"My socks," Remo said, wiggling his toes. The nails stuck out like talons.
"They will be ripped by those nails."
"I'll wear them loose. Like a Moovian girl." And Remo grinned when Chiun shooed him on his way. With luck there would be another delectable maiden waiting for him in the room. Maybe this time he could take it past step two. It wasn't much, but in a land devoid of TV and newspaper comics strips, it was the only diversion Remo had.
Chapter 29
It had been over a week without any word from Remo and Chiun.
Dr. Harold W. Smith replayed the tape of Remo's last message. He played it twice.
"What could he have meant by 'moo'?" Smith said aloud. His dry words bounced off his office walls. He replayed the sentence wherein Remo spoke of "going to moo" several times.
Sliding over to his desk terminal, Smith called up the geographic atlas data base. In it was contained the name of every town, city, and locality in the entire world. He typed in the name Moo, because although Remo had made it sound as if he were going to imitate a cow, that made no sense in the context of their disappearance. Smith hit the Search key.
Several minutes later the screen read out a scroll of names that began with the letters "m-o-o." There was a Moore, Oklahoma, a Moorhead, Minnesota and others. But no Moo, USA. The only possibilities left were in exotic places like India and Tibet. But none were known simply as Moo, either. Smith considered this inconclusive because his information-gathering ability was next to useless in underdeveloped countries where the pencil and index card still ruled.
Smith paused. On a hunch, he input a phonetic equivalent: Mu.
The search produced a seemingly endless string of names. Smith frowned as he recalled that the letter M was one of the commonest when it came to personal and place names. There was, however, one place name spelled simply Mu. Eagerly Smith called up the file. His face fell when he saw that it contained data on a mythical island nation believed by pseudo-scientists to have existed in the Pacific Ocean before the dawn of recorded history, but which had sunk during a natural cataclysm.
Obviously that was not the Mu Remo had meant. It had never existed. And even if it had ever been a reality, which Smith thought improbable, all that remained of it was an additional layer of sediment at the bottom of the Pacific.
Chapter 30
The sun kissed his face through the open window and Remo awoke. It was mid-morning. He had slept late again. All night, there had been a steady stream of Moovian maidens who had slipped through his window. He had counted eight, a new high. Remo wondered what had caused the increased traffic and, between bouts, put his head out the rough-hewn window.
His discovered several maidens crouching and talking in whispers. When they saw him, they flashed identical easy smiles.
"It is Oahula's turn next," one remarked casually.
"You're taking turns!" Remo had said in surprise. When it was pointed out to him that he had only one male organ, Remo apologized for being so silly and added that of course if it was Oahula's turn, who was he to disrupt the orderly procession of Moovian events.
After he woke up, Remo felt his enthusiasm for Moovian maidens cooling. He decided that this was it. No more nocturnal interruptions. It had been fun for a while, but now the luster had worn off. Especially now that he understood he was being regarded as the island's free stud service. Besides, they were biting even harder now.
Remo pulled on his now-frayed pants and walked barefoot out of the palace. The courtyard was deserted except for a handful of children who were lazily sweeping it clean with straw brooms.
When they saw him, the children pointed and giggled. They had never done that before. Must be my fingernails, Remo thought, looking at his hands. They were now half as long as Chiun's. And there was nothing he could do about it. The knives were too brittle. And even the densest rock wasn't hard enough to file them down. He couldn't understand it.
As he walked from the village, the children called after him. Their childish words were hard to understand, but they were calling him Hokko-ili. "Hokko" translated as "yellow," but "ili" was less clear. It sounded like "ilo," the Moovian word for "pineapple."
"Why are they calling me 'yellow pineapple'?" Remo asked as he drew near Chiun. The Master of Sinanju stood atop one of the largest mines in Moo. Men popped in and out at regular intervals, hauling coconut shells full of gritty black soil. They made a huge pile. Others spread the soil over stretched bolts of coarse cloth to sift out the metal.
Chiun turned at Remo's approach. His face lost its stern, commanding appearance.
"What has happened to your face?" Chiun wanted to know.
Remo reached up. "Got me. Is it still there?"
"You have a beard," Chiun snapped.
"Tell me about it," Remo said, feeling the thick stubble. Chiun climbed down and motioned for Remo to bend at the waist. He picked through Remo's scalp in silence. "Cooties?" Remo asked.
"Worse."
"Worse?"
"Your hair is turning yellow at the roots."
"Yellow?"
"The sun must be bleaching it. Perhaps the salt water is also responsible."
"I never had this problem when I was young," Remo remarked.
"It is strange. The yellow is in the roots, not the tips. Although your beard is yellow throughout."
"Is that why they're calling me names?" Remo asked, straightening.
"They were calling you 'yellow pineapple,' 'yellow head'."
"I've been called worse."
"I see you have had a strenuous evening," Chiun sniffed, looking at Remo's forearms and chest. They were covered with tiny inflamed blotches. Bite marks.
"I'm swearing off Moovian girls. They're practically drawing straws to see who gets the next crack at me. And I've gotten so used to bare breasts, I hardly notice them anymore. "
That is good, because the Low Moo has been looking for you."
"Is that so?" Remo said vaguely. "She's been cool to me ever since it got around that I haven't exactly been spending my nights counting the stars."
"It is good that you have come to your senses. For the Low Moo has that look on her face," Chiun said conspiratorially.
"What look?"
"You know."
"No. Spell it out."
"That sex-hungry look."
"Oh, that look. Don't look now, but isn't that her coming down from the palace?"
"I will leave you to deal with her. I must go to the rice fields. The peasants have been slacking off. Do not let these miners rest. Their break is not for another hour."
"They get breaks?"
"Naturally. The High Moo is an enlightened ruler."
"That wasn't what I meant," Remo said, watching the Low Moo's languid approach out of the corner of his eye. "You know, Chiun, this isn't the kind of gig I envisioned when you first started training me. I'm an assassin, not an overseer."
"Today you are an overseer," said Chiun. "And a good assassin protects his ruler's empire as his ruler expects it to be protected. It has been a week since the last attempt on the High Moo's life."
"That's because we've been riding herd on these poor people so much, it's all they can do to crawl off to sleep at day's end."
"It worked for Simon Legree too," Chiun remarked as he walked off.
After the Master of Sinanju had left, the miners watched Remo as if to measure him. When Remo turned his back on them, they slowed their work. A few sneaked off into the brush.
"Ola!" Remo said as the Low Moo drew near. The Low Moo's smile was ivory framed in copper. Her face possessed a soft childish look, that still surprised Remo every time he thought back to how she had dealt with Horton Droney III.
"I have been looking for you, Remo. What happened to your hair?"
"It's not my hair I'm worried about, it's my fingernails," Remo said ruefully.
The Low Moo took Remo's hands in hers. "They are very long," she cooed. "Like talons, to claw and rend your enemies."