They drew the curtains aside, put on their masks again, and entered the chamber of Tuan. The great squat idol stared down, nostrils seeming to flare in derision. Its eyes glared as mercilessly as its human followers.
The voice of the headman came again harshly.
“Our bomor has gone back into the earth from whence he comes. We cannot summon him now. We cannot wait. It is the law that those who break their vows to Tuan shall meet swift punishment. The bomor would want it so if he were here. A faithful servant of Tuan shall see that the law is carried out.”
There was human ardor in the headman’s voice now. Here was a chance to act with the bomor away. Here was a chance to assert his own authority over the followers of Tuan, and to placate the idol as well. He made a sudden, imperious gesture. Agent “X” was seized. Before he could resist he was thrown on his face by four of the green-masked men. He heard the headman’s voice again.
“Bring cord, O followers of Tuan!”
Tentatively, the Agent struggled. But he saw the hopelessness of that. Knives were pressed against his back. The headman’s voice addressed him harshly.
“Act wisely and your death shall be slow. There will be time to make your peace with Tuan. Your cries will please him. But be a fool and you shall die by the knife swiftly, like a sheep that is slaughtered. You shall be cast among the lowest devils.”
Agent “X” lay still. But he made his muscles expand rigidly as they bound him; and he held them so, even though the Malays tightened the cords until they bruised and broke the skin. He held them rigid until his body was cold with sweat which his captors took for the sweat of fear.
Four of them lifted him to the altar stone before the grinning idol — the smeared slab on which the sheep had died. It was cold and wet with the animal’s blood. The Agent’s flesh recoiled from the contact. The headman’s next command came harsher still.
“The claw,” he said. “Bring that and the dust of Kep-shak. It shall be spread thinly that the man may suffer long.”
A Malay left the group. The others crowded closer. Brown hands ripped the clothes from Agent “X’s” chest and arms. His heart stood still. Would his dyed skin betray him? Would it stand the test? That for the moment worried him more than the threat of the terrible Kep-shak.
He did not wince when the claw-like implement was drawn across his skin, leaving its long crimson scratches. The Malays began to chant again. Weirdly their voices rose into the high-ceiled room. The headman led the macabre chorus, lifting arms toward the idol that stared down with glassy eyes.
“O Tuan, Great One. One who has broken faith with thee is now to die. Let his screams fall upon your ears. Let his groans make penance for the wrong he has done. Do not blame his sin upon those who have kept the faith.”
The headman himself took the metal box that contained the Kep-shak. He reached with clawlike fingers into it, withdrew a pinch of the grayish powder. There was a gloating light in his eyes, the lust of one to whom cruelty is natural. The other Malays stood tensely watching. Then the headman reached forward, raised his hands.
“Behold, O Mighty Tuan — the pollen of the flower of pain now falls upon the guilty.”
He opened wide his fingers, let the gray powder drift down onto Agent “X’s” skin and rubbed it into the scratches with a sudden vicious sweep of his hand.
Chapter XVII
THE tiny abrasions became like raw and throbbing wounds. A burning brand seemed to have been laid on them. Pain leaped along the Agent’s nerves. Pain reached into his body with twisting fingers of red torment.
As through a haze he saw the hideous idol and the faces of the Malays gathered round. The men set up a low chant. Their voices rose and fell, seeming to blend with the pulsing waves of agony that made a cold sweat bathe the Agent’s face.
He clenched his teeth, determined to stay silent. Then suddenly he changed his mind. They wanted him to suffer. They wanted him to suffer visibly. If he did not it would only bring more of the dread powder, diminishing his chances of escape.
He let a groan roll from his lips. The headman’s eyes glowed evilly. The Malay’s chant rose higher.
“Tuan, O Mighty One! Just punishment has come to him who wronged thee. Behold how he cries out in pain!”
The Agent groaned again, writhing in his bonds, gambling with hideous death, suffering agony that they might not learn who he was.
For seconds, while the grayish powder burned into his flesh, he turned and twisted, acting as he thought a Malay would. These brown men didn’t know with whom they dealt. They didn’t realize the Spartan courage of their victim.
At last “X” lay still; breath whistled between clenched teeth. The brown men nodded, as though pleased. The headman again addressed the idol.
“He is weak, O Tuan. It will not be long before the Kep-shak has done its work. It will not be long before thou art avenged.”
Agent “X” remained as if nearly dead, as if the astringent poison had already conquered his will. He let his mouth hang open, rolled his eyes.
Then his pulses leaped. The brown-faced men were moving toward the door. They thought him far gone now. They were going to leave him to suffer his last agonies alone, let the Kep-shak finish its deadly work. It was on this he had gambled. On it he had built a desperate hope. It was why he had chosen torture rather than death by the knife.
He watched the brown-skinned men withdraw. Pain racked his body. The sweat on his forehead was real enough. Blood beat in his temples like cruel hammer blows. The Kep-shak was seeping slowly into his bloodstream. A few minutes more and it would be too late. The powder had been sprinkled thinly, his torture slow, but human flesh and human will could not endure it long. He thought of Saunders, fettered and dying; of Peters, stretched dead on the floor of his cottage. Soon his own face would be like theirs.
But the Malays were going back to their sleep, back to their savage hashish dreams. “X” waited until their low-voiced chanting faded away.
Then he moved again. Not in pain-constricted jerkings such as he had allowed himself for the benefit of his torturers, but purposefully. Slowly he drew his right hand from the rope that seemed to press tightly into his flesh. The Agent had used a well-known trick.
By stiffening his muscles, holding them rigid when they bound him, he had increased the diameter of arms and legs. Now, as he relaxed them, they slipped back to normal size. But escaping from his bonds was not the most desperate part of his battle. That was the battle between the poison and his own iron will. A battle once more of flesh against spirit. For his limbs were growing numb. Pain wrenched his muscles.
When, after seconds of agony, his right hand was free, he loosened the ropes more quickly. Weak and shaking, he lay still a moment on the altar slab. Then he forced himself to his feet. His eyes were burning with a light that was almost feverish. He stumbled toward the curtained door; paused to listen.
There was no sound in the building now. But he could not go to Betty immediately. The poison powder was still on his arms and chest, being absorbed through the tiny cuts. “X” tried to brush it off, then stopped. At the first contact of his hand new stabs of pain thrust into him. But he must get rid of the stuff quickly, or die.
He followed the passage he had first entered, reached the small outside door, and slipped out into the darkness. His eyes would hardly focus. Breathing was getting difficult. Cold fingers seemed to be pressing around his heart