Wherever they were, at least the disappearance of Gilbert Grumley had no connection with Smith's main problem. And that eliminated the possibility that Folcroft had been compromised.
Now it was time to close out that other matter.
Chapter 34
Darkness fell upon the tiny island of Moo.
The cooking fires were doused with water. The riotous birds of day fell silent. Shining clouds hid the moon. Yawning and stretching, the peasants of Moo retreated to their grass huts. The High Moo had already retired to his palace.
"I don't see the Low Moo," Remo whispered. They were on the roof parapet of the Royal Palace. The entire expanse of the island lay before them.
Chiun's face lifted to the freshening sea breeze, like a cat catching a scent.
"She is the least of our concerns this night," he said quietly. His hazel eyes, like polished agates, searched the village huts scattered like so many haphazard dice around the palace.
"You haven't seen her when she's angry."
"I will go below to guard the door to the High Moo's quarters," Chiun remarked after the last Moovian had slipped into his home.
"Check," Remo said. "I've got Uk-Uk's hut in my sights."
"If he leaves, or anyone else acts suspicious, take them alive. "
"No problem."
"I go now. Remember-have nothing to do with the Low Moo this night."
"Yeah. Sure," Remo said vaguely.
Chiun paused. Then he slipped down the stone staircase. Remo was a willful pupil, he ruminated. But in the end, he could handle himself. It was not for Remo's safety that Chiun feared his tryst with the Low Moo. Remo had always had bad luck with women. He did not need a further shock to his opinion of the other sex.
Hours passed and Remo was growing bored. The clouds parted long past midnight, bathing the island in silver illumination. The moonlight was strong, but not strong enough to pick out colors. The breeze-worried jungle was a gray-and-white expanse. Out beyond the eastern shore, the Pacific danced with diamond-hard lights. The Jonah Ark bobbed like a grotesque cork.
Dolla-Dree, Low Moo of Moo, sauntered into the village far into the night. Remo watched as she stepped in and out of patches of moonlight. Her face was radiant with expectation. Her hips moved like the palms and Remo felt a momentary pang at the thought of Chiun's admonition to avoid her.
But business came first. Maybe he could explain it to the Low Moo before the night was over.
Then the Low Moo padded up to Remo's quarters and slipped in through the window.
Remo hesitated. He considered dropping to the ground to talk with her. But a stealthy shadow flitting from hut to hut drew his attention. He followed it with his eyes.
The shadow disappeared into a mangrove thicket. Probably a Moovian with an assignation, Remo decided. It was not Uk-Uk.
Then other figures crept out into the open. They went in different directions, apparently oblivious of one another. Some gathered together in the darkness and slipped off in groups. They were not always of opposite sexes. Oh, well, Remo thought. Anything that people did in civilization, they probably did on Moo.
The metalsmith, Uk-Uk, came out after most of the skulking had quieted down. Remo went over the parapet, hung by his fingers, and dropped to the dirt with no more sound than the clap of a baby's hands.
He trailed the metalsmith at a safe distance. The old man loped along toward the great cluster of mines cut into the sheer western wall of the Moovian plateau.
Along the way, Remo's acute hearing picked up voices. "The High Moo must die tonight," a male voice whispered. "I will tear his eyes out with my bare hands," a lilting young girl's voice promised vehemently.
Fixing the metalsmith's location in his mind, Remo slipped off the path. He eased in the direction of the voices. He dropped to one knee and parted the high turtle grass.
Three Moovians squatted under a banyan tree. They were discussing, in quiet, forceful tones, a variety of ways to kill the High Moo. Remo, concerned that the metalsmith would get away, memorized their faces and glided away unseen.
Other voices rose from the jungle as Remo crept along the path. "The tyranny must end. We are as worthy as he is."
"The Low Moo is less royal than I am. Let her work in the mines."
"Why should we toil to fill the High Moo's coffers when all he fills is our stomachs?"
"Most of the stored rice goes to the insects anyway. We do not need to grow so much."
Remo counted twenty-seven plotters in groups of twos and threes. Worried, he pressed on. The ground dropped off sharply. Remo had to climb down.
Uk-Uk, the metalsmith, ducked into an active mine just as Remo caught up with him.
Remo drifted up to the entrance and put an ear to the solid bulwark of earth that framed its black maw. Vibrations of muttering voices carried through the dirt.
"No, not tonight." It was Uk-Uk's raspy voice. "Others plot tonight. Let them have their chance. If we have to kill them too, we will. But after the High Moo and his she-whelp are food for the sharks, only Uk-Uk will know the place where the coins are stored."
"What about the Master of Sinanchu and his slave?" someone asked.
"Let them return to their world. Moo is not for those with white skins."
"But the Master of Sinanchu has yellow skin."
"I have seen how he consorts with the white one. The Master of Sinanchu is like a banana. Yellow on the outside, but the meat within is white and soft."
The metalsmith's words were greeted with murmurs of assent.
"Let us retire to our homes and await future events," Uk-Uk said when quiet returned.
At that, Remo retreated. He had heard enough. It was time to tell Chiun the bad news. Let him figure out how to break it to the High Moo.
The Master of Sinanju stood resolute. He stirred not. He blinked not. He was an unmoving rock standing between the High Moo and those who would topple him from his throne.
The corridor leading to the High Moo's quarters was darker than the stomach of an octopus. Darker even than the dreamless slumber of Ru-Taki-Nuhu, who dwells far from the life-giving rays of the sun. But Chiun saw it as clearly as if illuminated by pure moonlight. A spider scuttled into a crack and Chiun saw it plainly. And the spider, even with many eyes, saw him not.
Chiun had deployed the Red Feather Guard at every entrance. No one could enter the palace unchallenged. And if any did, he would face the Master of Sinanju.
Sinanju had lost few emperors in its long and glorious history. This Master of Sinanju was determined that the High Moo would not be one of them.
It lacked but an hour until dawn when angry, stealthy footsteps padded through the palace halls. Chiun's immobility melted. He stepped forward to confront the approaching figure.
The padding was familiar.
The silhouette coming down the hall, Chiun saw at last, was the swivel-hipped Low Moo. Her face was a tight mask.
"I would speak with my father," she said in an icy voice that pleased Chiun. It meant Remo had not met with her this night.
"He sleeps," Chiun said blandly, joining his hands within the open sleeves of his emerald-and-gold kimono.
"Then I will wake him. Or would you deny me the right to see my own father?"
Chiun stood unmoving. His thin lips parted and he bowed silently.
"I serve the House of Moo, of which you are an honored part." Chiun stepped aside silently.
The Low Moo pushed open the bamboo-and-rattan door. "Father, I would speak with you," she called loudly. The door spanked shut behind her.