers detected the current that flowed through the lock mechanism. Once found, it was a matter of tapping in harmony until the current did what Remo wanted.

Soon, the door surrendered. Remo slipped it open. No alarm sounded. It had not sounded when he had entered, either.

"Stay close behind me and no sudden moves," Remo warned.

"Got it," said Orvis.

"You the man with the magic digit," added DeWayne.

"So far," muttered Sonny.

They crept out. The crossroads were well lit.

That was when the others got a good look at Remo.

He was a tall, lean man, with dark eyes under dark hair and cheekbones as pronounced as those on a skull. His age was indeterminate, and even looking at his face the three dead men could tell there wasn't an ounce of unnecessary fat on his catlike body. He wore a gray-blue uniform with the words Sanitation Dept. over the blouse pocket.

"Hey! How come he's dressed like a garbageman?" Sonny Smoot grunted.

"Sanitation engineer," Remo corrected. "And it's a disguise."

"How come you didn't bring no disguises for us?"

"Yeah," Orvis chimed in. "I want a drum majorette's outfit-preferably with the bitch still in it."

The others decided they wanted the same. Their metallic laughter made Remo want to fuse their empty skulls together right then and there. But if he did that, no way would the ACLU get the credit they so richly deserved.

"Great!" said Remo, seeing the guard start. Remo crossed the space to the guard booth like a shot.

The door was locked, but the guard solved that problem. He buzzed himself out, dragging a riot gun.

Remo met him at the door. To the guard, it seemed as if Remo had just sprouted up from the bare door like some gray-blue weed.

Remo relieved the man of his weapon and his consciousness, using one hand for each task. Holding the guard by the back of his neck, where Remo's hard fingers had found and squeezed down nerve centers, he lowered him to the hard floor.

Sonny and the others came up, and looked down at the slumbering guard.

"That's some finger," Sonny breathed.

"Can we kill this one?" asked DeWayne.

"No," said Remo.

"Can we boost his fingers?" Orvis asked. "You know, to practice what you just done."

"Practice with your own fingers," said Remo. "We gotta shake a leg, if we're going to make it out by dawn. "

"So how come you're dressed ike a garbageman?" Sonny wondered.

"You'll see when we get there," said Remo, growing tired of questions.

"What will we see?"

"You'll see."

"When will we get there?"

"You'll know it by the smell," said Remo, coming to the conclusion that if the educational system had taught these losers to think with their brains, maybe they wouldn't be sitting on death row. Then again, maybe not, noticing Sonny gnawing on a whetstone he had brought along.

They came at last to an out-of-the-way corridor area that smelled sour and maggoty.

"This here's the garbage room," Orvis pointed out.

"You got it," said Remo.

"It smells," said Sonny.

"You should talk."

"Huh?"

Remo had been forced to lock the door behind him, and it was still locked. He opened it the hard way. It required a real key of the insert-and-turn variety, so he couldn't manipulate any electrical timer. He punched it. The door jumped inward, taking the lock-set and part of the jamb with it.

They slipped inside.

The place was a welter of sealed garbage cans and trash bags, and there was an old dumpster by the single loading door.

The back of a filthy garbage truck had been backed into the dock. The black maw of its cold steel belly gaped, the slablike sweep blade in the up position, like a fat guillotine.

"In you go," invited Remo, gesturing to the truck. His deep-set eyes, flat as river-bottom stones, were unreadable.

Orvis made a disgusted face. "What, you mean crawl in with the garbage?"

"Look," Remo said impatiently, "The ACLU went to a lot of trouble to set this up. We had to steal a garbage truck and a uniform for me to wear, work out timetables, and drill for weeks. Everything has been worked out to the tiniest detail. This is Thursday morning. The truck comes every Thursday morning to haul trash. Okay, we're hauling trash."

"But there's garbage in there," Orvis said unhappily.

"I have to make it look good, don't I?" Remo said. "I already emptied half the barrels into the back so the screws would see that I was working."

"I ain't sittin' in no garbage," Sonny said. "I want to sit up front with you."

"The gate guards know only one driver drove the freaking truck in. Don't you think he'll get suspicious if two of us drive out?"

"Tell him I'm your brother."

"He'll know I'm not because we don't smell like brothers," Remo said.

Sonny frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Eventually, Remo convinced the trio to enter the truck. They clambered in gingerly and squatted down on their haunches, holding their noses and looking unhappy-except Sonny, who seemed either to enjoy the smell or not to notice it.

"Hold that pose," Remo said and, knocking off an aluminum lid, lifted up one of the still-full cans. He brought it to the truck's maw.

Three pairs of hands went whoa.

"Hey, what are you doing?" DeWayne hissed.

"Putting in the rest of the garbage," Remo said reasonably.

"But we're in here!"

"Look, if I only take half of the garbage, the guards will catch on."

"Okay, let us out and then put in the stupid garbage. After that, we'll get back in."

"You don't understand. What if they look in the back of the truck and see you guys?"

"Tell him we're your cousins," Sonny suggested.

"It's like this, I throw the garbage in or we call the whole thing off. You guys don't know how many Mission: Impossible reruns my superiors had to sit through to come up with a plan as foolproof as this."

"You say this is foolproof?" Orvis said.

"Guaranteed not to fail."

"Okay. But watch the clothes. I didn't take time to pack."

"Did I mention all dry cleaning bills are on the ACLU?" Remo asked.

The three immediately brightened.

And Remo threw the contents of the can in their beaming faces. He had deliberately saved the worst, smelliest cans for this moment.

As he flung refuse, inundating the trio, Remo mentally called off the names of their victims, adding after each, "This is for you."

Eventually, the three were buried in rotting cafeteria leftovers.

Remo called into the malodorous pile. "That's the last of it. You guys still with me "

A knot of rancid cabbage seemed to say, "Yeah."

"Okay, I gotta close the sweep blade now."

"You mean the hydraulic thing?" DeWayne asked.

"That's it."

"Isn't that kinda dangerous?"

"Only to garbage," said Remo, climbing to the side and giving the lever a yank.

He couldn't quite remember which way it worked. Up for close. Up and down for close and compress. Maybe it was down and up. He yanked the lever up.

With a grinding of the mechanism, the hydraulics started toiling. The great slab of a sweep blade dropped and closed like a vault door. And stopped.

Remo frowned. He tried yanking the lever another way. Nothing.

Then a guard was shouting through the open door, "Hey, you!"

"Yeah?"

"You about done in there?"

"Almost."

"The guard captain wants to know what's taking you so long."

"Sweep blade is stuck."

"Well, get that smelly rig out of here and fix it on your own time."

"You got it," said Remo, giving the ridged truck body a reassuring tap.

Remo slid behind the wheel and trundled out toward the yard. He stopped at the gate and handed over a clipboard with a lot of unreadable signatures.

"They don't pay you guys enough," said the guard, holding his nose against the smell while trying to sign the clipboard with one hand.

"Working toward a cleaner planet is reward enough for me," Remo said airily.

The gates rolled aside electronically, and Remo drove through without a problem. He ran the heavy truck a, quarter mile down the road, just fast enough to outpace the trailing smell, and pulled over to the side.

Getting out, Remo walked around to the back, tapping the side with a knuckle that actually left a small dent.

"We did it! We're out!"

The "Yay" coming from inside lacked enthusiasm.

"I'm having trouble breathing in here with all this slop," Orvis complained.

"Be with you in a second," Remo promised.

Remo took hold of the lever. There was a little light coming up now. It was dawn. The start of a new day. And in the light he found the metal plate that explained the proper way to work the hydraulic sweep blade. It was covered with grime. Remo swiped it clear with the sleeve of his gray-blue uniform.

" 'Push up and then down to compress load,' " Remo read.

So he pushed up and then down.

The sweep blade was already closed. Now it behaved like a monster steel tongue the truck was trying to swallow whole. The blade went deeper and deeper, and the three convicts inside began to panic.

"Hey! This slop's bunching up!"

"What goin' on?"

"My mistake," called Remo. "I think I yanked the lever wrong."

"What happened to your great training?"

"I had to rush through the lever part. I tried cramming for it, but you know how that sometimes goes."

"I'm feeling crammed right about now," Orvis complained.

"Do tell," said Remo.

"Do somethin'!"

"I'm open to suggestions," Remo said, casually leaning against the truck body and mentally counting off the seconds.

"Use your magic finger."

"Great suggestion." Remo counted five more seconds and said, "Oh-oh!"

"What was that uh-oh?"

"My magic finger isn't working."

"What! What happened?"

"Battery must have gone dead."

They were screaming now.

"You got fresh ones?"

"Sorry. Fresh finger batteries would have set off the metal detector."

"Oh, Mother of God," DeWayne groaned. "He's right!"

"The best laid plans gang aft a-gley," Remo said sympathetically.

"What was that last part?"

"If you ever find out, let me know."

Then they were screaming and their arm and leg bones were snapping. Howls came. Rib cages began splintering. Skulls were compressed and internal organs ruptured, merged, and became red masses of jelly.

Finally, the only sound was that of the hydraulics completing their inexorable cycle.

Satisfied, Remo drove the truck to the local office of the ACLU and after only an hour of trying, finally succeeded in getting the Leach Body to disgorge the truck's contents into the dumpster behind the office building.

Then he returned the truck and borrowed uniform to the Department of Sanitation yard, where he called the local police.

"Police Emergency."

"I got a hot tip for you," Remo told the police operator. "The ACLU just broke three death row convicts out of prison, and when they refused to pay their legal fees, killed them and dumped the bodies."

"Sir, there is a stiff fine for filing a false police report."

"I'm calling, not filing. And if you don't believe me, check the prison. Then go talk to the ACLU. And here's a major clue: look in their dumpster."

Remo hung up, knowing that even if the police followed through, the ACLU would probably weasel their way off the hook in the end. He only wished he could stick around to hear them explain away the dead bodies.

It was not an entirely happy ending, but in an imperfect world, it was as good as Remo sometimes got.

He walked away whistling.

Chapter 3

Nancy Derringer was overcome by the urge to commit murder.

She had never wanted to kill a living thing in her entire previous twenty-eight years on earth. She loved all living things. The stinger of the desert scorpion filled her with the same wonder as the delicate mechanism of a butterfly's wing. The beauty and terror of biology were two sides of the same wondrous coin to her. All life was sacred.

Today, standing on the sloppy edge of a primordial pool, her nostrils filled with the fecund stench of swamp water, she wanted to throttle Skip King with her bare hands. Except that she was using them to cover her ringing ears. She had been standing directly beside him when he had unloosed the first volley of tranquilizer darts. That had pretty much paralyzed her left eardrum.

Nancy barely heard the call to open fire. But she heard the rest of the guns opening up through her remaining good ear. It was one great blast of concussive noise, and then she was down on her knees in the muck trying to hold the sound out with both hands while screaming, "Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"

No one heard her. Not even herself.

The rifles had long fallen silent when she felt it was safe to unblock her ears. They rang. Quasimodo seemed to be busy in either inner ear chamber, ringing his discordant bells.

When she opened her eyes, Nancy saw the creature whose discovery was the culmination of her career slowly slip into the swamp water.

The head was looking directly at her. The face, seen full on, was a bright dayglo orange paint splatter that shaded to black just behind the brow ridges. It looked as if it were wearing some abstract Halloween mask. The face was dull, but the eyes were growing sleepy.

They were goat eyes, the pupils squared. The pupils were squeezing into vertical slits as the orange lids slowly dropped over them.

The head was swaying snakelike from side to side, like a sleepy cobra trying to match the snake charmer's rhythm.

It went haroooo, in a low, sick voice. Its tongue was green and forked, the dentition gray and worn from eating jungle roughage.

Then, dimly, although he was standing at her elbow, Skip King yelled, "Skip King, king of the jungle, bags another brute!"

Nancy jumped to her feet and slapped him so hard he lost his balance and his bush hat.

"You jerk!" she screamed. "Look what you've done."

King lay there, holding his face. "My job. I did my job."

The beast's head was dropping by stages.

"Your job! You agreed to be a corporate observer. Nothing more!"

"I didn't see you take up arms when we were in danger."

"The idea was to film it in the wild first. Document its habits. Now we've lost the opportunity forever."

"Skip that biology crap. This is bring 'em back alive. Frank Buck time. Man stuff."

The saurian head came up, wavered, and sank anew.

"Not unless we do something fast," Nancy said in a lower register.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at the poor thing. He's passing out on his feet."

"That is the idea," King said stiffly.

"In the middle of the swamp? If his head goes under, he'll drown. And all because you had to draw first blood!"

Skip King got to his feet. He wiped his sweaty brow and squinted through the bright afternoon air at the beast's slow struggles.

"Maybe it's amphibious," he murmured.

"Those are nostrils at the tip of its snout, not gills," Nancy spat. "It's no more amphibious than you are."

"You sure?"

"Yes!"

King's mouth dropped open. "Oh God."

"Now do you understand?"

"Understand? If that thing dies, it'll be my job! We gotta do something!"

"Wonderful. Now you're getting it." Nancy swung on Ralph. "Thorpe, any help you might render would be appreciated."

"Right." He turned to the natives and shouted out Bantu orders. Instantly, the natives dropped their rifles and pulled short machetelike swords out of their native clothing.

They went to work on the trees on either side of the creature. The boles were thin. They surrendered quickly. It was lucky for the expedition that they did.

Soon, the long thin boles were in the water, floating. The natives jumped in, completely without fear, and pushed the logs toward the wavering head.

"Magnificent!" Nancy said. "It could work."

The PR officer hovered close. "Should we be filming this, Mr. King?"

"And film my career going up in flames?" King spat. "I'll fire the first man who uncaps his lens."

The videocams remained capped.

More trees crashed down. Soon, there was a logjam, and slowly, the great beast known to the Bantu as N'yamala surrendered to the powerful narcotic coursing through his massive system.

The eyes closed completely before the chin settled onto the logjam. There was a breathless moment before they knew if the logs would support its weight.

Nancy closed her eyes and clasped her hands together. She was praying.

Everyone else held their breath.

"Somebody tell me to open my eyes if it's good news," Nancy said earnestly.

"Just a mo, Dr. Derringer."

Then Skip King made a guttural throat noise that almost brought hot tears to Nancy's eyes.

It was followed by him saying, "Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"You can look now, Dr. Derringer," Thorpe said quietly.

Nancy opened her blue eyes. The beast stood in the middle of the pool, still on his feet, like a preposterous elephant, but with his long serpentine neck undulating along the scattering of logs, where it had come to rest.

The head had plopped on a thickest part of the logs. Swamp water lapped at the lower part of the upper lips, but the nostrils rode high above the water, where they quivered and blew out air that smelled faintly of mushrooms.

"Thank goodness," Nancy breathed. And she was so relieved her knees began shaking and she let herself down onto the muck to give her legs time to calm down.

She was in no position to stop what happened next.

Skip King turned to the team and said, "Okay, cameras out. Get the banner into position."

"Banner?" Nancy said blankly.

The cameras came out. There were three in all. Two zoomed in on Skip King, who had recovered his hat and his rifle and was striking a kneeling pose at the swamp's edge, the rifle stock set in the muck. Almost as an afterthought, the third cameraman was shooting the slumbering reptile.

Two natives finished unpacking a long object and brought it up to King. It resembled two short rugs rolled together.

"Open it up." The natives separated, walking backward, and slowly a white banner unfurled between two rolling masts.

Nancy eyed it with growing horror.

BROUGHT TO YOU BY BURGER TRIUMPH KING OF CHEESEBURGERS

Above the banner was Skip King's lean face, and over his shoulder the dappled orange shape of the reptile was distinctly visible.

"I don't believe this," Nancy said in a sick voice.

King cleared his throat and began speaking in a deep unnatural baritone. "This is an historic day in the glorious annals of corporate history. Only a fast food giant like Burger Triumph, Inc. could have done it. Only its marketing chief, namely me-could have conceived it."

"King!"

"Cut!" King shouted. His face was red as a beet. "What's the matter with you? We're rolling here!"

"Our agreement was that there would be no overt commercialization of the expedition," Nancy reminded him.

"These are home movies."

"Then why do you sound like a commercial announcer?"

"A copy will go into the corporate vaults, of course," King said in an injured voice. He turned his attention to the others. "Okay, from the top."

As Nancy watched, she could feel the steam rise from under her collar. King repeated his spiel, and then picked up where he had left off.

"For over a hundred years explorers have returned from the Dark Continent with rumors of dinosaur survivals in the far reaches of the legendary Kanda Tract. White men scoffed at these native tales, but still the stories came out. Until the day Skip King, visionary adventurer, public relations genius, heard the tales-and believed."

He puffed out his chest like a proud adder.

"Behind me, ladies and gentlemen, lies the first known Brontosaurus ever to be-"

"Apatosaurus," Nancy shouted.

"Not again! Nancy, what do you want now? I gave you your fifteen minutes of fame at that last recording stop."

Nancy folded her arms. "You said Brontosaurus. It's an Apatosaurus. I explained that to you back in the States."

"Not now!"

"My professional reputation is riding on this expedition, too. It's an Apatosaurus. Nothing but."

"Glory hound," King muttered. To his camera team, he said, "Okay, we'll take it from the point where I say, 'Behind me, ladies and gentlemen.' Got that?"

The cameras rolled. The native bearers looked bored. They had turned their Burger Triumph T-shirts inside out as a form of silent protest.

Nancy felt her legs again and struggled to her feet.

And Skip King doggedly resumed his spiel.

"Behind me, ladies and gentlemen: Thunder Lizard! Twenty tons of Halloween-colored monster."

"Thunder Lizard is incorrect," Nancy called, enjoying the way King's sharp features turned red as a fox when she interrupted him.

"What is it with you! Didn't I give you enough face time back on the trail?"

Nancy folded her arms. "I'm not interested in face time," she said distinctly. "You said Thunder Lizard. You should have said Deceptive Lizard. Apatosaurus means 'Deceptive Lizard,' not Thunder Lizard. Actually, Deceptive Reptile is the preferred term."

"Maybe you'd like to make up a bunch of cue cards," King said acidly.

"Not really."

"If you had been on the moon when Neil Arm strong stepped off the Eagle, he'd never have got to say, 'One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.' "

"Actually, he said, 'One giant leap for a man,' " Nancy corrected.

"He did not."

"I say he did."

"I imagine Dr. Derringer is right," Thorpe said.

"Who asked you?" King snarled.

"No bloody body." Thorpe undertoned in a voice that was edged with steel. "But you might start giving some thought to what we're going to do when the beast wakes up," he added in a more polite tone.

"There's plenty of time."

"We don't know that."

"That's right," Nancy added. "We're dealing with an animal whose metabolism has never been studied. No one knows how long he'll stay tranked."

"Long enough to get him to the railhead at M'nolo Ki-Gor," King snapped. "Where suitable transportation has been arranged."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"Actually, the idea was to coax him to walk that far himself. But I guess I got carried away when I saw him."

"That was your plan? To lure him!"

"Don't have a platypus. We've haven't tried it yet. It could work."

"Except how did you envision getting him to walk? By leaving a trail of jungle chocolate for him to follow?" Some of the natives understood English. They laughed among themselves at the white woman's words.

King's face froze. Nancy met his glare with one of her own.

"Actually, I had figured on setting fire to the jungle behind it," King said. "The flames would have stampeded him in any direction we wanted."

The natives suddenly stopped laughing. Now it was their turn to glare.

"Burning a virgin rain forest!" Nancy shrieked. "Are you mad!"

"You have a better way?"

"You can't burn forest like this," Thorpe said laconically. "Not so soon after a hard rain. So let's all put any thought of burning out of our minds, shall we?"

"We can try," King said stubbornly.

"You can try," Thorpe answered. "But I rather doubt the native boys will cotton to the idea."

"Who asked them?"

"It's their country."

"Like hell it is. I have permission from President Oburu to do whatever I have to to fulfill the mission."

At the sound of the name of Oburu, the Bantus grew narrow of eye. Some spat into the ground. A few hissed through perfect teeth.

"Guess they voted for the other guy," King muttered uneasily.

"In Gondwanaland," Thorpe said, "there is no other guy."

"Okay, I'll find another way."

He stomped off into the bush.

"Think he'll come up with anything?" Thorpe asked Nancy.

"Not in a million years."

But only a few minutes later he was shouting frantically for them to come running. They came upon Skip King standing in the flank of one of the misty rises that from a distance resembled small hills, but which they now realized were great escarpments swallowed by low-hanging jungle mists. There was an opening in the foot of the biggest of these. It was huge. And it had fallen in. The mouth was choked with red earth.

Leading in and out of the mouth were great saurian prints.

"I think I found its lair," King whispered.

Nancy knelt to examine the prints. When she stood up, her features were pale.

"These prints are fresh," she said.

"Of course," King said. "Made since the last rain."

"And there are three distinct sets," Nancy added. "Larger than the one we found."

"You mean the one I got isn't full grown?" King gulped.

Nancy nodded soberly.

Everyone carrying rifles clenched them more tightly, and those who had no weapons crowded closer to those who did.

"Let's keep our heads, shall we?" Skip suggested.

"What do you think, Thorpe?" Nancy asked.

"Why do you ask him and not me?" King demanded. "I'm expedition leader."

He was ignored.

Thorpe was looking at the tracks now. He motioned to Tyrone, who joined him. They exchanged short words in Bantu and Thorpe looked up.

"The freshest tracks are those going in. I'd say there are at least three more of the brutes in that cave, trapped."

"No!"

" 'Fraid so, Dr. Derringer."

"Is there anything we can do to get them out?"

"Doubtful. You're looking at tons of dirt and rock that came down all at once. And there's no guarantee that the beggers inside survived the cave-in."

"Then our beast might be the last survivor!" King said.

"It's likely," Thorpe admitted glumly.

"That makes him worth a fortune!"

"That makes him an endangered species," Nancy said fiercely, "and I will not have him endangered any further by your irresponsible macho bull."

"I resent that!"

"Resent it all you want, about from now on, I'm calling the shots."

"My ass," King snarled.

"All in favor of doing things my way," Nancy announced to everyone within hearing, "raise their hands."

The natives immediately lifted their hands. First, those who spoke English, and then the others when the first ones nudged them into following suit. Thorpe lifted one hand. As did two of the camera crew.

"All in favor of doing what Mr. King demands may now raise their hands," Nancy said.

Skip King raised his hand defiantly. His was the only one aloft.

"What about you clowns?" he yelled at the remaining members of the Burger Triumph observation team.

"We're abstaining," said one.

"In the interest of our long-term career prospects," said another.

"And our short-term survival," added the third man.

"Now that the new pecking order has been established," Nancy said. "Let's look around."

"For what?" King wanted to know.

"Anything that might be useful."

Circling the great lake, they found more dinosaur trails. The creatures seemed to have dwelt close to the cave and the pool, where fruit-bearing lianas grew thickest.

Nancy stopped to examine one. The creeper was thick and dotted with broad white flowers. At intervals, the great fruit sprouted like oversized greenskinned footballs.

"Jungle chocolate?" Nancy asked Thorpe.

"Likely. Recognize it?"

"Botanically, no. Earlier researchers have theorized it's probably a species of Landolphia-some unknown wild mango."

Thorpe took a knife to one of the big melons and hacked out a piece. It smelled like a green apple and had a vaguely nutty taste, like avocado.

They spit out their pieces and washed their mouths clean with canteen water.

The dinosaur trails ended at the line of hills that seemed to cut the Kanda Tract in two.

They found, on the other side of the great escarpment, a long stretch where the earth was flat and tawny grass grew around sparse, wind-slanted baobab trees. Savannah. Mixed in the grass were fields and fields of toadstools, every one a glossy orange color, like crouching elves who had pulled their caps down protectively.

"Odd," Nancy said, fingering one of them.

"Yes?" asked Thorpe.

"These are the same orange coloration as the Apatosaur's markings."

"You imagine a connection?"

"We know from old stories that N'yamala is reputed to eat so-called jungle chocolate. And we saw him eating fronds."

"We did."

"But his markings are all wrong for a jungle dweller. He's black and orange, like a salamander. If he had natural jungle camouflage, he should be green or brown or gray. Not orange and black."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Remember a year or so ago, they found the largest living creature in a Washington state forest? A behemoth underground fungus ten miles long, which had been feeding off dead tree roots?"

"Vaguely."

"They estimated it was thousands of years old. And it was entirely underground. Except for the mushrooms."

"Mushrooms?"

"They sprouted up all along the ground that covered it," Nancy said distantly as she crumbled the toadstool to fragments and watched the spongy bits cling to her fingers. "According to our best knowledge, Apatosaurs ate ginkgo trees, conifers, and other roughage."

"No pine cones hereabouts," Thorpe snorted.

"But there might have been prior to the period of continental drift that dispersed its populations to the newly created continents," she returned. "When flowering plants came along in the Cretaceous, Apatosaur would have suffered from a severe food shortage, but could have survived in small numbers on a modified diet."

"I fear I do not follow."

"Suppose the Apatosaur population went underground with the onset of the Lower Cretaceous period, induced by climactic changes and the rise of unfamiliar and unappetizing fauna?" Nancy mused. "Not excusively underground. But feeding on great subterranean expanses of fungi, and only occasionally emerging to forage for palatable food, like lianas and jungle chocolate."

"Would that turn the beasts orange?"

"It might. Or the coloration might be an adaptive response to cave living."

"A kind of underground camouflage, eh?"

Nancy shook off the last bits of toadstool and her voice cleared. "It's a theory," she said. "Let's find the others. We have to do something about our young Apatosaur."

"Such as?"

"If it is the last one, then we have no choice but do exactly what that idiot King wants if it is to survive."

"How are we going to move a brute that size, Dr. Derringer?"

"We'll ask B'wana King."

Ralph Thorpe looked skeptical.

"And then we do the opposite," Nancy said archly.

Chapter 4

At the Salt Lake City Airport payphone, Remo reported in.

He lifted the receiver and depressed the One button until the automated switching relays clicked into place and a distant phone rang once.

A thin, lemony voice said, "Yes, Remo?"

"Chalk up another triumph for the ACLU," Remo said airly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I told my targets I was with the ACLU. It cut through a lot of unnecessary bull."

"I trust these individuals are-um-no longer . . ." "You can say it, Smitty. Go ahead. Say, 'dead.' "

Remo could almost hear his superior wince over two thousand miles away.

"Remo, please."

"Okay, they're landfill. Happy now?"

"That is satisfactory."

"All except Roy Shortsleeve."

"He did not get away?"

"No. I left him where he sat."

"Why, Remo?"

"Because he's innocent. I could tell, having been an innocent on death row once myself. I think someone should reopen his case."

"That is not our mission," Smith said flatly.

"And I say it is."

The line hummed in the silence that followed.

Remo shifted his feet. He had reverted to his habitual wardrobe, a T-shirt and chinos. Today the T-shirt was white and the chinos tan. Loafers of Italian leather covered his feet. They looked brand new. They were. When they lost their original shine or got scuffed, he just ash-canned them and bought a fresh pair. This was his third pair this week.

"Very well, Remo," Smith said in his eternally bitter voice. "I will make inquiries. But I do not expect miracles. It is very difficult to overturn such convictions."

"Tell that to the ACLU-who are going to have a lot of explaining to do after Roy Shortsleeve tells his story."

Smith groaned audibly. In the phone booth, Remo smiled to himself. The hand holding the receiver was of average size, but the attached wrist was freakishly thick.

"Anything else I can do?" Remo asked. "How about Dr. Gregorian? I sent you a bunch of clippings on that dried-up old ghoul. I can be in Milwaukee by sundown."

"Do not go to Milwaukee."

"No?"

"Fly to Boston."

"What's there?"

"I will be there," said Smith. "With Master Chiun."

"Yeah? What's up?"

"I have concluded purchase negotiations on the new residence Chiun has requested-"

"You mean extorted."

"-as a part of the latest contract negotiations," Smith finished.

"Boston, huh? I guess you talked Chiun out of living in a castle."

"No, I did not," said Smith.

Remo gripped the receiver so tightly he left fingerprints. Fingerprints that could never be traced because Remo had been declared dead, his identity files pulled. "You got him a castle! In Boston?"

"Outside Boston, actually. Try to catch the nine o'clock plane, and we will rendezvous at the airport."

"On my way," Remo said, not sounding at all happy about it.

Remo wore a long face as he cabbed to the airport. It was not a face that was at its best when it was long. Remo's face-resculpted over the twenty years he had worked for CURE-had been turned pretty much back to its original contours. Twenty years of faces. Twenty years of changing identities. Twenty years of assignments. And twenty years-minus a four-year period in which he had actually lived in a home in the New York suburbs-of living out of suitcases in hotels and motels all over the world.

And now, thanks to the Master of Sinanju's insistence, CURE was going to provide them with a permanent place to live.

It should have been something Remo would look forward to. But there were problems. For one thing, Chiun had insisted on a castle. Remo had no desire to live in a castle.

For another, Chiun was about to become a father. And it was his stated intention to prepare his new domicile for the baby and its mother.

For weeks now, in anticipation of this joyous occasion-dreaded by Remo-Chiun had been preparing.

And ignoring Remo. Remo had started to feel left out and between that and boredom, he had taken to calling up Smith and asking for missions. At first, Smith had little for Remo to do. A crooked judge in Buffalo. A gang leader in Detroit. Piecework. Nothing big. Definitely nothing challenging. Mostly it was fly to the hit's city, locate the hit, say hello to the hit and hit the hit. Wham, bang, thank you, hit. Have a nice death.

After a while, Remo had taken to cutting out newspaper articles about people worthy of being hastened to the boneyard and sending them to Folcroft Sanitarium by Federal Express. Always making sure to check off the "bill recipient" box on the airbill to give the penurious Smith added incentive.

An article on the ACLU's attempt to win reprieves for four death row inmates had been one of the latest. Remo was hoping Smith would send him after Dr. Mordaunt Gregorian next. Maybe tomorrow, Remo reflected. After they had gotten settled in.

The flight across the U.S. seemed longer than it should be because the stewardess kept trying to sit in Remo's lap.

Remo was not in the mood for stewardesses who wanted to sit in his lap, and he told the woman so.

This did not dissuade her. "How about I just kneel at your feet and massage them lovingly?" she countered.

"Won't they fire you?" Remo wondered.

"If they do, will you make it worth my while?"

"Not on this leg."

The stewardess looked ready to burst into tears. Remo, to avoid a scene, tried to head off the cloudburst.

"You know, you don't really love me," he pointed out.

"I do! I do! Since forever."

"Since exactly twenty minutes ago when I got on this plane," Remo said. "Before that you never saw my face."

"It just seems like forever," she said, brushing at his dark hair.

"It's only pheromones," Remo said.

"Huh?"

"I read about them in a magazine. Pheromones are personal odors. Sexual scents. People give them off. Some give off stronger pheromones than others. Me, I got pheromones that won't quit. Which is why I can't take naps during long flights because of the stewardess factor."

"Don't I give off pheromones, too?" she asked in a pouty voice.

"Sure you do."

She bent forward, giving Remo a dose of some fruity perfume and an intimate look at her freckled cleavage.

"Aren't my pheromones good, too?"

"They're okay. It's just that I give better than I get.

Which was the wrong thing to say, Remo saw immediately, because the stewardess fell to her knees and said in a very, very earnest voice, "I give good pheromones, too. I swear."

She lay one hand over her heart.

Remo read her nametag: Stephanie.

"Listen, Stephanie-"

The hand came off her heart to Remo's hand, still warm. "Oh, you spoke my name!"

"Only in passing. Look, I can't help being the way I am."

She took his hand in both of hers now. They were sweating. She looked him dead in the eye and said, "I understand. Truly, I do."

"I was trained to be this way. It's not something I can control."

"I have absolutely no use for control, right now," Stephanie said, making her voice breathy.

The other passengers were staring now. Their expressions broke down into gender-specific categories. The men were envious and the women disgusted.

"You're making a scene," Remo pointed out.

"We can go into the galley. It's private there."

"What about the other stewardesses?"

"I'll stick plastic knives in their backs. We can use them for pillows after we're done. I give great afterglow, too." "Sorry," Remo said.

"I'll hold my breath."

"Let me hold it for you," said Remo, reaching out for her throat. He found her throbbing carotid artery and squeezed until the blood stopped flowing to her brain. After twenty-two seconds, she was out like a light.

Remo hit the stewardess call button and explained to the new stewardess that Stephanie had fainted, "or something."

She was carried to a first-class chair, checked for signs of injury, and allowed to sleep the rest of the flight away.

In Boston, Remo made a point of being the first one off the plane.

He was not surprised when Harold W. Smith met him at the gate. Smith was seated in an uncomfortable plastic chair looking uncomfortable. Harold Smith always looked uncomfortable. He probably looked uncomfortable sleeping in his own bed.

It was early spring, but Smith wore the same ensemble he wore summer or winter, rain or sun. A gray three-piece suit. The only splash of color was his hunter green Dartmouth tie.

He was a tall, thin man of Ichabod Crane proportions. His hair, thin as the first dusting of autumn snow, was grayish white. His skin was actually grayish, as were his weak eyes.

He might have been an accountant or a college professor or a retired undertaker. He was none of those things. He was Harold W. Smith, ostensibly head of Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, secretly the director for CURE, the supersecret government agency that didn't exist-officially.

Smith was reading The Wall Street Journal.

Remo padded up to him on silent Italian loafers.

"Uncle Smitty!" Remo cried. "It's been-what?-years. Am I still in the family will?"

Smith looked up from his paper with genuine horror on his patrician features. "Remo. Please. Do not make a scene."

Smith got up, folding his paper. He pushed back on the bridge of his rimless glasses, restoring them to correctness.

"You old softie," Remo said. "Still shy in public." Then, in a quieter voice he asked, "Where's Chiun?"

"He will be along shortly." Smith was tucking the newspaper under his arm. He clutched a worn leather briefcase in one bloodless hand. It was so scuffed that no selfrespecting thief would lower himself to steal it. It contained the computer link to the hidden CURE mainframes in Folcroft's basement.

They started walking.

"So, tell me about this castle," Remo prompted.

"It might be better if you see it without any prejudicial preconceptions."

"Has Chiun seen it?"

"No."

"You pass papers yet?"

"Yes." Smith avoided Remo's eyes.

"Which means if Chiun doesn't like it, you eat the mortgage, right?"

Smith actually paled. Although he had at his disposal a vast black-budget superfund of taxpayer dollars, he spent it as if the copper in every penny came out of his own bloodstream.

"Master Chiun stipulated a castle," Smith said. "Castles are not exactly plentiful in America. I have found him a perfectly good equivalent. Please do not spoil it."

Remo eyed Smith doubtfully. "You trying to pull something here, Smitty?"

"No," Smith said hastily.

"We'll see," Remo said slowly. "Let's find Chiun."

"He is coming in on Kiwi Airlines."

"Wonderful," Remo said. "That means either he'll be six hours late or he went down in flames over Pittsburgh."

"It was the most reasonable flight I was able to book for him on short notice."

"And they have the most wonderful frequent flier program in the air," Remo added. "Right?"

"Er, that is true."

"Which no one has ever managed to collect on, because they either ate tarmac or couldn't stomach flying Kiwi a second time."

"Those stories are exaggerated," Smith said defensively.

They found the Master of Sinanju in the baggage area, patiently waiting for his luggage.

He stood regarding the unmoving baggage conveyer belt like a tiny Asian idol carved from amber and dressed in scarlet silk. His face, in repose, might have worn the accumulated lines of his combined ancestors, the previous Masters of Sinanju, heirs to the House of Sinanju, the oldest line of professional assassins in human history and discoverers of the sun source of all the martial arts, which was also known as Sinanju.

"Hey, Little Father," Remo called. "I see you made it in one piece."

Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju, turned. At the sight of Remo his wrinkled little face broke out in a beaming smile. His wise hazel eyes brightened.

"Remo! I am so happy to see you!" he squeaked.

"Great," said Remo, quickening his pace. It was true what they said. Absence does make the heart grow fonder.

"For now I have someone to carry my trunks," Chiun added.

Remo's face fell. He struggled to keep his voice light. "How many'd you bring this time?"

"All."

Remo's eye went wide.

"All fourteen!"

Chiun brought a yellow hand like an eagle's claw to the wisp of beard that straggled down from his chin. "Of course. For it is moving day. No more will I have to bear them hither and yon, like a vagabond."

"Vagabonds usually settle for a change of clothes, knotted in a ball and hanging off a stick. Not fourteen freaking trunks."

And before the Master of Sinanju could reply to that, the trunks began bumping through the hanging leather straps.

The first was a gray lacquer monstrosity in which scarlet dragons vied with golden phoenixes for hegemony.

Chiun gestured with a hand whose long fingernails were like pale blades, and said, "Remo."

Unhappily, Remo took hold of the trunk and lifted it free of the conveyor belt. He set it to the floor, and at once the Master of Sinanju drifted up and began examining the lacquer and brass trim for nicks and other blemishes.

"It has survived unscathed," he announced sagely. The overhead lights shone on the amber eggshell that was his skull. Tiny puffs of cloudy white hair enveloped the tops of his ears.

"Only thirteen more to go," Remo muttered.

Then next trunk was mostly mother-of-pearl. It had collected no scratches.

And the others began coming, in a colorful sequence like a toy train.

One by one, Remo hefted them off the belt to join the growing pile. In a corner, Harold Smith buried his long nose in his newspaper and gave off a studied "I'm not with them" air.

"Smith tell you anything about this castle?" Remo asked Chiun.

"Only that it is in an exclusive area in an historical town. "

"It would have to be if there's a castle involved."

"This is a good area, Remo," Chiun whispered.

"Since when?"

"It is one of the older provinces in this young country. It is very British."

"Since when are we Anglophiles?"

"The House has worked for Great Britain," Chiun pointed out.

"And sometimes against them."

"But more for them," said Chiun, dismissing the unimportant detour in historical truth.

The thirteenth trunk was green and gold, and after Remo set it down, the conveyor belt came to a dead stop.

"Hey? Is that all of them?" he asked.

Chiun's wrinkled features stiffened. "No. There is one missing."

Remo snagged a skycap.

"My friend here is missing a piece of luggage," he explained.

The skycap looked at the preposterous pile of trunks and commented, "How can you tell?"

"Because we can count. Why did the belt stop?"

"Because they finished unloading all the luggage."

"You're not saying it's lost," Remo said in as low a voice as possible.

"I'm not saying anything, but you better file a lost luggage claim before you leave the airport otherwise its your tough luck."

"Lost!" Chiun squeaked, flouncing up. "My precious trunk cannot be lost!"

"I didn't say lost," the skycap repeated.

"He didn't say lost," Remo said quickly. "It's probably misplaced."

"The lackey who misplaced my trunk would do better to misplace his head," Chiun said in a stentorian voice.

"He talks that way sometimes," Remo told the skycap. "Let me handle this."

"Remo, I will not countenence this," Chiun warned.

"And you won't have to."

"And if my trunk is truly lost?"

"We'll get it back. Come on, let's find a way into the luggage loading area."

"Follow me," Chiun said, and stepped into the dead conveyor belt. He passed through the fall of leather straps and as Harold Smith called his name in a frightened voice, Remo ducked in after the Master of Sinanju.

The other side was a maze of chutes, tunnels, and self-propelled luggage trucks.

Chiun looked around, his clear hazel eyes cold.

"Uh-oh," Remo said. For one man was driving one of the trucks away from the area. A glossy blue trunk sat in back. Unmistakably Chiun's.

"Thief!" Chiun called. And flashed after the truck in a flurry of scarlet silk.

"We don't know that," Remo said, hurrying after him.

But they knew it for the truth a moment later. The man stopped the truck beside an open van. Two other luggage handlers were shoving stuff into the back of the van. Shoulder bags. Cameras. Videocams. Even a boxed VCR.

The man with Chiun's trunk got off and motioned for the others to give him a hand.

They noticed Chiun at that point.

"Hey!" one shouted. "This is a restricted area. Get out of here!"

"Thief!" Chiun cried. "To touch that trunk is to die!"

"And he means every word," Remo called.

The Master of Sinanju looked like a harmless wisp attired in his silk robes. His age could have been anything from eighty to a hundred and twenty, but in fact he had passed the century mark some time back.

The three luggage pilferers ranged from perhaps twenty-five to thirty-eight years. They were tall, and muscular from hoisting heavy luggage forty hours a week.

But the Master of Sinanju fell among them like a crimson typhoon hitting a palm oasis.

The man who had frozen with his hands on the trunk suddenly took his hands into his mouth. Not by choice. Choice had nothing to do with it.

From his personal perspective. his own hands had acquired a life of their own. Like frightened pink tarantulas they leapt into his own mouth for protection against the crimson typhoon.

The man had a big mouth. But his hands were bigger. Still, they went down his gullet as if the bones had melted-where they clogged his windpipe so completely that his last ninety seconds of life consisted of hopping about in circles trying to yank his hands out of his mouth and trying to breathe through nostrils that no longer functioned.

In a way, he was lucky. He lived longer than the others, who made the mistake of drawing personal weapons.

Remo and Chiun gave them no time to use them.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," Remo muttered and took the nearest man by his head. Remo simply grasped and began shaking the man's head as if it were a milkshake container. He got about the same result. The man's brain, having the natural consistency of yogurt, was pureed in the receptacle of his skull.

He dropped his box cutter, never having gotten the blade extended.

It was quick, silent, and actually painless to the victim. Remo dropped the limp-boned man to the oil-stained concrete and caught the last few seconds of the third man's death throes.

The man had producted a switchblade. He used it with great skill. The blade darted toward the Master of Sinanju-and abruptly changed direction to carve out a flowing script on the wielder's own forehead.

Then it split his nose clear to the brain pan.

The man was on his back, dead, before the word THIEF began oozing blood off his forehead.

"Now you did it," Remo said, looking around at the carnage.

Chiun's hands clasped his wrists. Interlocked, they retreated into the joined sleeves of his kimono. "I did nothing. It was their fault. These carrion started it."

"Smith is gonna to have a shit fit."

"I will reason with Smith. Come."

And the Master of Sinanju floated away.

Grumbling, Remo brought the trunk up on his shoulder and hurried after him.

"This whole trip had better be worth it," he muttered.

When Remo emerged from the baggage area, Harold Smith's complexion looked as gray as a battleship. And as lifeless. His eyes were staring.

"All is well, Emperor Smith," Chiun said in a loud voice, and went on to recount the other thirteen piled trunks.

"We gotta move fast, Smitty," Remo said, adding the blue trunk to the stack.

"What happened?"

"Luggage thieves."

"They're not-"

"Alive? No. Definitely not."

"Oh, God."

"Just hold your water. We gotta get outta here before anything breaks. Where's the rental car?"

"I had planned on taking the subway into town."

"With fourteen freaking trunks!" Remo shouted.

Smith adjusted his tie. "Actually, I had not expected this."

"Okay, I'll rustle us up some transportation."

There was a rental agency that provided vans, and Remo soon had one parked in front of the terminal.

After Remo had got the last of the trunks into the back of the van, he slipped behind the wheel and tried fighting his way out of the stubborn traffic congestion.

"Maybe the subway wasn't so bad an idea, after all," he muttered darkly.

He took the Callahan Tunnel and emerged near the North End, Boston's Italian district.

"I know this place," Chiun muttered.

"We were here about a year ago. That Mafia thing, remember?"

"Pah!"

"Where to, Smitty?"

"South. To Quincy."

"We were there, too. That was where the Mafia don had his headquarters. Come to think of it, weren't you interested in a condo there, Little Father?"

"I will settle for nothing less than a castle, as befits my station as the royal assassin in residence," Chiun sniffed.

Remo took the Southeast Expressway to the Quincy exit, where they pulled three G's holding a curved ramp that took them up over a bridge.

"Go straight," said Smith. Remo ignored the left-hand fork of the bridge.

They passed condos, office buildings, and a pagodalike structure that made Remo grip the wheel with sudden queasiness, but to this relief it turned out to be only a Chinese restaurant, and continued on.

At an intersection dominated by a high school, Smith said, "Take this left."

Remo drove left.

"Stop," said Smith, just as the high school fell behind.

"Where?"

"There!" said Chiun.

Remo stopped and looked out the window. And he saw it.

"You've gotta be kidding," Remo said.

"It is magnificent!" Chiun said rapturously.

Chapter 5

The plan was simple, as Nancy Derringer explained it.

"We block all the jungle trails except the one we hacked out of the Kanda Tract. Are you with me so far?"

Everyone said yes.

"We know the reptile eats fronds and creepers. Probably he prefers so-called jungle chocolate. We'll harvest some and leave a trail."

"Ha!" King scoffed. "What happens when he gets his fill?"

"It takes a lot of jungle chocolate to fill a belly the size of a cement truck," Nancy told him coolly.

The Bantus smiled among themselves to see the mzungu woman who was smarter than the mzungu man.

"But to keep him moving we will intersperse toadstools whenever he seems to be losing interest."

"What makes you think he eats toadstools?" King wanted to know.

"A deep knowledge of sauropod dietary habits and a brain I'm not afraid to use."

Even taciturn Ralph Thorpe laughed out loud at that one.

They got to work. The Bantus, who had earlier been easygoing if not torpid when Skip King had been giving the orders, now found their enthusiasm.

They hacked down trees all along the jungle paths, blocking them so that even a ten-ton dinosaur would find them daunting.

The Kanda Tract was full of the wild mangos known as jungle chocolate. Much of it was untouched because the forest had been too thick for the Apatosaur to do much more than snake his long neck between the trees to bite off pieces of the scrumptious melon.

They harvested only as much as would stay fresh for a four-hour interval. And placed them in quickly woven baskets.

Every hand was needed to make baskets, because they had to carry as many toadstools as they would need.

"I'm not weaving baskets," King snarled when the subject was broached. "That's woman's work."

The Bantus all looked as him with their smiles on automatic pilot and their soft eyes steady as buttons on a coat.

King failed to notice. "I didn't go to Wharton to weave baskets, and that's final."

"Fine," Nancy told him thinly. "Then you may go toadstooling."

The Bantus formed a circle around him, leaving a space in the direction of the escarpment.

Angrily, King nested stacks of baskets together and went off to fill them.

It was approaching sundown when the great Apatosaurus began to stir.

Its leathery, black-rimmed nostrils twitched and blew out a snort. Slowly, the orange eyelids picked themselves up.

Lifting its long banded neck, it craned its masked head about in a semicircle as if seeking an explanation.

The goatlike eyes fell upon a fallen melon.

It made a sound. Harruunukk. It was a questioning sound.

Then on great round legs, it waded toward the morsel. Logs were bumped out of the way. Waves crashed and slopped on the shore of the great pool.

And the head came down, seized the melon, and gobbled it up after biting through it once with a pulpy sound.

It stood calmly as the neck muscles worked the fragments down into its stomach.

Then, it spied a second mango a little further inland.

From a leafy point high on the escarpment, Nancy watched through field glasses she held in crossed fingers.

"Please, please, see it," she murmured.

The beast seemed to hesitate. It made its curious sound again. Then slowly it stirred out of the pool, coming up onto the mucky ground and sinking its great padded feet deep with squishing-sucking noises.

The head came down and quickly gobbled up the second melon.

In the bush, Ralph Thorpe triggered his flashlight. It spotlighted the third melon.

Through the green gloom, the reptile saw it. He strode forward. And now the high ground shook with each lumbering step.

The Kanda Tract shook for the remainder of the night and far into the dawn of the next day.

They stayed out of sight of it. The natives were especially careful. They told stories of how N'yamala loved to upset river dugouts with his mighty tail.

"Has he ever eaten anyone?" King asked nervously.

"No."

"Good."

"He has never eaten a black man. We do not know if he might enjoy a white man."

And the Bantus smiled their fixed smiles.

The first trouble came just before dawn.

After lumbering along, pausing to snatch up melons and the occasional pile of sodden fronds, the Apatosaur suddenly stopped. It looked around. Its eyes grew rounder.

"What is the blighter up to, Dr. Derringer?" Thorpe asked.

"I don't know," Nancy said slowly. They were crouching in the bush, flat on their stomachs.

A hruuu sound filtered through the stationary predawn air.

"Beggar sounds forlorn."

"It may miss its family. Poor thing."

Slowly, the reptile began to back up. It tried to turn around. But the jungle path was too narrow. Its great tail lifted, swept about, and with a terrible sound, a stand of cedar was reduced to kindling.

The forlorn cry came again.

"It's trying to turn back!" King howled, horror in his voice.

"I'm not letting that happen," Nancy said grimly and disappeared into the bush.

Moments later she was creeping up the trail toward the reptile, a basket of orange toadstools balanced on her head, native fashion.

She dumped them onto the trail, not a dozen yards ahead of the creature. Stamping her foot into them to release their musty fungal scent, she retreated into the bush.

The scent did the trick.

The paint-splatter snout swept back, nostrils quivering.

Then it lurched forward. It fell on the piled toadstools with relish, snatching them up and ingesting them with up and down chewing motions. The pile quickly disappeared.

And up around the next bend in the trail, Nancy upended a smaller pile, stamped hard, and vanished into the bush.

After three basketfuls, they switched back to melons. And the melons got them to the first light and their next crisis. The outer edge of the Kanda Tract.

"Now comes the hard part," Nancy was saying in a hastily convened roadside conference. Thorpe, King, and Tyrone had joined her. The others were working through the bush, out of sight and sowing enticements along the trail.

"The beast will be prone to meander once he gets out into open savanna," Thorpe said. "Might even turn back, if he doesn't take to open spaces."

"Will the grass burn?" King asked.

"We are not igniting the savanna," Nancy fumed. "Even if it is dry enough to take flame, it would burn too quickly. We'd only end up with roast Apatosaurus."

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Everything except how you ever got beyond the 'Do you want fries with that?' phase of your career."

Skip King did a slow burn and said nothing.

Nancy turned to Thorpe.

Thorpe shrugged. "Nothing for it but to let old Jack run."

Nancy blinked. "Old Jack?"

"Reminds one of a bloody jack-o'-lantern, doesn't it?"

"You can't call him Jack," King burst out.

"And why bloody not?"

"I wanted to call him Skip."

"Skip?"

"King Skip, actually."

They looked at him.

"You know, like King Kong."

"Jack it is," Nancy said flatly. She looked to Thorpe. "You think he'll follow our trail of goodies through open savanna?"

"Haven't the foggiest," Thorpe admitted. "But it's either let Jack run or give up."

"I'm in no mood to give up. Get the men deployed."

"Righto." Thorpe crashed off.

"What about me?" King asked.

"It's morning," Nancy said, turning away. "Make yourself useful and brew up some coffee."

"You wouldn't talk to me that way if this weren't Africa!"

The Apatosaur emerged from the Kanda Tract like the final collapse of the burning house. The splintering of brush and nettles was tremendous. Then as if it had lost all substance, it padded serenely into open grassland.

From points of concealment at the edge of the tract, they watched it pause, look around, and swing its long serpentine head in undulant arcs.

It stared back at the sheltering rain forest lovingly, as if homesick.

"Now!" Nancy shouted.

The Bantus had rigged up slingshots large enough to launch the melons. They let fly. Three of the green globes arced high and came crashing down several feet ahead of the creature's path.

The pulpy smell immediately attracted its attention. The head swung back. And like a locomotive building up a head of steam, it started forward.

The melons vanished quickly. The head came up, eyes inquisitive.

And there in its path lay a single golden toadstool. It started toward it. And the toadstool retreated ever so slightly.

Undeterred, the reptile kept moving.

"What's going on?" King muttered.

Nancy looked around. "Where's Thorpe?"

"B'wana Thorpe in bush. Play trick on N'yamala."

"He didn't!"

"He did, Missy Derringer."

"That is one smart limey," Skip King said. "I may not dock him after all."

"You were going to dock him? For what?"

"For mutiny," said King.

"Your superiors are going to hear about every screwup you committed since we left the States."

"I'm going to have some choice words for them, too, Miss Masculine. Or should I say, Dr. Masculine?"

In the grass, the reptile was doggedly pursuing the elusive toadstool. Every time he got close enough to lower his head for the prize, it slipped away.

"He's pushing it," King said.

As if reading King's mind, the toadstool lay waiting when the great saurian head plunged down again. This time it succeeded. The toadstool went into the mouth as the head lifted up like a triumphant crane.

Then another toadstool appeared not far from it. The Apatosaur started for that one. And the stop-and-start game of cat-and-mouse began again.

By this time, it seemed safe to emerge from the rain forest and they filtered out.

They crept forward cautiously, keeping low. Most of the packs had been left behind.

One of the cameramen was creeping ahead of the rest and using his videocam to record a shot of the beast's undulating rump.

Nancy had a microcassette recorder out and was talking into it.

"Locomotion undulant, flexure resembling that of a pachyderm. Tail held off the ground in accordance with current theories. Skin appears semimoist and leathery but smooth in general appearance."

Then, the cameraman came back holding his nose in one hand and the camera in the other.

"What's wrong?" Nancy hissed.

"It dumped a load. Christ. It stinks!"

"That was inevitable. It's been feeding for six hours straight. "

The stagnant air made the smell worse. The others walked around the steaming lump of matter. But Nancy, wearing a filter mask, crept up to it and using a twig, poked a sample loose and into a glass jar, which she quickly capped. There was a blank label on which she inscribed the date and the words Specimen #1.

For the better part of the day, they kept moving. The Bantus took turns spelling Thorpe. At one point, the beast let out a blood-chilling roar and they thought it was about to turn ugly.

A miasmic cloud enveloped those in the rear and it was Skip King who figured it first. "The damn thing farted!"

After that, no one was willing to walk directly in the creature's tramped-down wake.

By evening, it did something they should have expected but didn't.

It stopped, looked around as if casing the area, and dropped its belly to the grass. The tail curled close to its body and the head settled flat on the grass.

"Oh my God, it's dead!" King wailed.

"Don't jump to conclusions! Who wants to investigate?"

"I'll take the trick," Thorpe said, motioning for two Bantus to follow him.

Together, they crept up on the creature. He walked around to the head, his body language indicating he was ready to shoot or run if the creature made a sudden move, and probably both.

Thorpe crept back.

"It's asleep," he reported.

"What do we do now?" King complained. "He's going to throw us all off schedule."

"You're right."

"I am?"

"Yes. We can't let him sleep away the night."

"Right."

"It was your idea," Nancy said. "Go wake him."

Skip King had his mouth open. He shut it. His eyes closed. "I am not in my element here," he muttered to no one in particular and went off to sit in the shade of a tulip tree and talk to himself in a low angry voice.

"Good," said Nancy. "This is the perfect opportunity for me to do something important."

Thorpe asked, "What?"

"I'm going to be the first zoologist to sex a dinosaur."

Nancy approached the reptile. They shone a light all over its tail, under the curve of his hind legs and generally poked around.

She came back with a disappointed look on her face.

"No luck?"

"Whatever he or she's got, it's well hidden."

"At least you didn't wake the brute."

It was while the Apatosaur slumbered that the Land Rovers were heard.

"Now who could that be?" Thorpe muttered aloud, peering into the hot twilight.

"Government men, maybe," Nancy ventured.

"Could be. Why don't I take a look?"

Taking two Bantus, Thorpe went toward the sound. The three were lost to sight in a matter of moments.

The first shot was not loud. But the ones that followed were. They cracked in the distance like firecrackers.

Then there was silence. The Apatosaur slumbered on.

Thorpe turned up twenty minutes later. Only one of the Bantus was with him and he clutched a wounded right shoulder.

"What happened?"

"Bandits. "

"Bandits?"

"Blokes in camouflage outfits driving Land Rovers."

"Not government men?"

"Government men wear khaki, not fatigues. These lads had green berets. Very French. There's nothing French about the Gondwanaland Army. They did for poor Tyrone, though. He's dead."

Nancy bandaged the other native as she asked questions.

"Poachers?"

"Poachers don't wear matching berets. These lads dressed all of a type. Can't rightly make it out, actually. "

"What do you think they want?"

"There's a lot of famine west of these parts. Fresh meat can fetch a pretty farthing on the black market."

Nancy looked up. Thorpe was staring at the slumbering dinosaur, his leathery features grim.

"You can't mean Jack?" she said. "He's the last of his kind. Worth more alive than butchered!"

Thorpe shrugged. "Out here meat is meat. I fancy even a few of these Bantus may be willing to try human flesh if things got desperate enough for them. I'm not sure I'd pass it up if the situation was sufficently sticky."

Grimly, Nancy finished what she was doing. She stood up.

"Will they be back?"

"Hard to tell. But we're sitting ducks as long as Old Jack is disposed to count sheep."

Nancy Derringer made a hard face. "I want a rifle."

"You ever handle a big-game rifle before?"

"No, but you're going to teach me. If those bastards so much as show their faces, I'm going to put them all to sleep!"

"You know," Skip King said slowly, "I think Africa's gone to your head."

"Better than it going to my gonads, like some people I know."

Remo was staring at the sprawling fieldstone structure that occupied a corner lot on a busy residential street.

It was not as big as he had expected. There were only two stories. Or was it three? It was hard to tell from the outside. Rows of dormer windows had been built into the sloping roof, turning attic space into a possible third floor.

At first glance, it did look like a castle. Also, like a Gothic church. Parts of it reminded Remo of a Swiss chalet, although it actually had Tudor features.

"It's hideous," Remo croaked.

"It is magnificent," said Chiun gliding across the street to the low wrought-iron gate.

"Oh no," Remo groaned. "He loves it."

"I thought he might," said Smith, relief in his voice. "I had better give him the key."

"Not so fast," Remo said. "What is this thing?"

"Why, Chiun's castle."

"Castle, my foot. It looks like a freaking church on steroids. You expect me to live there?"

"If you do not like it, Remo, I will be glad to make other arrangements for you. There are several condominium apartments available in the neighborhood."

Chiun floated through the gate and up a short flight of steps to the double doors. Oval windows decorated each door. Like a small child, he pressed his button nose to the glass and peered within.

The Master of Sinanju turned, his face rapturous.

"It is everything I have ever wanted," Chiun cried. Remo mounted the steps two at a time and started throwing cold water on Chiun's enthusiasm.

"I don't know, Little Father."

"What do you mean, Remo?"

"I don't think this is worthy of a Master of Sinanju."

"Remo, please," Smith pleaded.

"Where's the moat?" Remo said quickly.

Chiun looked around, as if seeing the grounds for the first time. The building was set back from the sidewalk. It was landscaped with sculpted shubbery, and mock-gaslight electric lamps studded the grounds. Tasteful flowers were in bloom. There were paved walkways and a small blacktop parking lot.

But no moat.

"We can't live in a castle without a moat," Remo said. "What will the Queen Mother say if she comes to visit?"

"A moat can be built," Chiun said.

"A dry moat is feasible," Smith said hastily.

"And it's next to a school," Remo added.

"What is wrong with that?" Chiun asked.

"The noise is going to be murder."

The Master of Sinanju looked west, where the sandstone school loomed over his domain.

"The play of happy children will bring joy to our days," he said. "And it will be good for the child who is about to be born. He will have many to play with."

"Chiun, it's a high school."

"This is fitting. The one who is about to be born deserves only the best, highest schools in the land. Emperor Smith, you have chosen well."

Remo groaned.

"Why don't we go in?" Smith said, unlocking the door.

Inside, there were many doors off a central corridor and stairs leading upward.

"It has many rooms," Chiun noted with approval.

"Sixteen in all."

"Not enough," Remo said.

"More than our last abode had by far," Chiun sniffed, eyeing Remo disdainfully.

"For maximum privacy, not all connect," Smith added, throwing one open.

Chiun peered in. He saw a cluster of rooms with open, spacious closets and an immaculate tiled bathroom. Stroking his beard, he nodded sagely and allowed, "Privacy will be important to the mother."

"Cheeta Ching is not living under the same roof as me, and that's final!" Remo snapped.

"You may sleep in the moat," Chiun returned. "After you dig it."

"Thanks a lot."

Remo went to another door and opening it, found an identical cell of rooms, like a mirror image. It also had a spic-and-span bathroom. He frowned.

"I must see the upper reaches," Chiun told Smith.

"This way," said Smith, leading them upstairs.

Upstairs was a group of cell-like rooms. When Remo tried to imagine them with furniture, all that came to mind was a cluster of cramped studio apartments. Every room boasted an identical bathroom.

Then it hit him.

"Hey, this is a freaking condo!"

"Remo!" Smith said tightly.

"Admit it."

Chiun's facial web quivered as if troubled by a sudden ill wind. "Emperor Smith," he said, his sparse eyebrows rising, "tell me of the history of this magnificent structure."

"Yes, Emperor Smith," Remo added archly, "we're all ears."

Smith cleared his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed like a floater popping into the water and up again.

"This building was once a church," he admitted.

"Ha! I knew it!"

Chiun frowned.

"A few years ago, it was completely remodeled as you see it here . . ." Smith added. "It has never been tenanted."

"In other words," Remo said flatly. "Some developer bought this place at the height of the condo craze, remodeled it, and went belly-up before he could unload the units."

Chiun's beard stroking grew studied.

"I was very fortunate in securing title at a reasonable cost," Smith said doggedly. "It is a unique place. It features all the rooms you could want, privacy, and for the Master of Sinanju, a special meditation room."

Chiun's face lit up. "Meditation room?"

"Perfect for your needs, Master Chiun," said Smith. "May I show you?"

"No," said Remo.

"Yes," said Chiun.

Harold Smith led them up to the squat tower of the former church. From the outside, it resembled a crenellated battlement. From the inside, it was a spacious area with four great windows, each facing one of the four quarters. It was full of spring sunlight.

"This is the meditation room?" Remo scoffed. "Looks more like an indoor handball court. What a joke. Nice try, Smitty, but no sale. Right, Little Father?"

Saying nothing, the Master of Sinanju padded around the room.

He went to the south window, which looked upon the street. The sun was on his face. His chin came up.

After a moment, he turned and said, "It is perfect for my needs."

"I hate it!" Remo said hotly. "I can't stand being inside."

"You may go outside," Chiun allowed.

Remo started away, growling, "Thanks."

"And return with my trunks, of course."

Fourteen trunks later, Remo took Harold W. Smith aside and said, "Nice con job."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Passing off a renovated church-turned-condo as a castle. You must have saved a bundle. Or did some bank pay you to take this white elephant off their hands?"

"The Master of Sinanju appears pleased," Smith said defensively.

"How long does that usually last?"

"I have learned that the Master of Sinanju is normally as good as his word. He appears to like this place. And he has given me his word that our latest contract will be executed as agreed."

"Don't pocket your signatures until they're dry," Remo warned.

Moments later, the squeaky voice of Chiun called them up to the meditation room.

Chiun had already unpacked one trunk. From it had come three tatami mats. Chiun had assumed a lotus position on one. The other two sat empty on the floor, facing him.

Chiun gestured for the pair to be seated.

Remo walked up to the mat, crossed his ankles as he had been taught long ago, and scissored into a lotus position on the mat.

With arthritic difficulty, Harold Smith set down his suitcase and eased his long legs down. He ended up in a half kneeling position because his legs lacked the suppleness for crossing.

Chiun spoke. His voice was tinged with ceremonial gravity.

"This is an historic day in the House of Sinanju," he intoned. "For five thousand years, the House of Sinanju has treated with the outside world. Since the days of the first Master whose name has not come down to us, to the glory that was Wang the Greater, my ancestors have given service to the thrones of China, of Greece, Rome, and Siam. The Nubians showered us with gold. The Egyptians made a place for us in their fine palaces. Even the Japanese showed us respect, never venturing into the village of Sinanju even as they conquered the surrounding towns and cities of Korea."

"Whoop di do," Remo muttered.

Chiun closed his almond eyes as if to erase the remark from memory.

"But never before have we been blessed with a castle, a home of fine stone and-"

"Blueboard walls," inserted Remo.

"Blueboard walls," continued Chiun, "rarer even than walls of beaten gold."

"Oh brother," Remo groaned.

"Emperor Smith, known in the annals of the House of Sinanju as Harold the First, beneficent one, the Master of Sinanju humbly accepts your gift."

Chiun bowed his aged head. Smith nodded in return.

"Since this gift meets with the approval of the Reigning Master, I am now free to sign the most recent agreement between our houses."

"I have it right here," Smith said, plucking a parchment roll from somewhere in his coat. It was edged in gold and tied with a blue silk ribbon. He proffered it to Chiun.

The Master of Sinanju accepted it and undid the ribbon. He read the contract over in silence. At the end, he set the scroll on the floor and weighed down each corner with polished stones.

Then, taking up a quill from an inkstone at his knee, he scratched out his name with a flourish.

He blew on it, and satisfied that the signature was dry, lifted the scroll to show all.

"That is satisfactory," said Smith solemnly.

"How many years are we indentured for this time?" Remo asked nobody in particular.

"One," said Smith.

"Too long," said Remo.

Solemnly, Chiun rolled the parchment up and tied it with a gold ribbon, signifying a sealed contract. He extended this to Smith, who took it and tucked it in his coat.

A silence followed. Chiun looked to Smith with expectant features.

Smith looked back, a growing puzzlement on his thin face. He tested the knot of his tie. He swallowed. He checked his glasses to see that they were pushed back as far as they could go-the way he liked them.

"He's waiting," Remo hinted.

"For what?" Smith breathed.

"It's only a guess, but I'd say the deed."

Chiun's tight smile quirked.

"Definitely the deed," Remo said.

"Ah," said Smith. From another pocket, he extracted a folded group of papers. He extended these. Chiun accepted them.

The Master of Sinanju fell to studying these at great length while Smith shifted position to encourage circulation in his stiffening legs.

"All is satisfactory," Chiun pronounced at last.

Smith started to rise.

"It will be an honor if you would pass the night in our new abode," said Chiun.

"Really, I must be returning to Folcroft."

"It is customary," said Chiun.

"That means do it or hear about it the rest of your natural life," Remo translated.

"Very well," said Harold W. Smith, trying to sound grateful, but instead coming across as constipated.

Chiun beamed. "A wonderful meal will be prepared in your honor."

"Better make that takeout," said Remo. "No stove. No food."

Chiun clapped delicate hands together, producing a report so sharp it should have shattered his fingerbones. "Remo! Quickly-purchase these things."

"I don't think we can get same-day delivery."

"Tell the merchants that these items are to make a sumptuous meal for Emperor Harold Smith, the secret ruler of this gracious land."

Smith looked horrorstruck. "Please do not say that, Remo!" he croaked.

"Don't sweat it, Smitty. Rubber walls don't appeal to me right now. Although they might suit me fine if Cheeta moves in."

"And a television device," Chiun added. "A large one, for within hours, beauteous Cheeta Ching will dispense wisdom and grace upon this generous land."

"Maybe this is a good time to clear the air," Remo suggested.

"You may clear the air after you have cooked Emperor Smith a feast suitable for his regal belly," Chiun countered.

"Cook! I'm the errand boy. Who says I gotta cook, too?"

"Your conscience."

"Huh?"

"Your conscience so says. Are you not listening to it, Remo?"

"No, I am not. I want to talk about Cheeta Ching, her biscuit in the oven, and our future."

"Remo is correct, Master Chiun," said Smith. "I know this is a delicate matter, but it would not be wise to invite Cheeta Ching to cohabitate with you."

Chiun blew out his cheeks at the rude American word. He held his tongue, however.

"I intend no such thing," he said stiffly.

"Good," said Smith.

"Great," said Remo.

"Cheeta the Graceful is a married woman. I will not cohabitate with her. That is her husband's happy duty."

"Great," said Remo.

"Wonderful," said Smith.

"She will only dwell here, she and her offspring."

"No," groaned Remo.

"Have you asked her?" asked Smith.

"Not as yet," Chiun admitted. "I am awaiting the proper time, which will be soon, for she waxes full in childbirth as a yellow moon of fecundity."

Smith cleared his throat. "There may be difficulties, Master Chiun."

"Such as . . ."

"Cheeta lives and works in New York City."

"So? She may live and work in this city of previous emperors."

Remo blinked. "This place?"

"Quincy was the birthplace of two early presidents," Smith said.

"Nice touch," Remo whispered to Smith. "I can see how you sold him on this rock pile."

"Thank you." To Chiun, Smith said, "Miss Ching is bound by contract to work out of New York City. I doubt that she will break that contract for the privilege of living here."

"That remains to be seen," Chiun sniffed.

"Er, of course."

"Cheeta will have no need of employment once her child comes. It would be unseemly."

Remo laughed. "You don't know Cheeta. The original 'I can have it all' superanchorwoman."

"Silence! Why are you not about your errands, slothful one? The day is growing short."

Remo got up. "I'll leave you two to work out Cheeta's maternity leave."

He went down the stairs with no more sound than a puff of air.

After Remo had departed, the Master of Sinanju leaned forward and confided in his emperor. "Do not fret, Oh wise Smith. Remo's dark mood will pass. It is always thus with the firstborn."

"Master Chiun?"

"They always fear being supplanted by the children who follow."

Smith swallowed. "But Remo does have a point."

"Yes, he does," Chiun admitted.

"I am glad you see it that way."

"Perhaps the next time he undergoes plastic surgery, this can be remedied."

Smith looked blank.

"I think he should have a proper Korean nose, like mine. Not one that is so large and ends in an unsightly point."

And the Master of Sinanju winked mischievously.

Chapter 7

Miraculously, they reached the railhead at M'nolo KiGor without any further incidents.

It had been another day's trek. They had run out of fresh jungle chocolate and were down to their last two baskets of toadstools.

This slowed them down because the Apatosaur every so often got tired of toadstool. They solved this by spacing them further apart. Hunger drove the beast onward.

Skip King had been in touch with the railhead by walkie-talkie and arrangements had been made.

"It's all set," he said as they watched Old Jack lumber toward the railroad tracks. "The train is waiting. All we have to do is get him onto the flatcar."

"And how do you propose to do that?" Nancy asked flintily.

"I was going to leave that up to you, since you're in charge now," King sneered.

It was a problem, Nancy realized. She huddled with Thorpe and the Bantus.

"Any suggestions?"

"Frankly, Dr. Derringer, I don't think there's any way it can be done. If we trank the big bugger, we're talking about ten tons of dead reptilian weight. And getting him to climb onto a flatcar on his own hook is out of the question."

Nancy chewed her lower lip and made thoughtful faces.

"There must be a way."

She looked over to Skip King, who was fanning his sharp face with his bush hat.

"Wait a minute," she murmured. "King set up this whole thing. Surely, he had some semiworkable plan in mind."

"I'll ask him."

Thorpe walked over and conferred with King. Nancy noticed the grin coming over King's lean face and knew what was coming next.

"King wants you to ask him."

"There's a price attached, I'm sure," Nancy said, striding over to him. "All right, King, I understand you have a plan."

King tried to keep the smugness out of his face and failed. "We have to do it my way. Under my command."

"Why?"

"So people won't say Skip King didn't pull his own weight."

"Let me guess. You're planning to have every moment recorded for posterity."

"I'm a big home movie fan."

Nancy sighed. "All right, King. It's your show. But it's your failure if you screw up."

"Skip King never screws up when he has his way."

"I hate myself for letting this happen," Nancy told Thorpe a moment later.

"Keep your pecker up, as we Brits say."

King called the Bantus together.

"I'm in charge again. Savvy?"

They stared at him.

"I want the trank rifles distributed and every man ready to bring Old Jack down when I give the signal. Any questions?"

No one spoke.

"Good. And let's get those T-shirts turned around, this is going to be recorded for posterity."

No one moved.

"Now!"

Reluctantly, the Bantus peeled off their sweaty, dirt-smeared T-shirts and put them on right side out. None of them talked among themselves, but every man seemed to have the same idea at the same time because they put them on with the Burger Triumph logos on their backs, leaving the fronts blank.

King glared at them. "I give up."

"Missy Nancy in charge again?" one asked.

"No!"

They stalked the Apatosaur, sowing toadstools in its path. Like some tireless beast of burden, it lumbered along. From time to time it took notice of them, but as long as there were morsels to be found along the path, the creature paid the tiny humans no heed.

When they were within a quarter mile of the railroad, King got the expedition organized.

"You, you, and you, keep Old Jack moving. And be ready to use your weapons when I say." He turned to Nancy and Thorpe. "The rest of you tag along. You're about to see genius at work."

The railhead was nothing more than a half rotted platform, a signal house and one rusty length of track. The old Marxist government of Gondwanaland had thought it could save money by building only one set of tracks. They hadn't thought to install a signal system and after six train wrecks in the first year, they spent the money they had saved-plus thirty percent more-installing a switching-and-signal system.

The waiting train consisted of two locomotives in front and a pusher in back. Between them was a heavily reinforced flatcar and a decrepit passenger car.

"That's it," King said. "The way to Port Chuma is straight as an arrow. Once we get Old Jack up on that car, it should be a cinch."

"That's a big 'if,' " Nancy clucked.

"You watch."

King measured out a length of the approach with his feet, saying, "I paced the monster when it was asleep, so I'd know exactly how long to mark off." He scuffed an X at either end of the line he had paced off.

"Okay," he said, clapping his hands together, "everything we need is on the train."

At the train, King was met by a man in a purple beret and a Boy Scout blue uniform burdened by heavy ropes of gold braid. He called others out.

Noticing the outfits, Nancy asked Thorpe, "Recognize the uniforms?"

"Can't say that I do."

As they got close, King dispelled all their questions.

"This is Sergeant Shakes."

"Of what?" Thorpe wondered.

King grinned proudly. "The Burger Berets. Our special purposes strike team. Created just for this operation."

Nancy and Thorpe looked at one another.

"I don't know whether to laugh or cry," Nancy undertoned.

"Let's be polite to the gentlemen," Thorpe said. "Gents, what's your pleasure?"

Sergeant Shakes began offloading great canvas sacks tied with drawstring. "Bring these over to the line," he said.

They got them over and King ordered the back opened. They looked like post office mail sacks, but much heavier.

King brought the first leather-and-cable harness out. It was over a dozen feet long, and the leather was cut broad and riveted together in layers.

"The idea is to lay these out every so many feet. Got that?"

Nancy gave one of the straps a thorough examination.

"A harness?"

"Tested until it can take one thousand foot-pounds of weight per square inch."

"Impressive," she murmured.

"Glad you think so."

"But how are you going to convince Clark Kent to gather them all up once you drop Old Jack onto these? That is your brilliant plan, isn't it?"

"All except the Clark Kent part," King said.

They got the straps laid. King went back and forth, adjusting the intervals, until he was satisfied.

Then they found places to wait, rifles at the ready and videocams whirring.

Soon, the ground was rumbling under their feet and the dayglow saurian face loomed out of the bush like the Serpent of Eden.

"No one shoot until I say so," King warned. "Cameramen, come in tight on me."

The creature lumbered closer, the Bantus coming ahead of it, placing food.

"Thorpe!" King snapped. "Tell them to stop. I want a whole pile of it dumped out right where that flat rock is."

Thorpe came out from behind some nettles and collected the last basket of toadstools. He set the basket down onto the flat rock, and found cover again.

Old Jack paused. Its head swung around as if searching for something familiar.

"He doesn't see the damn toadstools!" King hissed.

"I'll fix that," Nancy said, running out.

She got in the creature's path and waved her arms.

"Here! Jack! Follow me!"

The beast looked at her. It made a low sound.

"Just a little closer."

It started forward. Nancy backed away. The reptile shook the dry ground with each step, throwing up dusty puffs that hung low a long time in the still African air.

Nancy walked backward until one heel touched the basket. Then she quickly turned and dumped it out, stomping the fungi into a malodorous morass.

"That should do it," she said, joining Thorpe in the bush.

The creature picked up its pace. The thumping of the earth came at closer intervals.

It stopped, straddling the straps and attacked the food that had been laid out for it.

Skip King popped out of the bush and put his rifle to his shoulder. He gave his cameramen three seconds to frame the shot, then fired three times into the thickest part of the creature's tail.

Only then did he shout, "Now! Open fire!"

Rifles poked out of the brush all around, bucked, and made harsh noises.

Tranquilizer darts feathered different places in the monster's anatomy.

Nothing happened.

"Why doesn't he go down?" King wailed, eyes sick.

"It takes a while," Nancy said. "The Apatosaur circulatory system is huge so the tranquilizers have a lot of bloodstream to run before they reach the sleep receptors of the brain."

It took nearly three minutes, but the great legs began shuddering. Slowly the dinosaur eased itself down into an awkward kneel, lowering its stomach to the dusty earth. The head came up from its meal and craned back as if to see why the body was not being supported by the sequoia-thick legs; finally the eyes surrendered and the head came to rest curled back toward the body, like a sleeping cat.

"Shakes-call in the cavalry!"

"Cavalry?" Nancy muttered.

Sergeant Shakes got on a walkie-talkie. Before long the sky was reverberating with the racket of a massive helicopter skycrane. It was white, its stick-thin wheel assemblies hanging insectlike from the gaping space where a cargo container would normally be carried.

Nancy stood watching it with her mouth hanging open and a look of disbelief on her face.

"This can't possibly work!"

"Might," Thorpe allowed.

It did.

Under King's frantic direction, the Bantus swarmed over the inert carcass. The cable ends were brought together on the back of the creature's spine and affixed to cables lowered from the hovering skycrane.

When it was all rigged, King gave a prearranged signal.

"Lift!"

The skycrane began to lift, its rotors making the tawny savanna grass shiver in sympathy. The cables lifted, grew taut, and everyone held their breath.

The head, being lighter, lifted up first. The meaty part of the tail came off the ground.

The helicopter engine whined and grew shrill from strain. It seemed for a long time the weight of the great saurian would defeat it, but then the hindquarters came off the ground, followed by the breast and the belly.

Slowly; the monster was brought over the string of cars and-with infinite patience-aligned with the reinforced flatcar.

King ran around frantically checking and screaming into the walkie-talkie.

"Okay, begin lowering. And the pilot who screws up will be flying a crop duster in darkest Iowa the rest of his life."

The long flatcar platform received the belly with a groaning of springs and a threatening squeaking. The hanging legs bent up at the knees and assumed unnatural positions that brought to mind a dressed turkey, but meant the legs would not be crushed by the weight of the body.

The head, limp and lifeless, dropped into the dirt and looked dead.

"The poor thing," Nancy said plaintively.

The tip of the tail dropped off the end, but the thick root lay safely on the flatcar bed. There came a final groan of complaining steel, and no more.

The skycrane sank lower and the cables grew lax.

"Looks like it's going to work," King said, voice strung tight. "Looks like . . . Yes! Yes! Yes! It's another triumph for Burger Triumph!"

The cables were unsnapped and stowed along the sides of the cars, ready for later off-loading. Folding gates were raised to form a low cage, but it was obvious that should the cargo ever shift, nothing could prevent a catastrophe.

"Okay," King called, even though everyone was within whispering distance, "we get the head and tail onto the cars and then we're ready to move."

The Bantus took the tail. They wanted no part of the head.

Nancy stayed close to the Burger Beret team as they muscled the head off the ground and tried to find a place to put it.

"The damn neck's too long," King said in exasperation.

"Why don't you just cut the head off?" Nancy suggested.

King looked up, a gleam in his eyes. Then it died. "What am I thinking? No, we can't do that!"

Nancy smiled. "Just testing your brain. It's working-just a little slow."

"How about a little credit for a job well done?"

"We're a long way from Port Chuma," Nancy shot back. "And if you're open to suggestions, I have one."

King looked around to see if there were any cameras recording the conversation. Finding none, he said, "Go ahead."

"The head might fit into the cab of the second locomotive."

King looked from Nancy to the locomotive. Then he stood up and cupped his hands over his mouth. "Hey, everybody, I had a brainstorm! We can fit the head into locomotive cab!"

Clambering down, he mumbled a grudging, "Thanks."

"Oh, don't mention it."

It took nearly every hand to maneuver the head in, but they did it.

"All right, everyone," King shouted, "space is tight so find a place to ride and we'll be off."

"There isn't room for everybody," Thorpe pointed out.

"Let the natives trot alongside the train."

"Be serious."

"Then leave them behind."

"You can't mean that!"

"No? Maybe next time they'll wear the sponsor's shirts with pride."

"If they stay, I stay," Thorpe said firmly.

"Then you stay. The check will be in the mail."

"If he stays, I stay," Nancy added.

King considered. What he would have said remained unspoken.

"Dr. Derringer, I can handle this from here," Thorpe said. "You stick with Old Jack. Maybe we'll meet up in the States."

Nancy hesitated. She glared daggers at King and took Thorpe's hand in a firm clasp.

"Good luck, Thorpe."

"Cheerio."

King snapped his fingers so hard they stung. "Wait! I almost forgot! Just in case, we've got to send a package ahead."

"Package?"

"A film package."

They called down the skycrane and passed off three video cassettes. The helicopter lifted into the blue sky and rattled off toward the east.

Then the locomotives were fired up. They were steam models. It took some time. Everyone helped shovel coal. Except Skip King. He found the most comfortable seat in the lone passenger car behind the cargo car and popped a beer he pulled from an ice chest.

All the locomotives started up at once.

Great iron wheels screeched as they attempted to revolve. Couplings clanked.

And bearing its monstrous cargo, the train began moving.

They got up to twenty-five miles an hour and held that speed for the remainder of the day. King was talking nonstop.

"I wonder who should publish the excerpts from my biography?" he wondered aloud as a blur of jungle ran past the windows. "Vanity Fair or-"

"Mad magazine," Nancy finished.

"Don't mind her, boys," King told the attentive Berets, "she's just post-menstrual. It'll pass."

When no one joined in his braying laughter, King took a cold sip and said. "Well, we've all had a rough day."

Less that thirty miles from Port Chuma, the engineer spotted the logs on the tracks and blew his whistle. He hit the air brakes.

It was a European-style engine. There was no cow catcher. Just a pair of spring-loaded rams mounted in the front of the lead boiler.

The brakes took. Screeching, the train slid that last hundred yards, to stop just shy of the barrier of logs.

"What it is?" King muttered. "Why'd we stop?"

The sound of gunfire gave him his first clue.

Out of the bush poured knots of black men in camouflage fatigues with green berets perched on their heads. They carried Skorpion machine pistols.

"Bandits!" King shouted. "Burger Berets, do your corporate duty!"

Nancy grabbed his shoulder. "Are you crazy, King? If there's a gun fight, we'll be certain to lose Jack!"

King shook off the clutching hand.

"Relax baby," he said. "Skip King knows what he's doing." He took an AR-15 away from a Burger Beret, dashed out the glass in the window, and shouting, "Have it your way!" opened fire.

There was immediate return fire and Nancy dived to the floor.

For a firefight, it went on a long time.

The Burger Berets laid down covering fire. Return fire was sporadic. Nancy hugged the floor, face cradled in her crossed arms to protect it against flying glass and splinters.

The popping of the AR-15s filled the car, and she was forced to clap her hands over her ears. They were still sensitive from the abuse they had taken after King had fired his trank gun in her ear.

"Okay!" King shouted. "Get ready to jump. I'll cover you."

The Burger Berets piled out, shooting.

"Don't worry, Nancy, I'll protect you!"

"Jackass!" Nancy spat. "Who's going to protect Jack!"

"Don't sweat it. God looks out for fools and dinosaurs."

The firing came in percussive waves. King emptied two clips and was ramming a fresh one home when the car door was thrown open and a deep basso voice said in slightly Oxford-flavored English, "You are all prisoners of the Congress for a Green Africa."

Nancy looked up.

A wide-faced black man with a curly black beard was smiling at them with his teeth and menacing them with the muzzle of his machine pistol.

Nancy decided the weapon canceled out the teeth and lifted her hand at the elbows, saying, "We surrender."

"Speak for yourself," King said defiantly. "I may want to tough this out."

"If you don't shoot that idiot," Nancy said in a bitter voice. "I want the privilege."

King looked from Nancy to the black man to Nancy again and lay down his weapon.

"A seasoned jungle fighter can tell when he's outflanked," he grumbled, throwing up his hands. "I choose to live to fight another day."

Nancy spoke up. "Somebody please tell me that Old Jack is safe."

"You mean mokele m'bembe?" asked the basso voice.

Nancy looked startled. "Mokele m'bembe is what they call Jack in Gabon."

"And I am from Gabon, come to claim mokele m'bembe for my country."

Chapter 8

Harold W. Smith was explaining the painstaking selection process that resulted in the acquisition of a castle for the Master of Sinanju while he attempted to get the morsels of steamed rice to his mouth with the silver chopsticks provided.

The rice kept falling back, and he succeeded only in getting three or four grains to his tongue each time, and then only because the stuff had a sticky consistency.

"There were several operational considerations beyond simply satisfying the Master of Sinanju," Smith was saying.

"Where does simple come in?" Remo growled, poking at his duck, which he had already pronounced as too greasy. Chiun had countered that the cook should not complain about his own cooking, but should strive for perfection. "Simple is a nice clapboard house with a white picket fence. Simple is not a castle."

"Remo, eat your duck," Chiun said.

"It's greasy."

"The cook was inferior. Continue, Emperor Smith."

"A city large enough for the two of you to blend in was of paramount importance," Smith said. "Small town people tend to be too sensitive to those who do not fit in, and would be apt to snoop."

"Couldn't have us kill every old lady who came to peer through our venetian blinds," Remo grumbled, taking up his bowl of rice. He began eating with his fingers because it would annoy the Master of Sinanju.

"You are eating like a Chinaman," Chiun said, nose wrinkling.

"So I'm eating like a Chinaman. Sue me."

Smith continued. "Proximity to a major airport is critical, of course. You must be able to move on a moment's notice."

"If the world depends on us getting through Boston traffic in less than a day, I'd say the world has a grim prognosis."

Chiun said, "We will walk to the airport if necessary, Emperor Smith. For our gratitude knows no bounds."

"There is public transportation," Smith said. "Another consideration."

"I can see the headlines now," Remo said through a mouthful of rice, knowing it would make Chiun complain about his manners, " 'SUBWAY PASSENGER REFUSES TO GIVE UP SEAT FOR KOREAN MAN; TRAIN PULLS INTO STATION WITH ALL ABOARD DEAD.'"

"Remo, do not speak with your mouth full."

"So, today I'm a Chinaman."

"Today, you are a Chinaman and a Thai. Thais talk with their mouths full. This is why they do not wear beards which might catch expelled rice grains."

"Maybe I'll grow a beard," Remo muttered.

"You have too much unsightly facial hair to grow a proper beard," said Chiun, stroking the thin tendril of hair clinging to his tiny chin. "Do not pay him any heed, Emperor Smith," he confided in Smith. "Remo is in a cranky mood because he will have to sleep indoors tonight, for his moat is not yet ready."

"Har de har har har," Remo said, swallowing.

"Additionally," Smith said doggedly, "I took the demographic makeup of the local population into consideration."

"I have no objection to dwelling among Demographs," Chiun said loftily. "As long as there are an equal number of Republicrats to keep their spendthrift tendencies in line."

Smith set down his rice, giving up.

"You should have no problem shopping for correct foods and other items," he said.

"The rice Remo was able to purchase locally is of good quality. And the duck would have been superb-if prepared properly."

"I am glad everything is satisfactory," said Smith.

"It is." said Chiun. "All we lack is the sound of a child's happy laughter."

"And the sour reek of unchanged diapers," Remo muttered.

Chiun frowned. "Remo," he said in a steady tone, "Soon Cheeta will once again shower this land with her wisdom and grace. Please serve dessert and turn on the television device."

"I do not think my diet will allow me to eat dessert," Smith said.

"Your diet will definitely allow you to eat these," said Remo, pointing to a linen-covered basket set in the center of the circle in which they sat.

Remo reached over and lifted the basket by the handle, snatching away the linen.

"Enjoy."

Smith frowned. He saw a cluster of small horny brown shapes. Gingerly, he lifted one.

"What are these?" Smith asked in a doubtful tone.

"Lichee nuts," said Remo.

"How does one remove the shell?"

"You do it like so," said Remo, digging a thumbnail into the area of the stem and popping the top off to expose the juicy white grapelike fruit. Then he broke away the remaining shell and popped the fruit into his mouth.

Smith attempted the same operation. He managed to crush the fruit in its shell and, embarrassed, swallowed it with bits of shell still clinging to it.

Chiun stared at him in horror. Smith, seeing this, looked to Remo, who was spitting the biggest pit he had ever seen this side of a peach into a flat, silver dish.

"You're supposed to lose the pit," Remo said.

"I do not think I will have another," Smith said weakly.

"Good. But because one is all Chiun and I are allowed. Right, Little Father?"

The Master of Sinanju took his litchi nut between his extra long fingernails and performed an operation that seemed not to break the shell, but suddenly it lay at his feet, along with the pit. The limp white meat went into his mouth. He chewed it for over a minute, until the pulp was liquid. Then he swallowed the result as if it were a refreshing nectar.

"And now it is time for Cheeta," Chiun said in a satisfied voice.

Remo grabbed the clicker and pointed it at the large screen television he had purchased earlier and carted by hand up the stairs. That had been the easy part. Chiun had made him move it sixteen times until the sun was not reflected on the screen.

"Anybody know which channel she's on locally?" Remo asked as he ran up and down the channels.

"Remo! Hurry! I must not miss a moment of Cheeta's-"

"Screed," Remo muttered, stopping when the familiar BCN News graphic filled the screen.

Chiun's tight features relaxed, and his nails touched delicately as his eyes fell on the face of Cheeta Ching, the Korean anchorwoman with whom he had been infatuated for over a decade now. Her face, under a layer of pancake makeup thick enough to pass as cake frosting, was puffy. She was due in six weeks, and Remo dreaded the approaching day.

"Hello. This is the BCN Evening News with Cheeta Ching. "

Chiun sighed. "What eloquence."

"What crap," Remo muttered.

Smith sat attentively.

Cheeta fixed her predatory eyes on the camera. "Tonight, a startling video out of Africa-and a mystery. Did the Burger Triumph corporation send a safari into the darkest Gondwanaland to bring 'em back alive only to fall into a snare themselves?"

The camera zoomed in on Cheeta's flat features.

"BCN News has obtained an exclusive video of what may be confirmation of what explorers and natives have been claiming for over a century. That deep in the Gondwanaland's imperiled Kanda Tract, an actual dinosaur survives."

Remo brightened. "No kidding!"

"Here is a clip reportedly shot last night by a Burger Triumph-sponsored exploration team," Cheeta announced.

Remo sat up straighter. Chiun's eyes narrowed.

The clip ran nearly three minutes-long for network TV.

It showed an orange-and-black long-necked dinosaur lumber out of a swatch of jungle growth and fall before a withering fusillade of rifle fire.

"A spokesman for Burger Triumph assures us that only nonlethal tranquilizer bullets were employed to stun the creature, which appears to be some sort of dinosaur."

"Brontosaur, you dip," Remo said,.

"Remo, hush," Chiun admonished.

"How can she call herself a reporter when she doesn't even recognize a Brontosaur when she sees one?"

"Actually," Smith started to say, "it is a-"

"Silence!" Chiun thundered, and both men fell silent.

Cheeta Ching was still doing a voice-over as scenes of the dinosaur falling onto its stomach were played and replayed.

"After this footage was shot," she said, "the monster was loaded on a train and set out for the capital, Port Chuma. Mysteriously, no trace of the train has been seen in over twenty-four hours. Authorities in Port Chuma express confidence that the train, with its strange cargo, will eventually be found. But as of this hour, there are no new developments to report."

"Which is anchorspeak for 'We don't know nothing,' " Remo said sourly.

"A Burger Triumph spokesman who asked not to be named said the company is considering launching a second expedition to locate the first. Next up, an interview with my personal gynecologist with his thirdtrimester report. But first, this message."

The screen cut to a different shot of Cheeta Ching extolling the virtues of a home pregnancy testing kit, and Remo and Smith looked to Chiun to see if it was acceptable to talk or not.

Chiun's eyes were narrow. Almost slits. He was very still.

He turned to meet Smith's gaze with his own.

"Emperor Smith, I crave a boon, as ungrateful as it may sound."

"Yes?"

"Dispatch Remo and me to Africa to seek those who are lost."

"Oh no!" Remo said harshly. "I'd rather stay here than go to Africa. I've been there. It's hot and it stinks."

"I will go alone, then," Chiun said coldly.

"Why?" asked Smith.

Chiun made a face. "I cannot tell you, but granting this boon may mean that the House of Sinanju will continue to serve America far into the next century."

Smith looked to Remo. Remo shrugged. Smith cleared his throat. "Well, since these people are American citizens, I suppose you could go. So long as you are discreet."

Like smoke rising, the Master of Sinanju came to his feet. He bowed once. Then, padding over to the TV, he did something that made Remo's mouth hang open in surprise.

He switched off the set just as Cheeta Ching was starting to speak.

"Remo, you and I will look into the Shortsleeve question while Master Chiun is away," Smith offered.

"Nothing doing," said Remo, finding his voice. "I don't know what's got into Chiun, but if it is big enough to make him turn off Cheeta Ching in midyap, I want to be along for the ride."

They ran the rental van back to the airport, dropped Smith off at the departure terminal, and drove on to international departures.

Remo bought two round-trip tickets to Port Chuma, using a credit card that identified him as Remo Burton, with the Department of Health and Human Services. He had a matching passport.

"Proof of shots?" asked the ticket agent.

"Would someone from the Department of Health and Human Services be going to Africa if he didn't have his shots?" Remo asked in a firm voice.

The agent thought not, and the tickets were surrendered.

Over the Atlantic, they sat in a silence that was not broken until they reached London, where they had to change planes.

At Heathrow, Remo decided to break the ice.

"Care to tell a fellow traveler why he's traveling?"

"No."

"Toss a hint in my direction, then?"

"Reflect upon the lesson of Master Yong."

Remo reflected. In the early days of his training in Sinanju, Chiun used to drum into his head the exploits of past Masters. Each Master, it seemed, was remembered for one special reason. Wang because he discovered the sun source. Yeng because he was too greedy. Yokang because he consorted with Japanese women and caught certain diseases from them. Remo had learned about every Master--or so he thought. In recent years, there had been fewer legends. Remo had assumed it was because Chiun had run out of Masters, but was forced to conclude that the true reason was that in Chiun's eyes, Remo had grown to full Masterhood, the penultimate step toward Reigning Master status, which Remo could only achieve upon Chiun's death or retirement.

Master Yong, Remo could not remember.

He wracked his brain as the British 747 winged its way to Africa.

"Yong, Yong, Yong," he muttered aloud. "Not Bong. He discovered India. Can't be Nonga. He was deaf and dumb."

"Render it in English," Chiun said thinly.

Over his twenty-year association with the Master of Sinanju, Remo had picked up a little Korean here and there until one day he found himself, to his infinite surprise, considering that he had flunked French I three years running in school, fluent in the language.

"Dragon!" he said snapping his fingers. "Yong means dragon."

"Some Masters are remembered for their true names, others-those held in contempt-are remembered by false names so as not to shame their ancestors. It is so with Yong."

"Yeah? What'd he do?"

The Master of Sinanju made a face. He touched his thin beard as if debating the wisdom of answering the question.

"I will tell you if you promise not to reveal what I am about to divulge to Emperor Smith."

"Family secret, huh?"

"A deep shame is attached to Yong the Gluttonous."

"Gluttonous? Are we off to Africa to make the world safe for hamburger companies?"

"Silence! If your ears would hear, your mouth must be still. Preferably closed."

Remo folded his bare arms. It was cool in the big jet and his arm hairs were lifting in response. He willed them to lay flat and they did. It was a minor example of the nearly total control he exercised over every cell in his superbly trained body.

Chiun began speaking.

"The story I am about to tell you transpired in the Year of the Peacock."

"Give me a number."

"I do not know the American year and I do not care," Chiun retorted. "In these days we served the Middle Kingdom, Cathay, a land of barbarians who ate their rice with their fingers."

"Don't rub it in."

"Master Yong-not his real name of course-was summoned to the throne of Cathay. For a great dragon was devouring rice farmers and other subjects of the Chinese emperor. This being how dragons typically passed their days.

"Now the days of which I speak are the old days of Sinanju, before Wang, who discovered the sun source. This was when Masters performed many functions, and not merely practicing the assassin's art. Masters in those days would perform executions for the proper price. For this task, a previous Master had had forged a tremendous sword, known as the Sword of Sinanju. Later, as you know, Remo, the thieving Chinese stole this great trophy, and kept it."

"Until we got it back," said Remo.

"Until Chiun the Great recovered it, aided by a white lackey who may or may not be recorded in the Book of Sinanju under his true name," Chiun said frostily.

"I want to be remembered as Remo the Long-Suffering."

Face impassive, the Master of Sinanju resumed speaking, "When Yong appeared before the Chinese emperor, he had with him the great Sword of Sinanju because in those days one never knew what service Chinese emperors would demand. A courtesan might require beheading. Or the garbage might have to be taken out. To Yong's surprise, it was none of these things. He was asked to slay a dragon."

"Really?"

Chiun nodded. "In those days, dragons were more plentiful than they are now, but still rare. Yong had never before beheld a dragon, although he had heard tales of their fierceness and fury. This particular dragon was known as Wing Wang Wo."

Remo lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "The dragon had a name?"

"This dragon did. Yong agreed to slay the dragon, but not for the usual sum of gold. He asked the Chinese emperor for only one thing in return. The dragon's carcass."

"The Chinese emperor agreed to this. For like all of his line, he was penurious. That means cheap, Remo."

"I figured it out from the context," Remo grumbled.

"It does no harm to explain the difficult words when dealing with willful children," Chiun said. "Now Yong ventured out into the Chinese countryside. And soon he came upon a magnificent if cranky dragon, storming about, its iridescent green-and-gold scales ablaze in the harsh Chinese sun."

"Yong thought he saw a dragon?"

"Yong did see a dragon. And knowing that only the foolhardy attacks a foe without first studying him, Yong watched this dragon go about his business of devouring simple peasants."

"Yong didn't stop the dragon?"

Chiun shrugged. "Interrupting Wing Wang Wo's meals was not in Yong's contract. Now be silent, One-Whose-Tongue-Is-Never-Still.

"Soon, Yong devised a plan. First he caught the dragon's attention by bestowing upon him an insulting Chinese hand gesture."

"Flipped him the bird, huh?"

Chiun glared.

"Sorry." Remo fell silent.

"Naturally," Chiun resumed, "this enraged Wing Wang Wo, who blazed ineffectual flames at the ever-nimble Yong. Hurling cutting taunts, Yong lured the dragon to a cave he had explored earlier.

"Seeking to avenge his sullied honor, the dragon naturally followed. For-and you must always remember this, Remo-a dragon's breath is the only thing about them that can truly be called bright."

Remo winced.

"Once in the great cave, Yong hid behind a great stone. The dragon padded past him unsuspecting, the sulphur of its breath blocking its own nostrils. The great arrowlike tail dragged past, and Yong slipped back out of the cave to climb onto a ledge just above the cave mouth, where he had placed the Sword of Sinanju, which was seven feet in length and a mighty weapon."

Chiun lifted an imaginary sword in both thin-fingered hands. His voice shook in the telling.

"Sword held high, Yong waited patiently."

Up and down the aisles, the passengers within hearing paused to listen attentively.

"In time, the dull-witted Wing Wang Wo stuck his thick head out of the cave mouth, whereupon Yong relieved him of this trophy with one swift blow. Chuk!"

Chiun brought the imaginary sword down.

"Ouch," said Remo.

"The dragon whelmed, Yong had its meat stripped away and-"

"He ate the dragon?"

Shaking his head, Chiun lifted a long finger. "No. Yong wanted only the bones. For he knew what the Chinese emperor did not. That dragon bones are a potent medicine. Mixed in an elixir and drunk, they prolonged life. Yong drank dragon elixir every month for the remainder of his days, even though twice a year would have sufficed. And that is why Yong lived to a venerable age."

"Yeah? How long do Sinanju Masters normally live?"

"Only one hundred to one hundred twenty years. It is because we work so hard and are unappreciated."

"I feel for you," suddenly remembering that Chiun had turned 100 a couple of years ago. The thought made him feel cold inside.

"Master Yong lived to be an undeserved one hundred forty-eight years in age," Chiun sniffed. "For he squandered every dragon bone brought back from Cathay in prolonging his own selfish life. And it is for this reason, Remo, that Yong is known in the annals of Sinanju as Yong the Gluttonous."

Mild applause rippled along the aisles. The passengers returned to their magazines and their meals.

"All right," Remo said slowly, trying to figure out what this had to do with a possible dinosaur in Africa. "Yong was a pig. But what-" Then it hit him.

"Hold the phone, Little Father."

"What phone?"

"You know what I mean. Are we by chance off on a wild dragon hunt?"

"I am not aware of any dragons that are not wild."

"Chiun, if you're thinking of grinding up dinosaur bones just so you can live to be as old as Methuselah, I think Smith is going to have something to say about that."

Chiun's hazel eyes grew veiled. "Of course. He is going to say how pleased he is that he will have a proper Master to serve him for many years to come. Perhaps, Remo, when I am one hundred forty, you will be wise enough in years so I can properly retire to my humble village."

"By that time, I'll be retirement age myself."

"Americans retire in their prime," Chiun said dismissively. "It is a foolish thing."

"Besides, a dinosaur is not a dragon. There is no such animal. Dragons are mythological."

"Since when are you an expert on dragons?"

"Since never. But when I was a kid, I was a major dinosaur fan. I still know all the names by heart, Iguanodon, Stegosaur, Triceratops, Allosaurus, and the overwhelming favorite of St. Theresa's Orphanage, Tyrannosaurus Rex. And what we saw on TV was a Brontosaurus-assuming the footage wasn't faked."

"It is a dragon."

"Dragons have big bat wings and breathe fire."

"Ha!" Chiun crowed. "A moment ago you refused to believe in dragons. Now you know all about them."

"I know a dragon from a dinosaur. You're chasing after a freaking dinosaur."

"Merely another word for an African dragon. Perhaps it is a Zulu word. I am sure his bones are as efficacious as a Chinese dragon. If not more so."

"No chance."

"You are obviously prejudiced against African dragons. It's a terrible thing, racism. I will have to drum this white failing out of you once this assignment is over with."

"I give up."

Chiun smiled. "I knew you would."

Chapter 9

Nancy Derringer sat in the dirt around the makeshift campfire listening to the man who claimed to lead the Congress for a Green Africa. He had identified himself as Commander Malu.

The commander made a long, windy speech about African pride and the rape of the Continent by colonial powers, imperialist thieves, and business interests that put the squandering of natural resources before the land itself.

"What does any of that have to do with hijacking us?" Nancy asked pointedly.

King whispered, "Nancy, don't antagonize him!"

"I asked a question," Nancy repeated. "And I would like an answer."

Colonel Malu scratched his bushy beard. "Very well. Just as the elephant no longer runs in herds and must be protected in preserves, so too must this fine animal be protected from harm."

"Harm! You idiots threw enough lead around to kill us all twenty times over, and you talk about harm?"

"No one was hurt."

"Which is a miracle."

*And it was. Nancy still couldn't believe it. After the shooting had died down and they had been taken at gunpoint from the train and made to sit in a circle with the captured Burger Beret team, it was discovered that there had been no fatalities. In fact, no one had so much as been wounded. Unless one counted Skip King catching his ankle in a clump of nettles and drawing blood.

"I would like to examine the reptile for injuries, if you don't mind," Nancy said in a voice she had no trouble keeping steady.

"And why should I allow this?" Commander Malu asked.

"Because I am a trained herpetologist and responsible for keeping Jack-"

"Mokele m'bembe, please."

"Mokele m'bembe healthy," Nancy said tartly.

Commander Malu's eyes shifted away. His gaze fell on Skip King, who glared back. "I will allow this," he said slowly.

"Thank you," said Nancy. Two men came up and took her by the elbows. She was lifted to her feet and her bonds removed. Then they escorted her to the train.

King's stern voice floated after them.

"If anything should happen to Nancy, you bastards, there isn't a place on earth you can hide from Skip King."

"Oh please," Nancy said.

"He is very brave, for a white man," Commander Malu allowed.

"His jock strap must be cutting off circulation to his brain."

Malu's laugh shook his great body as if he were pudding. "Ha! You have spirit. A white woman with spirit is a rare thing, I think."

"You obviously don't know any white women," Nancy retorted.

Nancy was given a flashlight, and she walked around the flatcar. The Apatosaur lay torpid, his tiny head tucked into the locomotive cab. His orange lids were closed, and the black-ringed nostrils pulsed and quivered in time to the bellows rhythm of its great dappled body.

Nancy plucked out a few trank darts earlier sweeps had missed and touched the pulsing vein on the long neck. It was steady, like a surging garden hose. The skin was cool to the touch and rather dry.

She turned to the commander.

"Jack is used to having his skin moist. It could crack if he isn't watered down."

Malu beamed. He looked to the heavens. "Perhaps it will rain this night," he said.

"Look, can we cut a deal?"

Concern flicked across his face. "Deal? What sort of a deal?"

"You say you're interested in a green Africa."

"We are."

"There isn't a greener continent on the face of the earth, but I won't argue the point. The company that sponsored this expedition is Burger Triumph. Surely, you have heard of them."

Commander Malu made a face. "Yes. They lace their hamburgers with sawdust."

"I heard that, too. And they made a fortune selling that junk. I'm sure they'd pay a wonderful ransom for the dinosaur."

"And how will we get word of our demands to these people?"

"Send King."

Malu shook his head ponderously. "I cannot do that."

"Why not?"

"A man who is named King is obviously a leader of men," Malu explained. "He may be the most valuable white man we have ever captured. The hamburger people would pay more for him than they would for this fine animal who we would never give up anyway. For mokole m'bembe belongs to Africa. And how do I know that this hamburger company has not captured great mokole m'bembe just to grind him up to take the place of sawdust in their terrible hamburgers?"

"Oh, don't be-" Nancy frowned. She bit her tongue in frustration. There was no point in arguing. It was typically African logic, as logical as the importance of King's name, and therefore impossible to counter with reason, or even proof.

"So what's going to happen to us?" she asked in a voice she made calm.

"Perhaps there will be a ransom for all of you. I do not know. I must sleep on it."

"Look, you can't expect us to pass the night out here."

"Why not? It is a nice night. Perhaps it will not rain."

"And what are you going to do if Old Jack wakes up?"

Commander Malu grunted. "You will put him back to sleep."

"He's been tranked twice in one day. A third time could be dangerous."

"When one fights for a green Africa, one assumes he will walk in the footsteps of danger."

"You sound like King."

"I will take this as a compliment, coming from a white woman."

"Don't," Nancy snapped.

The commander lost his genial expression. He snapped out a curt order in some language other than Swahili and Nancy was brusquely returned to the campfire, rebound, and set back in her place at the campfire's edge.

"You are all very, very lucky," King growled. "Another minute and I would have torn these bonds free and come looking for you." He leaned over and asked, "You all right, Nancy? They didn't hurt you, did they?"

"If they do, it will be all your fault."

King demanded, "How do you figure that?"

"This was supposed to be a research mission. If you hadn't tranked Jack prematurely, none of this would have been necessary."

"You have a funny way of expressing gratitude, you know that? Without my vision, you wouldn't be here in the first place."

Nancy shut her eyes, as if in pain. "I should have gone to McDonald's."

"Their fries aren't as crispy as ours. Everybody knows that."

Chapter 10

As they stepped off the plane, Remo was saying, "Better let me handle customs, Little Father. It's going to be hard enough to get any cooperation out of the local authorities without getting hung up in customs."

"I will allow you to try," said the Master of Sinanju.

At customs, their lack of baggage prompted concern.

"Why do you not carry bags?" the customs inspector asked in an accusing voice.

"They got lost in London," Remo explained.

"You did not wait for your bags?"

"We were in a rush."

The customs man cocked an eyebrow that pushed his sweaty forehead into thick gullies. "A rush to come to Gondwanaland?"

"Right."

"That means you are spies and are hereby under arrest," he snapped, motioning toward two white-uniformed security police.

"Hold the fort," Remo said. "What makes you say we're spies?"

"Because the only rush is to get out of Gondwanaland. Therefore, you are spies out to uproot our popular president, Oburu Sese Kuku Ngbendu wa za Banga, which means 'The Always-Victorious Warrior Who Is To Be Feared.' "

"Actually, it means 'Rooster Who Mounts Anything Female'," Chiun whispered.

Then the Master of Sinanju stepped in front of Remo.

He spoke a short phrase.

The customs officer looked incredulous. Chiun added another pungent sentence and the man's eyes grew round. He took a step backward, as if confronting his own ghost.

"Now you did it, Chiun," Remo groaned. "What did Smitty say about not getting the locals all riled up?"

Then, shaking his head, the customs officer cried, "Fellows! Come see! Come see! The Master of Sinanju has come to Gondwanaland!"

There was a general rush from the other customs stations. Tourists who had been tied up in hour-long inspections of their luggage-in which fewer items went back into them than were taken out-were waved through as the entire customs force crowded around the Master of Sinanju, begging for autographs.

To Remo's growing surprise, Chiun signed them dutifully and answered excited questions put to him in Swahili.

A customs man came up to Remo, grinning and waving the signature.

"I have the Master of Sinanju's own signature! It is not a great thing?"

Remo glance at the sheet. "He didn't dot the i in 'Chiun. ' "

The man looked, his face sagging. He grabbed the next man to walk by and compared signatures. The other man had one with the i dotted. A third man also had one with the i dotted. And a fourth.

An argument broke out over rights to the signature with the undotted i. Remo couldn't follow it because it was in Swahili, but it seemed that all four men decided that the flawed autograph was the rarest one and therefore the most valuable.

They fell into a busy four-cornered fistfight. That, Remo understood.

While they were fighting, Remo picked the coveted autograph off the floor and dotted the i.

Meanwhile, the Master of Sinanju was putting the arm on the other customs officers, who each clutched autographs.

Remo had trouble following what Chiun was saying until, suddenly, the customs men were pulling key rings out of pockets and fighting one another for the privilege of throwing their keys at the Master of Sinanju's feet.

Remo stepped in then.

"We only drive automatic shifts," he said. "Everybody else can take their keys back."

Two-thirds of the keys were recovered.

"And we insist upon a car with a good spare."

More keys were taken back. The struggling died down.

"Lastly, the car's gotta be blue."

"What if it is not a car?" one man asked.

"What is it, if it's not a car?" Remo wanted to know.

"It is a Land Rover."

"Then you're in luck. Land Rovers are our favorite."

The owner of the Land Rover began hopping about in happy circles. "I win! I win! I win! The Master of Sinanju is going to drive my machine!"

"Actually, I'm going to do the driving," Remo said, putting out his hand to accept the key. The metal barely touched his fingertips before it was swiftly withdrawn.

"I will have no lowly white drive my car," the owner said huffily.

"You lose your golden opportunity, then."

"He does not," said Chiun, putting out a longnailed hand. "For I will drive."

Remo gulped. "You?"

"I might perhaps be rusty," Chiun allowed. "But the skill will return. It is probably just like falling off a bicycle."

"If it is," Remo said sourly, "try to fall off your side, not mine."

Ten minutes later, they were careening through the crumbling streets of downtown Port Chuma, sending chickens and other livestock out of their path while Remo held on to the Land Rover seat for dear life.

"You drive worse than I remember," Remo was shouting.

The Master of Sinanju scooted up an alley to avoid two East German-built Trabants trying to beat one another through the same intersection.

"But I drive better than the inhabitants of this backward place," he countered.

Remo started to express his doubts when the trash compactor sound of the two Trabants colliding drowned out his words.

"Yes?" Chiun prompted.

"Never mind," Remo grumbled. He looked around. The city still had much the colonial look of Gondwanaland when it was known as Bamba del Oro. The stucco buildings were peeling and had not been kept up. A traffic cop in tropical ducks blew a whistle at them.

Chiun sailed past him without concern.

The whistle turned shrill and angry.

Remo looked back. "Now you did it."

"Do not concern yourself, Remo. He can do nothing. For the policemen in this land are too poor to own automobiles."

"I hope you're right." Remo looked ahead. "Aren't those railroad tracks up ahead?"

"Yes."

"Shouldn't you be slowing down?"

"No." And the Master of Sinanju pressed the accelerator flat to the floorboards, simultaneously turning the wheel hard to the left.

Remo Williams had reflexes and nerves far superior to ordinary people. But even he blinked his eyes at sudden sounds. The Land Rover ran over a stone, and the wheels left the ground. It hurtled toward the hard steel rails. That was when Remo blinked.

When his eyes flew open, somehow the Land Rover was rattling along the crossties between the rusty rails, its tires a hair from scraping the rails on either side.

Despite the bumpiness of the ride, the tires held a true course.

"Mind telling me what you think you are doing?" Remo chattered.

"I think I am seeking a dragon," replied Chiun blandly.

"What makes you think the train the dinosaur is on runs on this track?"

"Because there is only one track. This land is too poor to have more than one. Therefore it is too poor to have more than one railroad line."

"I'll buy that," said Remo, trying to keep his teeth from chipping. "So how do we know we're going in the right direction?"

"We do not."

"Huh?"

Chiun lifted a bony finger. The other held the wheel rock-steady. "But I do. For the track runs in only two directions. And the other goes into the sea. Therefore we are going in the proper direction."

Remo couldn't argue with that logic, so he said, "I see plenty of road on either side of the railbed."

"Which is true now, but may not be true when the tracks enter jungle," Chiun pointed out, unperturbed.

It was dark. The headlights were bobbing and bucking like flashlights attached to a milkshake machine.

Soon, the city was left behind and all was darkness except for the two funnels of light bouncing ahead of them.

Abruptly, the Master of Sinanju stopped the Land Rover.

"It is your turn," he told Remo.

"It is?"

"I have done the hard part. No thinking will be needed until we reach the dragon." He stepped from the vehicle.

"Thanks a lot," said Remo, sliding behind the wheel. He waited for the Master of Sinanju to step around and settle into the passenger seat.

Remo got the Land Rover going. It bumped along clumsily until he shook off inertia; then it was like running a stick along a picket fence, only a hundred times worse.

After a while, he had the rhythm and decided he had better start letting Chiun down gently, or this was going to be a very long night.

"Little Father, I hate to be a wet blanket, but this thing we're after, if it's real, is no dragon."

"You have said that."

"It's a dinosaur."

"Which is a Greek word, greatly corrupted by whites."

"Right. Right. It means . . . uh. It'll come back to me."

"Awful lizard," supplied Chiun.

"Close enough. It means terrible lizard. Dinosaurs were terrible lizards."

"And dragon is a corrupt Greek word, drakon. Which also means a great lizard."

"I didn't know that."

"That is why I am the Reigning Master and you are driving an automobile along a railroad track. Heh heh heft."

Remo let Chiun's self-satisfied cackling roll over him without a comeback.

"Chiun," he said, his voice quiet, "I just don't want you to be disappointed."

The Master of Sinanju arranged his kimono skirts into a more pleasing fall. "Never fear," he said. "I will not be. For I know that the dragon that will prolong my life lies waiting for me in the night before us."

Remo fell silent. Suddenly, he didn't want to reach the end of the tracks. What if Chiun insisted upon slaughtering the Brontosaur? How could Remo stop him? Would he stop him? For if there was one wish Remo could have granted, it was to prolong the life of the person in all the world who mattered most to him-a person who had already lived a full century and could not go on forever ....

Chapter 11

Nancy Derringer couldn't sleep.

Under the circumstances, sleep would have been difficult at best. She was lying on the hard ground and there were fire ants crawling in and out of her clothing. It was night. Pitch dark. But it was not cool. The night air clung to her skin like clammy cotton, heavy and warm, and leeching perspiration from her open pores.

Then there was Skip King.

"I want everybody to know that I haven't given up," he was saying. The other members of the Burger Triumph team, the camera crew and the dispirited Berets, breathed back hushed support.

"We're with you, Mr. King."

"Just say the word."

"Yeah. We can take these third world clowns."

"The first person to try some fool stunt that could only get us or Jack slaughtered," Nancy warned, "I'll kick in the head with both feet and all my might."

King recoiled. "Nancy, what's got into you? We have a chance to escape here."

"We have a chance to bleed all over the ground, too. I vote we wait until morning, and then try to use our brains." She gave King a withering look. "Those of us so blessed."

King squinted at her in the darkness. "This isn't penis envy, is it?"

"How would you know?" Nancy said and rolled over so she wouldn't have to look at him. The man was impossible. And he had an ego bigger than Old Jack himself. Not to mention a whole lot uglier.

Over by the campfire, Commander Malu of the Congress for a Green Africa was singeing the hair off a dead monkey.

It was a white-nosed monkey. Malu had caught it in a liana snare and strangled it with his bare hands. Nancy had shut her eyes to drown out the pitiful creature's cries of distress, and she jammed one ear against the dirt. But the other ear heard every shriek clearly.

Now the dead monkey was suspended, humanlike hands and feet hanging grotesquely over the fire. Malu had tied its tail around its own neck so it was like an anthropomorphic purse. He swung the dead thing in and out of the flames until the skin was singed crisp and brown and as hairless as a human baby.

"Tonight," Commander Malu said exuberantly, "we will feast on white-nosed monkey stew. M-m-m-m-m."

Nancy looked away.

And she saw the white man.

He was a shadow, a manlike moth in the darkness.

He wore black. Nancy would have missed him entirely, except that below the short sleeves of his black T-shirt, his arms were bare. They showed faintly, like long disembodied moth wings.

She noticed that he had incredibly thick wrists connecting his lean forearms to his strong-looking hands.

As Nancy watched, he slipped into a bush and it didn't even rustle.

"No one should lose heart," Skip King was whispering to the others. "We are representatives of one of the greatest multinational corporations in the entire world. If we don't let the board down, I guarantee they won't let us down. Count on it."

It had been like this half the night. King couldn't stop talking. Some people, Nancy knew, became motormouths under nervous strain. King was obviously that way. But did he really believe that B.S. about being corporately untouchable? Nancy decided he was just whistling in the dark.

Then there was a hand at her mouth.

The hand was cool and dry, despite the evening heat.

A calm male voice whispered in her ear. "I'm a friend."

Nancy tried to struggle against the hand, but it held too tight. She felt fingers pluck at her bonds and she almost laughed into the man's fingers. She had been tied with wire and pliers. There was no way the man could undo her fetters without a bolt cutter.

She heard a series of pinging sounds, but no accompanying click of bolt cutters.

Then the blood flowed into her hands and the pain of returning circulation came.

Nancy was lifted bodily and deposited into a prickly clump of nettles. "Just keep your head down and everything will be all right," the voice told her.

"Who-"

The man faded into the hot darkness. She got a glimpse of a strong, masculine face dominated by high cheekbones and deep-set eyes that became skull holes in a bone-hard face as it withdrew from sight.

He made absolutely no sound among the thorn bushes.

Nancy struggled to her knees and crawled to the thicket, parting branches so she could see.

There were two of them out there. The other one was shorter, frail, and very, very old. His face in the half-light was Asian. He wore a skirted black garment that resembled a Japanese kimono, but cut somewhat looser.

For all his advanced age, the old Oriental moved like a butterfly. They both did. They fluttered from man to man, seeming only to touch their bonds, and they fell loose. Nancy squinted and saw the older one did not untie the wire-but sliced it with long, curved fingernails that should have broken under contact with the bonds.