"What do you give us in exchange?" the old man repeated.
"I have built you a road to Dapoli. For you have I had this road built. No longer will it take months for you to reach the capital."
"When they were laying down the smooth blackness, it was good. There were things we could steal from the workers but now they are gone. The road means nothing."
"You can get to Dapoli in hours now instead of months."
"If you have a car."
"I will send you cars."
"You need gas for cars. We have no gas."
"I will send you gas."
"Will you send us fatted sheep?"
"I will send you fatted sheep."
"Rams or ewes? Of what number?"
"Of hundreds," said Baraka, annoyance rising in him as if this were another ministers' meeting.
"How many hundreds?"
"Three hundred," snapped Baraka.
"Of the three hundred, how many ewe and how many ram?"
"Three hundred of each. Now get to my problem. I need a direction."
"From whom will you steal these sheep?"
"Never mind, I'll buy them." But then, knowing the suspicious mind of his captors, he added, "From money we get from oil that comes out of the ground."
"You will steal it from the ground, then. All right. For we know you, Muammar, and we have heard of your tribe, and you have never earned anything in all your lives. Knowing you have done nothing for this money, we believe you."
"This night I have received a note," Baraka said. He drew the note from a pocket and opened it in front of the dim flames from the fire. "It reads 'You face the death of the prophecy. Only I can save you.'" He looked up at the old man.
"So? What is your worry, if you have a champion?"
"Whoever he is, he kills in a most horrible way."
"Then you should be happy."
"I do not want around me someone who kills so many, just to say hello. And what is the death of the prophecy?"
"Did you not depose King Adras?" "Yes."
"Did he not tell you of the assassin's curse?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, you are about to pay the price for stealing the kingdom from a descendant of the great Caliph. This story is very old and we of the mountains have known it, surely you in your city which has horses and horses and horses of great beauty should know it. Your city has silks and sweet drinks and you should know it. Why do you not know it?"
"But that story was just a story. Why should I now pay the price?"
"Why not now? Did the curse say you would lose your life the day you took the crown? In the season you took the crown? In the year you took the crown?"
"No," said Baraka and his voice was hollow and flat. He waited, looking at the campfire. He realized he was hungry, but when he asked for food he was refused.
"The blessed Mohammed never lived in the Mountains of the Moon. But I will give you something of his before you leave. He said, and it is written, that a tiger cannot be anything but a tiger. That a chicken can never be anything but a chicken. Only a man has a choice. He can be a beast or a man. Go now, for we are afraid of you here. You carry a curse on your head."
"I will not leave until you shed light on your sayings."
"You will meet death from the East but it comes from the West. Nothing can save you. Go, before you bring death to others."
Baraka was led back to his land rover, which was still idling on the last dregs of the first tank. He put the car into reverse and began backing out of the wash when the tank ran dry. He switched to the emergency tank, but the switch did not work. He looked for a flashlight; it was gone. The beams of his headlights began to dim. He looked for a canteen the women of the tribe might have missed, but they was gone. He turned off the lights and crawled under the rover. Perhaps he could activate the second tank by hand. Or even siphon the reserve tank into the first one. His head hit the grease-and-sand-coated tank as he slid between rock and undercarriage. It made a hollow sound. Colonel Muammar Baraka who had been harassing the industrialized nations of the world by jacking up the price of their oil, was out of gas. And in the Mountains of the Moon, he began to realize what it was like to be out of gas and cold.
He cursed the tribe that had left him stranded, and then he heard a strange voice.
"Do not blame them. They were frightened. There has been a mysterious apparition here, waiting for you." The voice was squeaky and high-pitched.
Baraka struggled out from under the rover. He looked around the barren rocks, bright in the light of the full moon, but he saw no one. Then he heard the voice again.
"You are such a fool, Baraka, such a fool. Do you think you can escape what is written by running back here? I tell you, Colonel, I am the only one who can save you."
"Are you the one who killed my commandoes?"
"Yes."
"Are you the one who wanted death payments for Philbin and Mobley?"
"Yes."
"Why do you want to protect me?"
"I don't, really. Your life is nothing to me. Important to me is a white pig I have awaited. And also he who gave away the precious secrets to the white man. I await them both."
"Are they of the legend?"
"We all are."
"Oh," said Colonel Baraka, his mind already made up. He would do anything, pay any price, to be protected. Legends need not always be true. He waited a moment, then said, "I hope, if you're going to keep me alive, that you have a way out of here."
"I do. Go up that little rise and there are several cans."
"How did you get out here? Where is your vehicle?"
"Never mind that. Move, wog."
"Help me with the cans."
"You will fetch, Colonel. For you are good for little else. Neither womb, nor wealth he has not earned is the measure of a man, but what he has been trained to do. Only his skills are his worth. You are fit for little more. Fetch."
And as the voice had said, there were canisters of gasoline. The supposed ruler of the land filled the rover's tanks, and as he backed out of the wash a frail figure glided into the seat next to him. The figure chuckled and placed the colonel's own revolver on the colonel's lap. When the rover had reached the highway again and the way was smooth, the colonel got a good look at the face of the man who sat beside him. He was Oriental and fragile-looking. The hair was black and straight and long, and the smile seemed almost gracious.
With one hand, Baraka gripped the handle of his revolver. He pointed it at the smiling face.
"Never call me wog again," said Baraka, anger mounting in his throat.
"Put the gun away, wog."
Baraka squeezed the trigger. The barrel flashed bright white. The colonel blinked away the bright spot which remained in his sight but he could not blink away that smiling face. It was still there. Somehow the point blank shot had missed.
"I told you to put the gun away, wog."
"Please don't call me that."
"A 'please' is a different thing, wog. I will think about it. You might as well know the name of your new master. I am called Nuihc. You are the bait for my trap. You and your savage nation's oil. The oil is very important. Much more than you are."
"What about the oil?" asked Baraka.
"Tomorrow you will turn it off. You will sell no more."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chiun's interminable afternoon with the soap operas had finally ended. He rose from his lotus position and turned, all in the same fluid motion, and looked toward the far wall of the hotel room, where Remo was exercising.
Chiun, as was his habit, left the television on. Turning it off was servant's work, fit only for Chinese or students. Remo would do it later.