A group of six or seven tribesmen was advancing, muttering among themselves, and Remo was prepared to meet them, when an arrow sprouted from the leader's chest and dropped him in his tracks. At once, a second shaft cut down the warrior on his left, and then a third picked off the gangly cyclops standing just behind the fallen leader.
It was all they needed, sending up a frightened shout in unison and taking to their heels. In seconds, Remo and his traveling companions were alone with one dead elephant and several dozen mutilated corpses.
"Fairly decent shooting," Remo told Chiun. "You took your time, though."
"I was otherwise engaged," the Master of Sinanju answered, "with a dragon."
"Oh?"
"I did not kill it," said Chiun. "It had no magic and no treasure. There was nothing for Sinanju."
"Maybe next time," Remo said.
"You found what you were looking for, at least." The old Korean nodded toward the phosphorescent fountain as he spoke.
"Somebody else's problem, Little Father. Thanks for joining us."
"I had to satisfy my curiosity," Chiun said. "This is a strange part of the world."
"You can say that again."
"Unnecessary repetition is the trademark of a moron."
"Sorry, my mistake."
"We must be going," said Chiun. "I've missed too many of my programs as it is."
"Sounds good to me."
He took the small transmitter from his pocket, pressed the button once and left it on the ground beside the elephant. It made no sound that he could hear, there were no flashing lights.
If it was broken, it was someone else's problem.
The others were already fifty yards ahead of him when Remo turned and started for the gates.
They heard the helicopters churning overhead two hours later, with the ancient city well behind them. Sibu Sandakan glanced upward at the sound of engines, but the forest canopy was too thick for a glimpse of aircraft overhead. Dawn had not broken yet, and even running lights were hidden by the forest giants towering around them.
"Sounds like the natives have company," said Remo, winking at the Malay deputy.
"But how?"
"Would you believe the power of positive thinking?"
They marched back the way they came, no longer frightened of pursuit. Remo had given passing thought to the ceratosaurus as they left the city, but Chiun was quick to show him where the reptile had struck off among the trees, due north, with an impressive trail of blood to mark its passage. Even if it managed to survive, he thought, the city would be poison for a while, with memories of pain and chaos.
Chapter Twenty
Did a dinosaur have memories?
In any case, there would be no more drums to beckon great Nagaq, no human sacrifice to whet his appetite. The reptile would be forced to get its meals the good old-fashioned way, by stalking them. Survival of the fittest.
They stopped to rest at dawn, with Dr. Stockwell verging on collapse. The loss of blood had weakened him, and Remo would have bet his meager salary on a concussion, but it sounded more like shock when the professor spoke.
"We must go back!" he blurted out while Sibu Sandakan was tending to his wounded scalp.
"Don't hold your breath," said Remo.
"But it's absolutely vital, don't you see?"
"Relax, Professor. We're already past the point of no return."
Chiun sat watching from the sidelines, frowning to himself as Stockwell ranted on. It wasn't necessary to speak Korean or read minds to guess at his opinion of the expedition's erstwhile leader.
"More!" raved Stockwell, lurching forward onto hands and knees. "There must be more!"
"Don't sweat it, Doc. We're out of range. They'll never catch us now," said Remo.
"Not those freaks, you idiot!" Professor Stockwell sounded frantic now. "More dinosaurs!"
"How's that?"
"You can't believe one specimen has lived for over sixty million years," said Stockwell, biting off a giggle. "That's preposterous! They must be breeding, don't you understand? A dinosaur needs parents, just like anybody else."
His giggling got the better of him then, dissolving into high-pitched cackling, like the sound track for a film about a lunatic asylum. Remo stared at Stockwell, felt his flesh crawl as the snowy-haired professor fell apart before his very eyes.
"There could be dozens!" Stockwell ranted. "Maybe hundreds! Why not thousands? Don't you see?"
"The man's insane," Chiun said to Remo, speaking in Korean as an act of courtesy to the deranged. "Time has no meaning to a dragon."
Maybe not, but Stockwell's words had started Remo thinking. If your reading matter was restricted to the supermarket-tabloid press, it was conceivable there might be one Bigfoot, one Loch Ness monster, one Abominable Snowman. Any working knowledge of biology, however, would dictate that even freaks of nature had to come from somewhere. There was no great monster warehouse, where a fickle Fate could shop around for oddities to populate the globe. In that respect, he knew that Stockwell must be right.
Even a dragon needed parents somewhere up the line.
The very notion challenged Remo's sense of logic. He had gone into the jungle looking for uranium, convinced the dinosaur hunt was nothing but a cover—or perhaps an aging academic's last-ditch fantasy. His guess had been correct where Audrey Moreland's motive was concerned, but totally amiss with reference to Dr. Stockwell and his quest.
What did it mean? What could it mean?
Would there be travelers' advisories about the risk of tourists being eaten by a dinosaur when word leaked out? No one with any sense went tramping through the Tasek Bera, as it was, but a confirmed report of living prehistoric animals would change all that. Green Hell would rapidly become a must-see spot for every scientist with strength and nerve enough to hoist a backpack, not to mention wealthy dilettantes and "sportsmen" who would give up next year's Porsche to catch a glimpse of—or take a shot at—living monsters from a bygone era.
Once the word got out…
He glanced at Chiun, saw understanding in the Master's eyes and nodded. Remo turned to Sibu Sandakan, ignoring Dr. Stockwell as he said, "We need to talk."
On Tuesday morning, Dr. Harold Smith met Remo in his office at the Folcroft Sanitarium, in Rye, New York. It was Remo's first full day back from Malaysia, but he had caught up on sleep in airplanes, thirteen hours crossing the Pacific and another six across the continent, with downtime in the San Francisco and Chicago airports.
"You'll be glad to know the government has laid claim to the new lode of uranium," Smith said.
"Which government is that?" asked Remo.
Dr. Smith blinked twice, a curious expression on his lemon face. "Why, the Malaysian government, of course," he said. "Did you believe we had an interest in the ore?"
"It crossed my mind," said Remo, "since you sent me out to find it."
"That was simple self-defense," Smith told him, rocking backward in his swivel chair. "And justified, as it turned out. The last thing anybody needs right now is more bombs in Beijing."
"We're happy, then," said Remo.
"Absolutely. The United States has excellent relations with Malaysia."
"Could it be that they'll be selling part of the uranium to mining interests in the States?" asked Remo.
Dr. Smith responded with a shrug. "That won't concern us here. We're problem solvers, Remo, you and I."
"Sure thing. I meant to thank you for your great help in the jungle, Doc."
"Chiun was there, I take it. What else did you need?"
"A tour guide to the twilight zone, as it turned out."
Smith frowned and spent a moment shuffling papers on his desk before he spoke again. "There's something else we need to talk about," he said at last.