THE EASTERN REACHES of Tibet unrolled in a long yellow-green carpet under the flashing wings of the Soviet-built CAAC turboprop plane.
Sitting in the copilot's seat, the minister of state security watched the unending pastureland roll by. It made him uneasy. All that barrenness. To go down in it was to face days, if not weeks, of cruel trekking to civilization, assuming one survived.
Ahead the horizon was a haze of mountain ranges. As forbidding as the eastern reaches were, the mountains would be infinitely worse. He dreaded the landing at Lhasa's Gonggar Airport so much that he could not bear to look at the mountains from a distance. To land at Gonggar, the pilot would have to ride a knifeblade channel between towering peaks in thin air that would test the turboprop engines.
Back in the passenger area, the Tashi squatted in the middle of the aisle, dwarfed by his retinue. He looked tiny, more like a creature out of superstitious mythology than a human being, as he spun the solid-gold prayer wheel that the minister of state security had presented to him as a reward for making the difficult flight to Lhasa. An altogether too pitiful figure on which to place the future of China's claim to Tibet.
In ten, twenty years, after the proper training and indoctrination, yes. It was conceivable. But rulers-even puppet rulers-were not selected and installed overnight. The advent of the Bunji Lama had changed all that. The minister of state security only hoped the Tashi was equal to the Bunji.
But not as much as he hoped that they would survive the landing at Gonggar.
THE BUNJI LAMA, it was recorded, assumed the Lion Throne without fanfare, notice or pomp, as befitted one who came to the sacred Potala in the dead of night on the selfless task of freeing Tibet from sorrow and slavery.
This was done in the early hours of the last morning of the second month of the Iron Dog Year, with no eyes but those of the all-seeing gods to witness the auspicious moment.
SQUIRRELLY CHICANE was still sleepy. Her brain felt like it had been soaked in ether. It was not a half-bad feeling, actually. She rather liked it. At least it was better than the pounder the high altitude had given her.
Looking around, she wondered where she was. The walls were painted with Buddhas, bodhisattvas and other mythic creatures. The ceiling was arched and high. The furniture was exquisite, especially the ornate gilt chair off in one corner. There were Chinese dragons or dogs or something decorating it.
Since there wasn't any place more inviting, she went over and sat down.
"Comfy," she said approvingly. Right then and there she decided that her awakening scene would be filmed on location. If the budget allowed. If not, it could probably be recreated on a soundstage in Burbank.
She wondered where she was. Her foggy brain failed to summon up the memory of how she had gotten to this place-wherever she was. Dimly she heard music-brassy, discordant, martial music. It seemed very loud, yet far away.
Squirrelly made a mental note to have the music replaced with a John Williams score-unless she ended up doing a musical. In which case she might take a fling at writing the music herself. After all, who was going to tell her no. She was the Bunji Lama now.
Footsteps came toward the closed wooden door. She arranged her robes about her crossed legs in case it was that dried-up Tibetan Peeping Tom, who had barged in while she was on the john.
"Bunji! Bunji!" It was Kula. The big Mongol barged in as if his mohair pants were on inside out.
He took one look and stopped, the alarm going out of his eyes.
Then he got down on hands and knees and began bumping his forehead on the floor. "This is a very great scam," he sobbed in English.
"What is?" Squirrelly said.
"You have assumed the Lion Throne."
"I have? I mean, I have! Where?"
"Your precious bottom sits upon it, Bunji.' "
Squirrelly leapt up. "This is the Lion Throne! Really? You're kidding me. You've got to be. Tell me you're kidding."
"I kid thee not, Bunji. The hour Tibet has awaited has come."
Squirrelly dropped tack onto the golden seat. "Wow! The Lion Throne. I'm sitting on the Lion Throne. What a moment. I can just feel myself vibrating at a higher cosmic frequency. What should I give as my first decree? Oh, I hate these unscripted moments."
"Protectoress, cause the Chinese who are pounding at the Potala gates to shrivel up into sheep dung."
"What Chinese?"
"We have been betrayed, Bunji."
"We have?"
"The, stinking abbot who gave us sanctuary has betrayed us to the hated Han."
"It's karma," cried Squirrelly, leaping to her feet.
Kula got up, too. "What have we done to reap such bad karma?"
"No. No. It's good karma. This is perfect! This is great."
"What is?"
Squirrelly spread her hands wide as if to conjure up the scene. "It's the end of the second act. No, wait, the beginning of the third act. The Bunji Lama awakens as if from a dream, instinctively taking her throne. And at her moment of perfect triumph, she is betrayed by one of her subjects. A notorious Peeping Tom, I'll have you know. In bursts her faithful Mongol servant-that's you-with the bad news."
"But you said it was good karma," Kula countered.
Squirrelly began pacing the floor. "It's bad in real life but great cinema. Don't interrupt your Bunji. Now where was I? Oh, yeah. Now she knows she has to take the yak by the horns and win the day." Squirrelly, popped her hands together. "The audience will eat this up like popcorn!"
Kula glanced toward the door. "Why are you saying all this, Bunji, when our very lives are in danger?"
"It's a plot point. We have to slip them into the script from time to time."
Kula looked blank.
Squirrelly paced the floor. "Okay, now I gotta turn the tables. But how? How?"
From beyond the door came a great crashing.
Squirrelly stopped in midpace. "What was that?"
"The gates have fallen to the enemies of the faith," said Kula.
"Perfect!" Squirrelly crowed.
"They will flood in like ants," Kula added.
"Fantastic! We're outnumbered a hundred to one. The audience will be on the edges of their seats. Perfect! I love it! I love it! I just love being the Bunji Lama!"
At that moment the Master of Sinanju flew in. "We must flee!" he said.
"Flee? Not on your life. I'm in costume, I have my Lion Throne, and I'm keeping it!"
"The Chinese will overrun us. We cannot fight them all."
"The way is blocked," said Lobsang from the door. "The Bunji must make her stand here."
"She will die," Chiun said firmly.
"If she dies," Lobsang intoned calmly, "it is the will of the gods. The people will hear of this and rise up,"
"The Bunji is under the protection of the House of Sinanju. Her death would bring shame upon my house. I will not have it."
Kula stepped up to Lobsang and laid the edge of a dagger against his throat. "We will do as the Master of Sinanju bids."
Squirrelly stamped a bare foot. "Don't I get some say here?"
"You are the Bunji," said Kula, bowing his head in Squirrelly's direction. "Of course we will obey your merest whim."
"Fine. My whim is that we-"
The Master of Sinanju slipped up and touched the back of Squirrelly Chicane's neck. Her mouth kept moving, but no words issued forth. She tried coughing. It only made her throat raw. Not a syllable came out.
My voice! Squirrelly thought with mounting panic. I've lost my voice!
Then she was unceremoniously thrown over Kula's hamlike shoulders and began bouncing with his every rolling step.
"This way!" hissed Chiun.
"This way leads to a cul-de-sac," Lobsang said unhappily. "We will be trapped."
"You may go another way, Priest," Kula said, his voice contemptuous.