Dirk Edwards blinked. In a too-low voice he said, "Excuse us a sec."
As Shane watched, the contingent retired to the bow. They formed a circle and conferred. Some of them began to shout. Others waved their arms. Angry glances were flung in Shane's direction and he went into an immediate mental calculation of the swimming distance back to Malibu. He decided it was N. G. Maybe, he thought, this would be a good time to get back into astral projection.
Finally the argument subsided and Dirk joined him at the wheel.
"My men and I have decided."
"I noticed you were getting in touch with your feelings back there."
"If we come across a pleasure boat or island where we can get food before dawn, we won't shoot you in the belly, dump you overboard, and sail for Central America."
"What's in Central America?" Shane asked in an attempt to redirect the conversation.
"A lot of good fighting."
"I brought binoculars," Shane said suddenly. "Why don't I go up the mast and see what I can find?"
"You do that," said Dirk Edwards, taking the wheel. Two of the others worked the rope that sent the boatswain's chair up the mast. Shane Billiken searched the sea in all directions. He decided that he had made a mistake paying those men in advance. It took away their motivation. Imagine battle-hardened guys that talked mutiny just because the water was a little salty. Some of them looked like they drank carbolic acid.
The sun went down, the moon came up, and the seas remained as bare as newly laid asphalt.
But hours before dawn, Shane spied running lights on the water.
"Ship off the port bow!" he cried. Everyone surged to the port rail.
"No," Shane called. "The other direction."
They surged to starboard and Shane winced at the looks being thrown up at him.
It was a cabin cruiser. Music floated across the water. A party boat. Or maybe night fishermen.
"How many aboard?" Dirk called up.
"I count five."
"Okay," Dirk said. "Tex. J.D. Go below and get them on the radio." He kicked the engine into idle. The New Age Hope settled in the water and described a lazy circle.
As Shane watched, the cabin cruiser abruptly heeled and came in their direction.
"Someone want to let me down now?" Shane asked as Tex and J. D. came up from below and gave Dirk the thumbs-up sign.
"Better not," Dirk said laconically. "You might catch a stray."
"Stray what?" Shane asked as the sudden eruption of automatic-weapons fire drowned out his words.
Across the water, the cabin cruiser began spitting splinters. The man in the wheelhouse corkscrewed into a pool of his own blood. The partiers dived under the gunwales. But the gunwales were methodically chewed down to deck level by a fusillade of bullets. One man jumped overboard. Bullet tracks crisscrossed the water in front of him. Unwittingly he swam into them. He bobbed like a cork when they hit him, and floundered briefly before going down.
When Shane Billiken pulled his hands away from his Ray-Bans, Dirk was lowering the dinghy over the side. He rowed for the cabin cruiser. Minutes later he returned with several coolers filled with beer and raw steaks. After the New Age Hope got under way again, the cabin cruiser exploded. Bat-size splinters rained from the boiling fireball that lifted over the place it had been. "Time-delay fuse," Dirk remarked as they lowered Shane to the deck. Shane's legs collapsed under him.
"Beer?" asked Dirk nonchalantly.
"No, no," Shane croaked. "Did you have to kill them?"
"Hell, you hired us to kill, didn't you?"
"But that was different. Those were real people. "
"Hell," Dirk Edwards chortled, hoisting a can to the burning patch of water, "we do real people too. No extra charge. "
Chapter 25
They found the High Moo seated on his Shark Throne. It stood in the open courtyard. The High Moo clutched one muscular bicep. Blood trailed crazily from an unseen wound. Moovian maidens came with pestles of hot ash, which they carefully applied to the wound.
The Low Moo paced distractedly, pulling at her hair. "Not all the octopus worshipers have been purged," the Low Moo complained. She stuck out her sensuous lower lip like a pouting child.
"Impossible," said Chiun. "The priest did not lie."
"He was a traitor," growled the High Moo, wincing as the cauterizing hot ash stung him. "Of course he lied."
"The priest could not lie, O High Moo," Chiun went on stubbornly. "No man is capable of untruth when the iron hand of Sinanju squeezes from him his inmost thoughts."
"I was attacked on this very spot. I did not see the traitor. But I struck him with my war club. I drew blood. I would have slain him had I not been felled."
Remo's eyes went to the war club resting against the High Moo's muscular calf. The dark wood was crushed in one spot, and flecks of skin and blood clung to the patch.
"A man of royal blood should not raise his hand in combat," said Chiun. "Leave such distasteful chores to us, your assassins."
"No man who is a man runs from combat," spat the High Moo.
Chiun winced. He composed himself and pressed on. "For twenty coins I will bring you his carcass."
"Bring me his head and I will not keep the coins you falsely earned when you claimed to have rid my island of octopus worshipers."
Chiun's hand went to his wispy beard. His mouth opened as if to speak. What manner of emperor was this, who sullied his hands with weapons and did not understand the inviolateness of the word of the Master of Sinanju? Chiun stroked his beard in silence. His eyes narrowed. When he spoke, his words were like pearls sinking into a jar of thick honey. Slow but clear.
"I will bring this wicked one to you alive, that he may tell you the truth of my words himself And if his words please you, I will ask again for twenty coins."
"I have ruled this island for all my adult life," the High Moo said. He seemed to be speaking to the Moovians surrounding him and not to Chiun. "And my father before him and his father before him, back to the days when Ru-Taki-Nuhu first closed his slumberous orbs. No High Moo ever faced such ingratitude for the gifts he has bestowed upon his people. No High Moo was ever less appreciated."
"I know how it is to be unappreciated," Chiun said proudly. "And I vow that once this matter is settled, I will see to it that henceforth no Moovian will fail to pay proper respect to his liege." And Chiun fixed the gathering crowd with his steady gaze while Remo stood aside, his arms folded, trying to follow the rapid stream of Moovian words.
The High Moo waved the Master of Sinanju away, as if to dismiss his protestations of loyalty as trifling.
Chiun's kimono skirts swirled with the force of his sudden about-face. He marched off.
Remo caught up a few minutes later.
"The High Moo's in a bad mood, huh?" he offered.
"He is entitled. For he is surrounded by ingratitude. A common problem among those who are heir to long lines of honorable ancestry. Some believe that distinguished parentage is not earned."
"Really?"
"Orphans and the lowborn are especially susceptible to this fallacy," Chiun said pointedly.
"You can't mean me," Remo said ironically. "Being an American, I was probably born on the upper floor of a hospital. "
Chiun did not reply. Remo noticed that his eyes had fixed upon the ground, Chiun led him off the foot-beaten path and into the jungle. Remo saw a drop of blood glisten on a leaf. Another darkened the soil many feet beyond it. Chiun was following the blood spoor of the failed killer. Like malignant rubies, the drops led to one of the many mines which dotted Moo like empty eyes. This mine had fallen into disuse. Foliage had overgrown its bambooshored mouth. A few branches were broken and trampled. "How do you say 'Come out, come out, wherever you are' in Moovian?" Remo joked.