"I don't have any enemies at the moment."
"I know. Everyone likes you. Especially the peasant girls. Are you not tired of peasant girls by now? You have been on Moo a full week now."
"Yeah, actually I am."
The Low Moo's smile widened. It was dazzlingly white. "That is good," she said, taking his forearm in her golden fingers.
"Uh-oh," Remo muttered.
"What is that you said?"
"It was English," Remo said quickly. "It means . . . you are very pretty today."
The Low Moo's smile broadened. She ran her fingers up to Remo's hard lean bicep, squeezing it hard, almost pinching it.
"Why do Moovian girls bite?" Remo asked suddenly. "Can you tell me that?"
"Because you are white. For generations, since the last white men came to our island and tried to make us embrace their one god, stories of the handsomeness of white men have been passed from mother to daughter. We have heard of your tallness, of your delectable white skin and potent organs."
"Organ. I only have one," said Remo. "I was just discussing the subject last night."
The Low Moo laughed.
"Do Moovian girls bite their own men?"
"Of course not. We kiss."
"Well, I'm still waiting for my first Moavian kiss."
"I will come to you tonight. But first I must ask my father an important favor."
"What's that?"
"Oh, I could not tell you. You might run away."
"Not me. There isn't anything I'm afraid of. And Chiun told me that you were probably a virgin anyway."
The Low Moo laughed. "There are no virgins on Moo. Not over the age of twelve."
"That's what I figured," Remo said dryly.
The Low Moo's face wrinkled suddenly. She glanced over Remo's shoulder. Remo turned.
"Why are those men not working?" she demanded petulantly.
"Them? Oh, I gave them a break," Remo lied.
"Their respite is not for another hour."
"What's the difference? They'll get back to work eventually. Besides, I don't see the point of all this beehive activity. You people have plenty of food for the taking. You should relax more."
"If my people did not have work, they would become lazy and lose their skills."
"I think they work too hard as it is."
"That is an attitude I would expect from a former slave. You do not understand rulership. How could my father and I rule if these peasants have no tasks set for them? Everyone would want to rule. Or none would. It would be terrible. Chaos. Like in the days after Old Moo disappeared under the waves." Saying that, the Low Moo stepped up to the squatting miners and, shaking her fists, began hectoring them in a high, bitter voice. She went on for several minutes, her beautiful face working in fury. She called them ungrateful for the purpose that work gave their indolent lives. She accused them of being lazy and disrespectful of tradition. Since the days of Old Moo, the empire had depended on the High Moo's coinage to maintain its power in the world. One day, thanks to their efforts, Moo would rise again as a great power. But not if the work stopped.
When she rejoined Remo, her features were soft and pliant again. It was as if a sudden tropical storm had come and gone.
"Okay, okay," Remo said. "You've made your point. I'll see that they don't slack off anymore."
"I will see you tonight," the Low Moo said gently. "I look forward to pooning you."
"Me too," said Remo. "Whatever you mean."
And the Low Moo ran off like a fawn, her tinkling laughter filtered through the leaves.
Chapter 31
"This is it!" Shane Billiken shouted excitedly. "That's the island."
Dirk Edwards burst up from belowdeck. He was in his camouflage Jockey shorts. One hand gripped a nine-millimeter Browning that hung from a shoulder rig.
"You sure?" he growled.
"I dreamed on it last night."
"Yeah. And the last island you said was the right one turned out to be a guano preserve. So was the one before that. And you knew that was the right one because it was directly under the Little Dipper."
"Probably sunspot interference. I don't image well when there are sunspots. Look for a tall building. A temple."
"Let's look for the junk before we get carried away." Someone handed Dirk a set of binoculars. He trained them on the island.
"No sign of any junk," he reported.
"Probably on the other side," Shane said. "I see unfriendlies, though. Natives."
"Let me see," Shane said, taking the glasses. He spied a number of natives at the shore. They wore few clothes. Their hair was black and their skin the color of cashews. They were busy dragging a sea turtle from the water.
"The girl looked like that!" Shane said. "The skin color is exactly right."
"Okay, we take them. Gus, line her up on that reef and then gun her. Everyone else, grab a piece and get ready to start shooting."
Shane Billiken found an M-16 pushed into his hands.
"I don't know how to shoot one of these," he protested. "You don't have to. That sucker spits out rounds faster than you can piss. Just wave it like a hose. It'll do the job."
The boat turned and dug in its stern. The bow lifted and salt spray washed Shane Billiken's face as the reef drew near. He hung on, trying to keep the rifle in his shuddering arm.
"Okay, burn them down!" Dirk Edwards hollered.
On the beach, the sound of the incoming boat made the natives freeze. Their black eyes-they reminded Shane Billiken of those of hapless seals before they were clubbed to death-stared out at them.
Dirk Edwards fired first. His weapon began popping. The others joined in. Coral shards flew off the reef. A native went down. Another, running madly, fell after a bullet stream sawed an arm off.
Shane Billiken forgot there was a weapon in his hands. He stared out over the bow. He had never seen people die before. It was mesmerizing. The gun sounds were puny. Just a sporadic popping. Firecracker sounds. The people on the reef didn't scream or yell. They ran and then they stumbled. There wasn't even that much visible blood. It was like watching television.
When it was over, the engines were throttled down and they drifted in toward shore.
Two men jumped onto the reef and took hold of thrown lines. The schooner was made secure, the anchor dropped. Most of the natives were dead. Shane Billiken saw as he clambered onto the reef. One moaned, and Dirk Edwards beckoned him to the body.
"Finish him off," Edwards said.
"I don't know if I can," Shane muttered.
"It's easy."
"Isn't this your job? I hired you, after all."
"Look, we gotta head inland before the sounds get everyone on this rock organized. We're gonna need every man. So you're either part of the problem, sucker, or you're part of the solution."
And to a man, the mercenaries pointed their weapons at Shane Billiken.
Reluctantly Shane pointed his rifle at the native's twitching head, closed his eyes, and squeezed the trigger. The weapon gave a short snarl.
"Is it over?" he asked limply.
"Yeah," Dirk Edwards said politely. "You can look if you want."
Shane did. At the sight of the blood-streaked brains oozing out of the man's shattered face, he broke and ran for the waters. He got down on his stomach until he had emptied it into the beautiful blue water.
The mercenary team laughed uproariously.
"You'll get used to it. Now, come on. Let's find that village. "
For three hours they penetrated the lush rain forest. They climbed a thickly overgrown hill. The terrain was rough. Shane's Adidas running shoes began to fall apart.
Finally they reached the crest of the hill. Below lay a mist-filled valley. Beyond the mists a tall shape loomed blue and indistinct.
"Let's make camp here," Dirk said. "The fog ought to burn off by noon. Maybe we can spot the village. Save us some humping."