"Thanks, Otto-though I prefer royalties to apologies."
But much later that evening, after the last luau guests had departed the Niumalu, Burroughs-in his bungalow, preparing for bed-reflected on Tarzan the Untamed, which since the German uproar had been withheld from all markets. The businessman in him was thinking that the book was probably marketable again-and, when the war came, could go back into print, in America anyway. Tarzan bellowing the victory cry of the bull ape as he stood with his foot on the chest of a fallen German soldier, whose neck he'd snapped… that could prove to be a crowd-pleaser again, before too very long….
Though it was after midnight, Hully wasn't home yet-off having a good time with his sailor pals, no doubt, prowling Hotel Street. Burroughs was in his pa-jama bottoms-he liked to sleep shirtless, in this tropical clime-about to shut off the light and climb in bed when a knock at the door interrupted him. Grumbling, he threw on a maroon rayon robe and went to the door.
"Could I come in for a moment?" Pearl Harada asked, looking up at him through the screen door. The dark eyes in the lovely face conveyed urgency, and she seemed small, childlike, gazing up from the bottom step of the stoop.
"If you're looking for Hully …"
"No, Mr. Burroughs-it's you I want to see." She was still wearing the low-cut gown, but a lacy shawl was slung around her shoulders, and over her dEcolle-tage, whether out of modesty, or because of the cool night breeze, Burroughs couldn't say.
He opened the screen door, glanced around, wondering if allowing this young beauty into his bungalow was an impropriety he'd pay for; then he sighed and nodded, gesturing her inside.
He suggested she sit on the couch, which she did, and offered her a soft drink, which she refused.
"I won't be here long," she assured him. "I know it's late… and I know this is an imposition. But it really is important."
"All right," he said, pulling his typing chair over, sitting opposite her.
"Has your son spoken to you about me?"
"No he hasn't."
Her eyes lowered to her lap, where her hands were clasped. "Hully's a nice boy-he probably will say something. But I saw him leave with Bill… and I couldn't take the chance."
"What chance?"
"That he would forget to ask you."
"Ask me what?"
"If… if you would arrange a meeting for me, with Bill's father."
"Oh, my…. Young lady, please don't put me in the middle of-"
She sat forward, her eyes glittering, the shawl slip-ping, and he did his best not to look down into the considerable cleavage of this girl who was young enough to be his daughter. "Oh, Mr. Burroughs, I know you're a good man, a considerate man, underneath that … gruff exterior."
"Underneath this gruff exterior, my dear, is a gruff interior."
"I don't believe it-I can see kindness in your eyes. I know Colonel Fielder doesn't approve of us, Bill and I. . "
"Can you blame him, at a time like this?"
She shook her head, and the dark arcs of hair swung. "That's why I have to speak with the colonel-I have to speak with him privately, and I know you can arrange that. Discreetly, Mr. Burroughs. It's important."
"You want a private meeting with Colonel Fielder. Just you and him-not Bill."
She was nodding. "I need to state my own case. I want to prove myself to Bill's father."
Burroughs smiled, shook his head. "You're a determined young woman."
"Yes I am."
He couldn't help it: she impressed him. She was as intelligent as she was beautiful, and she had courage and conviction. Who could blame any man for loving a woman like this?
"I've written about women like you," he told her. "But I've met damn few."
"I… I don't understand."
He stood, holding out his hand to her. "I'll help you. I'll talk to Colonel Fielder, and set the meeting up here at my bungalow… discreetly. Tomorrow soon enough?"
"Oh, Mr. Burroughs," she said, beaming, and she almost threw herself off the couch into his arms, holding on to him, tight. Face pressed sideways against his chest, she said, "Hully is a lucky boy, having a father like you."
"Yeah, I'm a peach." He patted her back, gently. "Now get out of here before I fall in love with you, myself, you little vixen. Scoot!"
The dark eyes were teary with joy, her smile a white slash of happiness, as she scurried out of the bungalow, thanking him as she went.
Wishing he were thirty years younger, Burroughs sighed and headed into the bedroom. There's a Jane any Tarzan might fall for, he thought. He slipped out of the robe and-bare-chested, in the pajama bottoms-crawled under a single sheet of his bed, a flower-scented breeze whispering in the open window, fluffing sheer curtains, the lap of waves on the nearby beach soothing him, lulling him to sleep.
Deep asleep, dreaming, he believed he'd awakened, hearing a sound. In his dream, he opened eyes that in reality were tightly shut, and saw-shrouded in darkness-a figure standing across the room from him. The figure gradually revealed itself to be female-a tall, beautiful female who moved into a shaft of pure, heavenly light, slanting through the window.
The woman's flesh was an emerald green, her hair scarlet, her voluptuous body bare but for strategic scatterings of gold sequins that appeared to have been applied to her naked skin. She seemed to be approaching him, reaching out to him, and he sat up, and reached out for her….
A roar from the darkness-for the bedroom had become a cave-announced a third player, and a mammoth man-beast lumbered into view … a pair of tusks, a huge single eye, a fiercely muscular build matted with fur with two arms on either side, each thick pawlike hand clutching a scimitarlike blade, four swords slashing at the air, threatening the green woman, who fell as the blades cleaved her emerald flesh, blood the color of gold splashing, and Burroughs tried to move, but found himself paralyzed in bed, screaming in protest, unable to move, too late to save the beautiful emerald girl, too late….
Then he was sitting up in bed, drenched in sweat, catching himself in mid-scream.
Quickly Burroughs got up out of bed, raced to his typewriter, snapped on his desk lamp, and sat in front of the keyboard, fingers flying. Before it could fade, he recorded the dream, in its every detail. Such nightmares came to him regularly-often involving some terrible creature or unidentified danger. Many of the plots and characters in his novels and stories had been literally dreamed up; he would routinely rise from a bizarre nightmare and, as calmly professional as a secretary, jot down notes.
He'd had these useful nightmares for many years, ever since receiving a blow on the head during his stint as a cop in Salt Lake City. At first there had been torturous headaches, as well, but these had faded, and the dreams remained. He was quite accustomed to them, but neither of his wives nor his children had ever got used to his nocturnal thrashing and bellowing, his moans and screams frequently awakening them.
Both of his wives had insisted that he sleep in a separate bedroom.
He was right up to where the scimitar-wielding man-beast had entered the dream when another scream echoed across the night-not his own.
A woman's scream, a scream of terror, cut off abruptly!
The cry came from outside, had found its way through an open window, and seemed to be coming from the dkection of the beach. He threw on the maroon robe, not even bothering to sash it, and ran barefoot into the night, finding his way through the palm trees in his backyard, toward where the purple ocean blended with the purple sky, with only the stars to show the difference, padding down onto the white sand, which looked gold in the moonlight, like the sequins on the emerald woman in his dream.
This nightmare had a woman in it, too, but Burroughs was not, unfortunately, sleeping: she lay sprawled ten or fifteen yards down the sandy expanse, lying near the surf, which rolled gently but insistently onto the shore. A man was kneeling over her, touching her shoulder with one hand, blood glistening on the other.