Only minutes later, the truck column roared toward him, in full retreat.
The looks of horror etched in the survivors' faces were shocking. The wounded were many. They lay about the back of the trucks like smashed dolls in green uniforms. Their eyes told of an encounter with a power greater than mortal man.
Samdup raced on, his heart straining as if to burst. Wild tears of joy streamed down his apple cheeks.
The Dalai Lama had returned in triumph! Not even the wicked Chinese had been able to turn him from the path of right.
On and on ran Samdup the Tibetan.
The thunder swelled and the song of the mightiest lama continued its bountiful ululations. Nothing so beautiful had ever been heard on earth, Samdup thought.
Soon he rounded a snow-dusted hillock, and there the road stretched out as straight as the spokes on a prayer wheel.
At first there was only dust. It swirled and roiled and was impenetrable to sight.
This was as it should be, Samdup thought. The coming of the Dalai Lama was too great a sight not to be obscured from men.
Samdup took a position in the center of the road and bowed twice. He stuck his tongue out as far as he could. This was the proper manner of greeting among Tibetans. He showed a good long length of tongue, did Samdup the Tibetan.
And through the swirling dust, a dark shape emerged. Mighty flanks rippled with unstoppable muscularity. A thousand remorseless eyes seemed to wink like stars that had hardened to black diamonds. And hooves of horn unlike anything Samdup had ever imagined could be discerned dimly.
And through it all, the song swelled until it filled Samdup's very soul.
He fell to his knees before the sheer grace of it all.
He was found in the center of the road two days later, stamped as flat as a dog under a PLA tank's tracks. No one could explain what had happened to him, and so his body was thrown to the dogs, as was the custom with the honored dead. The lamas prayed for his soul, and hoped that he had not suffered.
In truth, Samdup had died with his heart full of joy.
The quiet thunder continued to roll west.
Chapter 20
Don Cooder was angry. Really angry. He had not been so angry since the network had hired that Korean barracuda Cheeta Ching as weekend anchor. He wouldn't have minded a crack reporter in the slot. It would have been good contrast. But there was no way he could compete with hair like hers. Next contact, he vowed, he would have a best-hair clause written in.
"This is an outrage," he stormed, pacing the ill-lit dungeon room. "Who does Maddas think he is-William Paley reincarnated? I'm not just any old hostage. I'm the highest-paid anchorman in the universe. Even people who never watched me are in awe of Don Cooder. I get more respect that Superman." "Superman gets higher ratings and he's in reruns," put in Reverend Jackman sourly. "Maybe you should wear one of his sweaters."
Cooder shook a fist at the dripping walls. "Last time, I got a hotel room. Clean sheets. Room service. All the proper amenities."
"You got them because you were with me. Don't kid yourself."
"No way. Maddas is a Moslem. He's not kowtowing to you, a Baptist minister. Hell, those people talk about the Crusades like they happened last Tuesday." Don Cooder shook his wildly disheveled black hair. "No, you were treated good because they mistook you for my friend."
"So explain how we ended up in this fix.."
Don Cooder stopped pacing. He rubbed his blue-bestubbled jaw, bringing the bags under his eyes into sharp relief. He drove a fist into one palm, producing a meaty smack.
"It's fate. I was destined to be the world's witness to Maddas Hinsein's resurrection. I'd strangle puppies for a camcorder and a satellite uplink right about now. The greatest story in the world. And I can't broadcast it. I'll bet that sticky-haired Cheeta Ching has got my dressing room by now."
"She can have it. I want to get out of this heckhole alive."
"They won't kill us," Don Cooder said stubbornly. "I'm too famous."
"You got a short memory, gloryhound. They already tried to execute us once. We got a reprieve, is all."
"Nonsense. That was obviously staged so that Maddas could disappear."
"The man who believes that has got a major crush on Tinkerbell too," scoffed Reverend Jackman. "I told you not to tip Maddas when he brought us to the palace like that. It was an insult. Man's a head of state."
"I always tip cabdrivers, no matter what," Don Cooder returned. "They start wailing on me when I don't."
The drumbeat of footsteps filtered through the rusty iron bars embedded in the heavy oaken door.
"Someone's coming," Reverend Jackman muttered, his eyes going so wide they looked close to dropping from their sockets.
"Do you wanna check, or shall I?" Cooder muttered.
"You're by the door."
"Yeah, but I'm not sure I'm going to like what I see."
In the end, both men went to the bars.
Heads butting, they vied for a good look.
"It's Maddas Hinsein," Jackman hissed when it was his turn.
Don Cooder shoved him aside. His mouth went slack.
"And he's got a whole bunch of guards with him."
"Do they look like the kind who came for us last time?"
"Why?"
"Because if they're here to stand us before a firing squad, I'd kinda like a little advance notice."
"I can't tell," Cooder admitted.
"Why not?"
"I'm afraid to open my eyes," said Don Cooder.
Reverend Jackman pushed Don Cooder aside.
"Looks kinda like an execution squad to me," he said dully.
That opened Don Cooder's eyes. They went sick.
"I guess this is where we separate the men from the boys," he intoned. "I guess this is the end of the line. The final roundup. The last sign-off. The-"
"I'm gonna slap you if you go all hysterical on me," Reverend Jackman warned.
Then the footsteps were right outside the door and both men shrank back from the sound of a brass key grating in a rusty lock.
The ponderous door creaked open, filling the dungeon room with a wavering light from ranked wall torches.
Maddas Hinsein was the first to enter. He entered smiling. Somehow that smile made the blood run in their veins like Freon.
"He's showing his teeth," whispered Don Cooder.
"You think it's a smile?" asked Reverend Jackman.
"Well, he doesn't look all that hungry."
"Okay, he's smiling. Is that good news or bad?"
"Well, I did tip him double, even though we wanted the airport."
Reverend Jackman frowned. "Somehow I don't think that's why he's smiling."
The information minister slipped into the room. He was not smiling. In fact, he looked like a man who had just dodged a locomotive and was trying to regain his nerve.
"I bid you greetings from his excellency President Maddas Hinsein of Irait," the man said in a voice he tried to make portentous, but which came out tinny.
"Ask his most gracious excellency if he will agree to an interview," Don Cooder said quickly. "I can promise him global news coverage."
"Our Precious Leader requests that we both join him in a press conference."
"Press conference? I'm not good at those. A two-shot would be better. You savvy two-shot? One on one?"
"Our Precious Leader wishes that you both inform the world of his miraculous escape from a foolish assassination attempt."
"Glad to," said Reverend Jackman, stepping forward. "Just point the way. I'm ready."
"Who invited you?" snarled Don Cooder, stepping between the reverend and the president.
Reverend Jackman pointed toward Maddas Hinsein, who although he did not understand English, seemed to be enjoying the sight of their bickering with immense relish.
"He did," said Reverend Jackman. "You got a complaint, take it up with my main man there."
Don Cooder did, although indirectly. "Could you ask his most royal highness why he's holding his press conference?" he inquired of the information minister.