"We are going to die here, aren't we?" he asked.
"That is the custom of the country."
I turned away and studied the man who was studying me from the other side of the bars. Hasan was leaning against the far wall then, holding his head. I hadn't noticed his getting up.
"Good afternoon," said the man behind the bars, and he said it in English.
"Is it afternoon?" I asked.
"Quite," he replied.
"Why aren't we dead?" I asked him.
"Because I wanted you alive," he stated. "Oh, not you personally-Conrad Nomikos, Commissioner of Arts, Monuments and Archives-and all your distinguished friends, including the poet laureate. I wanted any prisoners whom they came upon brought back alive. Your identities are, shall we say, condiments."
"To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" I asked.
"This is Doctor Moreby," said George.
"He is their witch doctor," said Dos Santos.
"I prefer 'Shaman' or 'Medicine Chief,'" corrected Moreby, smiling.
I moved closer to the grillwork and saw that he was rather thin, well-tanned, clean-shaven, and had all his hair woven into one enormous black braid which was coiled like a cobra about his head. He had close-set eyes, dark ones, a high forehead, and lots of extra jaw reaching down past his Adam's apple. He wore woven sandals, a clean green sari, and a necklace of human fingerbones. In his ears were big snake-shaped circlets of silver.
"Your English is rather precise," said I, "and 'Moreby' is not a Greek name."
"Oh goodness!" He gestured gracefully, in mock surprise. "I'm not a local! How could you ever mistake me for a local?"
"Sorry," I said; "I can see now that you're too well-dressed."
He giggled.
"Oh, this old rag… I just threw it on.-No, I'm from Taler. I read some wonderfully rousing literature on the subject of Returnism, and I decided to come back and help rebuild the Earth."
"Oh? What happened then?"
"The Office was not hiring at the time, and I experienced some difficulty in finding employment locally. So I decided to engage in research work. This place is full of opportunities for that."
"What sort of research?"
"I hold two graduate degrees in cultural anthropology, from New Harvard. I decided to study a Hot tribe in depth-and after some blandishments I got this one to accept me. I started out to educate them, too. Soon, though, they were deferring to me, all over the place. Wonderful for the ego. After a time, my studies, my social work, came to be of less and less importance. Well, I daresay you've read Heart of Darkness-you know what I mean. The local practices are so-well, basic. I found it much more stimulating to participate than to observe. I took it upon myself to redesign some of their grosser practices along more esthetic lines. So I did really educate them, after all. They do things with ever so much style since I've come here."
"Things? Such as?"
"Well, for one thing, they were simple cannibals before. For another, they were rather unsophisticated in their use of their captives prior to slaying them. Things like that are quite important. If they're done properly they give you class, if you know what I mean. Here I was with a wealth of customs, superstitions, taboos-from many cultures, many eras-right here, at my fingertips." He gestured again. "Man-even half-man, Hot man-is a ritual-loving creature, and I knew ever so many rituals and things like that. So I put all of this to good use and now I occupy a position of great honor and high esteem."
"What are you trying to tell me about us?" I asked.
"Things were getting rather dull around here," he said, "and the natives were waxing restless. So I decided it was time for another ceremony. I spoke with Procrustes, the War Chief, and suggested he find us some prisoners. I believe it is on page 577 of the abridged edition of The Golden Bough that it states, "The Tolalaki, notorious head-hunters of Central Celebes, drink the blood and eat the brains of their victims that they may become brave. The Italones of the Philippine Islands drink the blood of their slain enemies, and eat part of the back of their heads and of their entrails raw to acquire their courage.' Well, we have the tongue of a poet, the blood of two very formidable warriors, the brains of a very distinguished scientist, the bilious liver of a fiery politician, and the interesting-colored flesh of a Vegan-all in this one room here. Quite a haul, I should say."
"You make yourself exceedingly clear," I observed. "What of the women?"
"Oh, for them we'll work out a protracted fertility rite ending in a protracted sacrifice."
"I see."
"… That is to say, if we do not permit all of you to continue on your way, unmolested."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Procrustes likes to give people a chance to measure themselves against a standard, to be tested, and possibly to redeem themselves. He is most Christian in this respect."
"And true to his name, I suppose?"
Hasan came over and stood beside me, stared out through the grillwork at Moreby.
"Oh, good, good," said Moreby. "Really, I'd like to keep you around awhile, you know? You have a sense of humor. Most of the Kouretes lack this adjunct to what are otherwise exemplary personalities. I could learn to like you…"
"Don't bother. Tell me about the way of redemption, though."
"Yes. We are the wardens of the Dead Man. He is my most interesting creation. I am certain that one of you two shall realize this during your brief acquaintanceship with him." He glanced from me to Hasan to me to Hasan.
"I know of him," I said. "Tell me what must be done."
"You are called upon to bring forth a champion to do battle with him, this night, when he rises again from the dead."
"What is he?"
"A vampire."
"Crap. What is he really?"
"He is a genuine vampire. You'll see."
"Okay, have it your way. He's a vampire, and one of us will fight him. How?"
"Catch-as-catch-can, bare-handed-and he isn't very difficult to catch. He'll just stand there and wait for you. He'll be very thirsty, and hungry too, poor fellow."
"And if he is beaten, do your prisoners go free?"
"That is the rule, as I originally outlined it some sixteen or seventeen years ago. Of course, this contingency has never arisen…"
"I see. You're trying to tell me he's tough."
"Oh, he's unbeatable. That's the fun of it. It wouldn't make for a good ceremony if it could end any other way. I tell the whole story of the battle before it takes place, and then my people witness it. It reaffirms their faith in destiny and my own close association with its workings."
Hasan glanced at me.
"What does he mean, Karagee?"
"It's a fixed fight," I told him.
"On the contrary," said Moreby, "it is not. It doesn't have to be. There was once an old saying on this planet, in connection with an ancient sport: Never bet against the damn Yankees, or you'll lose money. The Dead Man is unbeatable because he was born with a considerable amount of native ability, upon which I have elaborated, considerably. He has dined upon many champions, so of course his strength is equal to all of theirs. Everyone who's read Frazer knows that."
He yawned, covering his mouth with a feathered wand.
"I must go to the barbecue area now, to supervise the decking of the hall with boughs of holly. Decide upon your champion this afternoon, and I'll see you all this evening. Good day."
"Trip and break your neck."
He smiled and left the shack.
I called a meeting.
"Okay," I said, "they've got a weird Hot One called the Dead Man, who is supposed to be very tough. I am going to fight him tonight. If I can beat him we are supposed to go free, but I wouldn't take Moreby's word for anything. Therefore, we must plan an escape, else we will be served up on a chafing dish.
"Phil, do you remember the road to Volos?" I asked.
"I think so. It's been a long time… But where are we now, exactly?"
"If it is of any help," answered Myshtigo, from beside the window, "I see a glowing. It is not any color for which there is a word in your language, but it is off in that direction." He pointed. "It is a color which I normally see in the vicinity of radioactive materials if the atmosphere is dense enough about them. It is spread over quite a large area."