"Okay." Scotty disappeared down the hall again for a few moments and then returned. He took a seat in the leather armchair. "He finally did get curious. Wanted to know if we needed that caliber rifle to shoot Jersey mosquitoes. I told him we were going on a trip and that I couldn't say anything more about it. So he said he'd lend us the gun only on condition that we tell him the story when we got back. I said we would, if we could."
"He's the best," Rick said. "But he knows we've done some hush-hush work for the government, and don't forget he's an ex-Marine. He wouldn't embarrass us by asking too many questions."
Scotty nodded. "Wait until you see this rifle. A .45-90 is a regular cannon. It'll knock down anything smaller than an elephant, and it'll knock down one of those, if it hits the right spot."
"That's just Zircon's size," Rick said, grinning. The scientist was a huge man who towered over the rest of the staff.
Later, Zircon dominated the library as Steve issued final instructions. The scientist's booming voice had phrased questions for an hour, until even Steve looked weary.
"This winds up what I have to say," he told them. "Mike should be back with your tickets, passports, and letter of credit in another hour. I'll go back to Washington and issue instructions via the State Department to all of our ambassadors and consuls in the area. They'll know what's happening and why you're there, but no one else on their staffs will. Go in to see each one whose country you enter. Make a lot of noise. Insist on seeing the chief. Hell know your names and he'll do everything he can. Bradley is supposed to check in with each embassy or consulate in the same way. They'll be your points of contact in case he shows up again. File reports when you can. Hand them to the ambassador or consul of the country and no one else."
Steve stopped for a moment, then his warm grin flashed. "This is going to be tougher than beating the Whispering Box gang. I know you'll come back with the answers, but be sure you have whole skins when you do!"
The four-engine transport had been letting down from its cruising altitude for what seemed like an hour. Rick was watching through the circular window for the first sign of land, and he was getting impatient.
The trip had been a long one. It seemed to Rick that he had been sitting in a plane for most of his life, even though they had been gone from Spindrift for less than four days. That was because they were making no stop-overs. At San Francisco, Honolulu, Guam, and Manila they had stopped only long enough to refuel, or to change planes.
Scotty, in the seat next to Rick, was sound asleep. Zircon, across the aisle, was engrossed in a book.
Rick looked up as the stewardess walked past him. She smiled and pointed through the window on the opposite side. He caught a glimpse of mountainous country below. Then, in a few seconds, a small island passed underneath on his own side. They were getting close to the ground now. He estimated their altitude at less than two thousand feet. He poked Scotty in the ribs.
"Rise and shine, mighty hunter. We're getting ready to land."
Scotty was wide awake instantly. "About time," he muttered. "Show me this famous Hong Kong."
"Can't yet," Rick replied. "But we've passed a couple of islands. Look, there's another."
They were dropping rapidly now. The big plane suddenly banked, leveled, then banked again. As they rocked up, Rick looked down into a cove, crowded with Chinese junks. The brief glimpse sent a thrill through him, as new scenes always did. They were the first junks he had seen outside of pictures.
The plane banked again, the other way. Rick realized with a sudden feeling of discomfort that they were actually weaving their way through mountain peaks! He had heard that the approach to Hong Kong was crooked as a corkscrew; now he knew the reports didn't exaggerate.
Zircon was leaning across the aisle. He pointed to a strip of curved beach. "Repulse Bay," he boomed. "We're almost in." The scientist had been to the Far East before, and he knew Hong Kong.
They were close to the top of abrupt hills. Rick saw a road curving through the hills and valleys, then they were over water again, and the water was dotted with modern ships as well as junks. The plane rocked far over in a tight bank, and there was a howl as the flaps were lowered. Rick and Scotty buckled safety belts and sat back as the plane leveled off.
In a few moments they were collecting their luggage and walking across a concrete apron to the customs building. Inside, a Chinese clerk, under the supervision of a British officer, gave their effects a cursory glance, stamped their passports, and handed them police forms to fill out. They did so as rapidly as possible, turned them in, and left the customs room. Outside, they picked up the bags they had checked, gave them to a Chinese coolie, who appeared from nowhere, and followed him to a taxi.
It was a small car of English make. Zircon looked at it with disapproval. "Am I supposed to fit into that thing?" he demanded.
Rick hid a grin. The car wasn't much bigger than the scientist. Zircon squeezed in gingerly, Scotty behind him. Rick got into the front seat with the driver.
"Peninsular Hotel," Zircon directed.
"Funny," Scotty said. "I never expected to find an airport on Hong Kong. All the pictures I've seen of it show mountains. It doesn't look as though there were room for an airport."
"There isn't," Zircon said. "We're not on Hong Kong. This is Kowloon. It's a peninsula jutting out from the mainland of China. However, it's a part of the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong. We'll get to the island itself, and to Victoria, which is the main city, by ferry-boat or walla-walla."
"What's that?" Rick asked curiously.
"Local name for a water taxi," Zircon explained.
The taxi was leaving the airport now, but there was nothing in sight at the moment to show that this was the Orient. The modern buildings were of stone, brick, and concrete, and the streets were wide and clean. As they got closer to downtown Kowloon, however, Chinese predominated, with only a sprinkling of what were evidently Englishmen. In a short time they pulled up in front of the Peninsular, one of the world's famous hotels. It was an imposing structure, the lobby as vast as an auditorium but broken up by numerous pillars, potted plants, and dusty-looking furniture. They registered and were shown to a very large and comfortable room with a window that opened on a fire escape.
As Zircon tipped the Chinese bearers, Rick asked them, "What time is it?"
The chief "boy" answered, "Maybe thlee time, sor," and closed the door.
"About three?" Rick looked at Zircon and Scotty. "It's early. Let's get started right away. I'd like to find out where and what the Golden Mouse is."
"Good idea," Zircon agreed. He tossed a suitcase on one of the three beds in the big room. "Let's clean up and change quickly. We'll have time to see the consul this afternoon, too. I doubt that the consulate closes before five o'clock."
In less than a half-hour the three of them were walking from the hotel toward the water front. Zircon led the way. "We'll take the ferry," he said. "It's very fast."
The ferry slip was less than a three-minute walk from the hotel, but when they started to get tickets, they remembered that changing money had completely slipped their minds. A scholarly looking Chinese gentleman saw their plight and spoke to Zircon in faultless English with a distinct Oxford accent.
"Perhaps I can be of service, sir? If you have an American dollar bill, I can change it for you. You will need only a little money for tickets, and there is a bank close by the ferry slip on the other side."
"You're very kind," Zircon said. "We'll accept your offer, sir. I do have a dollar bill, I believe."
He found it and handed it to the Chinese, who counted out six Hong Kong dollars and a few tiny paper bills that represented change. "The rate today is six and a fraction to one," he explained.
Rick and Scotty added their thanks to Zircon's. The Chinese bowed. "A pleasure to have been of even such small service." He smiled and continued on his way.
"The Chinese are without a doubt the most polite of all the Eastern peoples," Zircon said. He pushed a Hong Kong dollar through the ticket window, got three tickets and some change in return. They pushed through the gate and walked across the dock to the ferry.
As they did so, Rick got his first look at Hong Kong. He stared, amazed, his mental image of an oriental city vanishing like a burst bubble.
Across the bay, a green mountain stretched like a jagged knife-edge against the sky line. Here and there, far above the bay, were white blocks, like granite chips, marking houses. Lower down, the city of Victoria began. It was like marble slabs piled in an orderly array, thinning out toward the upper side of the mountain. Down at sea level, the buildings were thickly clustered. But they were modern buildings, not a trace of the oriental in them.
Between the ferry and Hong Kong, the bay was crowded with water traffic. Junks with gay sails sped noiselessly between puffing little tugs. Great deep-water freighters were anchored, lighters at their sides taking off cargo. Slightly to one side, the sleek line of a British cruiser was visible, and beyond it a trio of lean, wolfish destroyers.
The ferry moved away from the pier and picked up speed. Rick and Scotty watched the colorful panorama of vessels. Hong Kong was beautiful, Rick thought. And it was clean, though cities of the Orient were traditionally dirty.
Nor was his first impression changed when they reached the opposite shore. The ferry landed them before tall, concrete buildings that shaded clean streets. A block away they stopped to watch a three-story trolley pass by.
"Good gosh, a skyscraper on wheels," Scotty exclaimed.
And that was just the impression it gave.
Zircon stopped to ask directions of a passing Englishman, then told the boys, "The American Consulate is only a block away. Suppose we change some money, then pay the consul a visit."
Rick thought quickly. "We'll need money, but why do all of us have to go see the consul? We could split up. Scotty and I could start locating the Golden Mouse while you're talking to him."
"He probably knows all about it," Zircon pointed out. "It must be a prominent landmark, although I've never heard of it. Otherwise, Chahda wouldn't have known about it."
"Unless it was a place Bradley had told him about," Scotty said.
"That's possible. At any rate, we've nothing to lose by separating for a while. I'll go see the consul and find out what he knows. You two start asking questions and I'll meet you in an hour right here ... no, better still, since we'll want to eat here, I'll meet you in front of Whiteaway-Laidlaw's Department Store. It's only a few blocks from here and there's a good restaurant close by."
Rick's memory rang a bell. "Isn't Whiteaway-Laidlaw in Bombay?"
"Yes. But it's also here, and in most major English cities in the Far East." The big scientist smiled. "I picked it because I was sure you'd remember the name. I wasn't so sure you'd remember Huan Yuan See's Restaurant."
"You were right," Scotty replied with a grin. "Well, let's get going. I see a bank across the street. We can get our money changed there."
It took only a few moments to exchange some of their American currency for Hong Kong dollars. The boys folded the bills, which like all English paper money were bigger than American bills, and tucked them into their wallets. Zircon started for the consulate with a wave of the hand and a reminder that they would get together in an hour.
"Now what?" Scotty asked.
"Now we start asking questions," Rick told him. They had paused at the entrance to the bank and the guard was standing near by. His turban and neatly curled beard proclaimed him to be a Sikh, a member of the warrior Indian caste that is scattered throughout the Far East.
"We're looking for something called the Golden Mouse," Rick said. "Can you tell us where it is?"
The Sikh considered. Then he shook his head. "Not know of that one, sir. Not hear."
"Maybe one of the bank officers would know," Scotty suggested. They stepped back inside the bank and approached a thin young Britisher who wore tweeds in spite of the heat of the day.
Rick put the question to him. The Englishman looked blank. "Golden Mouse, you say? Dashed if I ever heard of it. Is it supposed to be a tourist place do you know?"
"We don't know," Rick answered. "We've no idea."
The young man's face expanded in a pleased smile. "Don't suppose you'd consider substituting a pink rabbit? We have a restaurant of that name. Haw!"
Rick hid a grin. "Very kind of you," he said. "I'm afraid my friend and I are allergic to rabbit fur."
With a perfectly straight face, Scotty added, "Haw!"
The young Englishman shook with laughter. "You know, that's really very good," he said. "Allergic to rabbit fur! Very good! I'm sorry, fellows, but I'm afraid I can't help locate your Golden Mouse. Why not try a bobby?"
"Bobby sox or bobby pin?" Scotty asked.
The bank officer's eyebrows went up, then he smiled. "Oh, I see what you mean. No, it's not a joke this time. Bobby is what we call policemen. You know?"
"Thank you very much," Rick said.
"Not a bit. By the way, I can make a few inquiries of the chaps who have been here for some time. They may know. If you have no luck, drop back." He offered his hand. "My name is Keaton-Yeats. Ronald Keaton-Yeats."
Rick and Scotty offered their names in exchange. "We'll come back if we can't locate it," Rick assured him.
Outside, Scotty laughed. "Haw!" he said.
Rick grinned. "That's the famous English sense of humor, I guess. He's a good scout."
Scotty nodded his agreement. "Funny thing about these English. They do things that seem silly to us, like wearing tweeds in bathing-suit weather and cracking bad jokes. But when the chips are down, they can fight like wildcats." Suddenly he pointed. "There's a policeman."
"Let's tackle him," Rick said, and led the way across the street.
The officer was evidently a lieutenant or something of the sort, because he had impressive-looking shoulder tabs on his uniform. As they came up, he was inspecting the papers of a small, hard-bitten character who wore greasy dungarees and a cap black with grease and grime. Evidently the papers were in order, for he handed them back and said curtly, "All right, my man. But remember we'll have no doings from you or your like in Hong Kong. If you're smart, you'll stick close to your ship."
The man muttered, "Aye aye, Orficer. That I will." He moved away.
The officer was a tall, erect man with a cropped, gray military mustache. He saw the two boys and nodded. "Can I help you, lads?"
"Perhaps you can, sir," Rick said. "We're looking for something called the Golden Mouse."
The officer's eyes narrowed. "Are you now?" he inquired. "And what would you want with the Golden Mouse, if I may inquire?"
"We're to meet a friend there," Scotty said.
The tone of the officer's voice told Rick that something was wrong. He asked, "Is something wrong with the Golden Mouse? We don't even know what it is."
"A good thing for you not to know," the officer retorted. "You're Americans?"
"Yes, sir," Scotty said.
"Then the Hong Kong force is responsible for seeing that you have a pleasant and safe visit. I warn you. Keep away from the Golden Mouse."
He turned on his heel and walked off. Rick and Scotty stared after his retreating figure, and then at each other.
"How about that?" Scotty wanted to know.
Rick frowned. "There must be something fishy about this Golden Mouse. From the way he talks, it's a place. I wonder what kind?"
A cockney voice spoke from behind them. "Now, that's a thing I could tell you lads, always providin' you was willin' to part with 'arf a quid or so."
It was the man the officer had warned to stick close to his ship. He winked at them. "Come over 'ere where that blinkin' peeler cawn't see us." He motioned to the shadow of a hallway.
Inside, he grinned at them. "I 'eard the line o' garbage the copper was 'andin' you and I says, 'ere's a chance to do a bit o' fyvor fer a couple o' rich Yanks. And, I says, likely they'll part with a few bob to buy ol' Bert a bit o' tea."
Rick pulled out a couple of Hong Kong dollars. "We'll pay you. Now tell us what the Golden Mouse is, and where it is."
Bert pocketed the notes. "As to what it is, it's a kind o' restaurant, you might say. It 'as entertainment and food and drink, and you'll find a few o' the lads there for company most any night. Aye, it's a fair popular place, is the Golden Mouse." He grinned, and there was a gap where his two front teeth should have been. "As to where it is, that's not so easy to tell a pair what don't know 'ow to get around. But you just get a couple rickshaws, and you say to the coolies to take you to Canton Charlie's place. They know it, right enough."
He spat expertly at a cockroach that scuttled past. "But take a tip from ol' Bert and don't go. Stay clear o' Canton Charlie's."
"Why?" Rick demanded.
"Never you mind why. Just stay clear. Bert's warnin' you."
"We want to know why," Scotty insisted.
Bert grinned evilly. "Right-o. The lads wants to know, and Bert's an obligin' gent. You go to Canton Charlie's and I'll make a bet, I will. I'll bet you'll be outside again in 'arf an hour, or maybe less."
His grin widened. "But will you know yer outside? Not you. And why? On account of you'll be layin' in a ditch somewheres with yer throats cut. That's why."
He pushed past and left them standing in the doorway, staring at each other.
Hobart Zircon listened to Rick's report on the boys' findings, then made an abrupt change of plans. Instead of eating in Hong Kong, they took the ferry back to the hotel and took from their suitcases the old clothes each had brought to wear on the trail, and to give them the look of experienced hunters. As Steve had pointed out, only amateurs go in for fancy togs as a rule. The experienced prefer tough, ordinary clothes like dungarees and denim shirts.
As they unpacked, Scotty asked, "Is it safe to leave our rifles, and Rick's camera and that scientific stuff you brought?"
He referred to some delicate equipment packed in a special case that Zircon had brought from the Spindrift lab for investigating the heavy water they hoped to find.
"Perfectly safe," Zircon assured him. "In reputable hotels of this sort, the Chinese help is scrupulously honest. You could leave money lying about and it would never be touched."
He had already reported on his conversation with the consul general. There had been no word from Bradley, although Steve's instructions to co-operate with the Spindrift party had arrived. The American official had promised to get in touch with them if Bradley turned up. He had never heard of the Golden Mouse.
"I think we had better try to get in touch with Chahda right away," the scientist said. "So let's have a bite to eat here, then go have a look at this Golden Mouse, or Canton Charlie's. From the description, I'd say it is typical of a certain kind of place where toughs hang out. Each city in the Orient has several. If we wear these old clothes, we'll be less conspicuous."
In a short time they were in Hong Kong again. Zircon hailed three rickshaws and they got in. "Canton Charlie's," the scientist commanded. "Chop chop."
The rickshaw boys started off at a trot. The way led along the bay shore, past wharves and piers, until they were out of the central part of the city and moving into a section that was more as Rick had imagined an oriental city to be. The streets were wide, but lined with board-front buildings. The signs were all in Chinese, and usually painted in gaudy colors. There were no Englishmen in sight now, nor did they see any policemen.
It was a long way. They had left their hotel in full daylight, but dusk had settled before the coolies finally turned off the main road. They went into a narrow street, then turned down another and still another. With each turn the streets narrowed and the light grew dimmer. How had Chahda heard of a place in such a poor quarter of the city? Rick wondered.
Presently the rickshaws drew up in a dismal corner of what was little more than an alleyway. They were in front of a low wooden building with windows that hadn't been cleaned in years. Above the double door was a faded painting, illumined by a single electric light bulb. The painting probably was supposed to represent a mouse. Once, long ago, it had evidently been yellow. Now it was so glazed with grime that it was hard to tell.
Rick stepped down from his rickshaw, sniffing the combined odors of garlic, pungent sauces, filth, and stale beer. Scotty joined him, and they waited for the scientist to take the lead.
Zircon handed some money to the coolies and ordered them to wait. Then he motioned to the boys and led the way to the door. It opened on a large room dimly lighted by faded Chinese lanterns that hung over low-power bulbs. The walls were covered with a grimy paper of faded yellow on which unskilled drawings of mice at play were clustered. The floor was crowded with tables, each table covered with a yellow-checkered tablecloth. So far as Rick could see, there wasn't a clean cloth in the lot.
In front of the room was a long bar of scarred teak-wood. Behind it were row after row of ordinary ten-cent-store water tumblers. Rick guessed Canton Charlie's clients weren't fussy about drinking from fine crystal.
Next to one wall, a white man in rumpled, dirty dungarees was sleeping with head down on the table. His snores were not musical. At one of the tables near the opposite wall, a dark-skinned man in a seaman's woolen cap sat paring his nails with a knife easily a foot long.
Zircon motioned to the boys and they sat down at one of the tables. "It's too early for many customers, I suppose. But someone in charge must be here." He banged on the table, then lowered his voice. "How do you like the customer over there? A Portuguese sailor, from the look of him."
In a moment dingy curtains parted next to the bar and a man emerged. At a guess, he was Spanish.
"Bet he's got a knife a foot long, too, under that apron," Scotty whispered. "He's the type."
Rick nodded. Scotty was so right! The man's heavy-lidded eyes were set in a swarthy face whose most prominent feature was a broken nose, flattened probably with some weapon like a hard-swung bottle. A white scar across his chin indicated that it might have been a broken bottle. He was medium tall, and he wore a cap that might have been white once. An apron covered loose black Chinese shirt and trousers. Rick was glad big Hobart Zircon was sitting next to him.
The man walked to the table and greeted them in a surprisingly soft voice in which there was an accent Rick couldn't identify.
"You're a little early, gents. But I can take care of you. What'll you have?"
"Chahda," Zircon said flatly.
The man's eyes narrowed. "You better have a drink and sit tight."
"Why?" Zircon asked.
"You'll see. What'll you drink?"
Zircon ignored the question. "Who are you?"
"Canton Charlie. What'll you drink?"
"What have you got?"
There was a ghost of a smile on the scarred face. "I'll fix you up." He clapped his hands. An elderly Chinese in dirty whites shuffled out. Canton Charlie spoke a few words of singsong Cantonese and the old man nodded.
"Sit tight," Charlie said again, and walked away.
"Lot of fine, useful information we're getting out of this," Scotty grumbled. "I wonder how long we'll have to sit in this flea bag?"
"Hard to say," Zircon replied. "But Charlie seemed friendly enough."
The old Chinese was shuffling across the floor with a tray that held three tumblers of dark liquid. "Wonder what he's going to give us?" Rick said. "Probably dragon blood."
The Chinese put the glasses down in front of them and padded off again. Scotty picked up his glass and sniffed, and a grin split his face. "Dragon blood, huh? Ten thousand miles from home, in the worst dive in Hong Kong, and what do we drink? Coke!"
Rick laughed. "American civilization and the mysterious East. But it suits me. Coke is probably the only thing in the house fit to drink."
The Portuguese finished the drink that had been in front of him, gave his nails a last inspection, stowed his knife in a leg sheath, and left. He hadn't even looked at them.
"He's probably gone to find a blowtorch to shave with," Zircon rumbled. He motioned toward the door. "New customers coming."
They were the first of many. Within a half-hour the room was filled with a strange assortment. There were British, American, French, Dutch, Portuguese, and Filipino sailors, and men of uncertain profession who ranged in complexion from pure Chinese to pure black. Many were Eurasians, and of the Eurasians, a large percentage were of mixed Chinese and Portuguese blood. Zircon reminded the boys that the Portuguese colony of Macao was only half an afternoon's boat trip south of Hong Kong.
By and large, Rick decided, Canton Charlie's customers were as tough a looking bunch of pirates as he had ever seen. They applauded noisily by banging glasses on the table as a disreputable lot of musicians appeared and began to make the night hideous with what seemed to be a Chinese version of a Strauss waltz. By this time, the room was so blue with cigar and cigarette smoke and so noisy with coarse chatter in a half-dozen tongues that it was hard to see or hear one's neighbor.
Again Rick wondered. How had Chahda ever heard of this place? He sipped on his third coke and leaned over toward Scotty and Zircon. "Wonder what's keeping Canton Charlie?"
Zircon shrugged expressively. "Can't do a thing but wait, Rick."
Fortunately, the wait was not much longer. A Chinese shuffled past and dropped a folded note on the table. Before they could question him, he had made his way among the tables and was gone.
Zircon picked up the note, glanced through it, and handed it to Scotty. Rick read over his friend's shoulder. The note was scrawled in pencil, as though written in haste.
"To find the one you want, go to the end of the Street of the Three Blind Fishermen. Go to the junk with the purple sails."
"Let's get started," Rick said. He rose to his feet. Zircon tossed some money on the table. The three of them made their way through the noisy mob of rough-necks and out the door. Rick breathed deeply when they were out in the narrow street again.
"Even with the garlic, this air smells better than what we left inside," Scotty said. "Why do you think Canton Charlie didn't deliver the message himself?"
"Maybe he's not mixed up in it," Rick suggested. "Maybe he just had orders to let someone know when we showed up."
"We'll soon know," Zircon predicted.
As the three rickshaw coolies materialized from the darkness where they had been waiting, the Americans climbed in. Zircon asked, "You know street called Three Blind Fishermen?"
One of the rickshaw boys nodded. "Not far. We go?"
"Yes."
The rickshaws lurched forward.
Inside the Golden Mouse, Canton Charlie started for the table where the three had been waiting. He stopped short as he saw they were no longer there, turned on his heel, and hurried into an inner room. He spoke quick words to a slim Chinese-Portuguese half-caste who immediately hurried out the back door. Once in the open, the slim man ran as though devils were after him.
For perhaps ten minutes Rick, Scotty, and Zircon sat in the rickshaws while the coolies pulled them through dark streets with no more noise than the occasional creaking of a wheel or the slapping of bare feet on the pavement.
There were houses on both sides of the streets, but only now and then did a light show through the impenetrable darkness. Rick finally sensed that they were near the water by a feeling of greater space around him rather than by anything he could see. A moment later he heard the lapping of water against a pier.
He was tense with excitement now. The first part of the journey was coming to an end. In a few minutes they would be hearing Chahda's story.
The rickshaws drew to a stop and the coolies dropped the shafts so their passengers could climb out. The coolie who spoke the best English asked, hesitantly, "You pay now, sor? We no wait here, yes?"
"Very well." Zircon paid the boys' fare and his own. "I don't suppose there's any reason to have them wait, since this is our destination. Chahda's friends doubtless will provide a ride for the return journey."
"I don't like this," Scotty whispered. "There's something funny about the whole business. I feel it."
"Where's the junk?" Rick demanded softly. "I can't see a thing."
"We'll wait for a bit," Zircon said quietly. "And we'll be on our guard, just in case Scotty's intuition is right."
They waited quietly, leaning against what seemed to be a warehouse, for what felt like five minutes but was probably only two. Then Rick heard the mutter of voices and the splash of something moving in the water. The sounds were followed by a bumping and scraping against the pier that jutted into the water.
"Be ready," Zircon commanded in a whisper.
As he said it, a bull's-eye lantern made circles in the night, outlining the high stern and bow of a junk. The lantern swung upward, revealing the junk's sails. They were purple.
Zircon led the way down the pier to the junk. "Chahda?" he called softly.
An accented voice answered, "Come aboard." The lantern played on the pier's edge to guide them. Following its light, they jumped from the pier into the litter of rope, boxes, and gear in the middle of the uneven deck. The stench that smote their nostrils was terrible. Probably the vessel hadn't been cleaned since it was built. Rick coughed from the foul odor and then raised his voice. "Chahda? Where are you?"
From somewhere the same accented voice replied, "We take you to him. Sit down and wait."
Rick turned in the direction from which the voice had come. He guessed that the speaker was in the stern, although it was hard to tell which was which. Then he saw a few lights along the shore change position and knew they were moving.
For no reason, he had a sudden impulse to jump back on the pier. He took Scotty's arm. "We're moving!"
"I know it. And I don't like it." Scotty's voice sounded grim.
Zircon, a huge bulk in the darkness, leaned close to them. His usually booming voice was barely audible. "Stand back to back, the three of us making a triangle. Then feel around on deck and try to find something to use as a club. I agree with Scotty. Something is very fishy here. If Chahda's anywhere within reach, he could have come himself. He wouldn't just send someone."
The boys whispered agreement. They turned, so that Rick felt Scotty's arm on his left side and Zircon's on his right. He stooped and pawed through the clutter on the deck. His groping hand found a slender piece of wood that he rejected at first. Then, when he failed to find anything else, he groped around and found it again. At best, it was a poor weapon.
They settled down to wait. The junk was just barely making headway, and as they stood waiting, their vision cleared a little. Or perhaps distant lights on the shore provided faint illumination. Rick could make out two men poling the junk from the stern.
Far out on the water came the sound of a fast-moving craft of some sort, then a searchlight probed the water briefly. From aft came a muttered exclamation, then rapid orders in liquid Cantonese.
Scotty's elbow dug into Rick's back. "They're coming," he said tensely.
Dark figures hurtled at the three.
A flying body slammed into Rick, smashing him to the deck. He lost his stick, but struck out with his fists. He heard Zircon roar like a wounded bull.
Rick fought valiantly. Two men were on him, struggling to tie him with lengths of rope. Once he felt the rope pulled across his cheek, leaving a burning sensation. He sensed rather than heard the crashing and shouting around him. Then he wriggled out from under his assailants and staggered to his feet. Instantly one of the men was upon him again.
"Fall flat!" Zircon bellowed.
Rick did so, on the instant. There was the sound as of a baseball bat smacking a steer and for an instant the deck was miraculously clear. Zircon had found a piece of two-by-four lumber about eight feet long, and he was swinging it like a flail.
The accented voice called, "Drop it or we shoot!"
A figure swung upright next to Rick and threw something. There was a grunt and a crash as the man who had called went down.
"Got him," Scotty said with satisfaction.
A voice rattled orders in Cantonese. The polers from the stern advanced, their long poles held out like lances. Zircon was their target.
Scotty whispered, "Let 'em get close. You take the left and I'll take the right. Go under the poles."
For a heartbeat there was quiet. Rick divined the strategy. The polemen would lunge at Zircon, then the rest would leap. He didn't know how many there were of the enemy. He thought there must be at least seven. He flattened out, eyes on the left poleman, ready to spring. The poles came nearer, one was over him.
"Now," Scotty hissed.
Rick went forward, scrambling, legs driving. It was football, but easier. His shoulder caught the poleman in the stomach, and he lifted. The man went flying. Next to him he heard a dull thud, then he saw Scotty stand up, looming large in the darkness.
But the rest of the crew had charged. For a moment Zircon's lumber wreaked havoc, then he struck a part of the junk and the two-by-four splintered. He let out a yell of rage and flung himself on the nearest man, lifted him bodily and threw him at the others.
Yellow light pierced the darkness from the direction of the shore. A voice screamed, "Yanks! Over the side! Swim here!"
"Get going," Zircon howled. "I'll cover you!"
Rick took heart. He ran to the side and jumped feet first. Scotty came within a hair of landing on top of him. From overhead came cries of rage, then another bellow from Zircon. In the next instant the scientist plunged into the water with them.
"Swim for it," he commanded. He rose high out of the water and yelled, "Out with those lights!"
The automobile lights that had illumined the scene blinked out. The voice called back, "Hurry! The junk is putting about!"
Rick was swimming at his best speed, head down in a powerful crawl, but he took time to look back over his shoulder. The junk was turning! He knew with despair that it could run them down easily. The shore was a long distance away. "Spread out," he called. "Then they can't get all of us." He put his head down and cut through the water like a fish. If only there were time to undress! But he didn't dare pause even long enough to untie his shoes.
The swim was a nightmare. Every few moments the auto lights blinked briefly as their unknown friend gave them a course to steer by. Rick looked back once and the junk had straightened out and was gaining on them. He redoubled his efforts. Scotty was even with him, but Zircon was pulling ahead.
He heard voices close behind and cast a glance back. The junk with the purple sails was perilously close. He drew new strength from somewhere and forged ahead.
The swimmers had closed the distance rapidly. The next time the lights blinked Rick could make out two figures standing next to the car. He could hear the creaking of gear on the junk and the grunts of the polemen, and the sounds were close! He lifted his voice in a cry for help. "They're on top of us!"
The car lights blinked on, and held the junk in their glare. A gun fired once from the shore. Rick saw the orange spurt. Then he heard a cry from almost overhead and the junk veered sharply.
"Angle right," Scotty called, and Rick saw that they were almost at the tip of the pier. He put on a last spurt, caught a pile, and pulled himself up by its lashings. In a moment all three of them were running down the pier toward the waiting car.
The lights came on and a British voice called, "In the car. Hurry!"
"It's the bank clerk!" Scotty gasped.
It was. Ronald Keaton-Yeats ran to meet them. "Do hurry!" he exclaimed. "We think someone from this end has gone for reinforcements for your friends yonder." The three followed him to the car, a touring sedan of British make. Rick sensed that someone was behind him and started to turn, but a soft voice whispered in his ear.
"Keep looking ahead. Get to your hotel and wait there for a phone call."
They piled into the car, wet clothes and all. Keaton-Yeats ran around to the driver's seat, then stopped. "I say! Where did that other chap go to?"
"What other?" Zircon asked.
"A Eurasian. He's the one who led me here, and who fired that shot. Dashed uncivilized, but I guess it saved your bacon, rather. No matter. He's vanished and that's an end to it." The young Englishman had been peering into the shadows. "We'll hie on our merry way and leave him to his own devices."
Rick started to mention the message that had been whispered in his ear, then decided not to, although he couldn't have explained why.
The car roared into life. Keaton-Yeats spun the wheel and they raced up the street, the buildings magnifying the sound of their passing into thunder. Not until they were on the main street was there quiet enough for conversation, then Zircon demanded, "Would you mind giving us an explanation? Naturally, we're interested."
"Rather!" Keaton-Yeats said. "I met Brant and Scott this afternoon when they inquired from me the way to a Golden Mouse. I'd never heard of the creature, as I told them, and they rejected my offer of some other sort of animal. Haw! But after they had gone, I made inquiries. I learned that this Golden Mouse was a dive of the most unsavory character."
He steered around a group of rickshaws and Rick clutched the back of the front seat. He was having a fine case of jitters, because the Englishman was driving on what appeared to Rick to be the wrong side of the road. Even when he realized that left-hand driving was the rule in Hong Kong, dodging cars on the wrong side left him rattled!
"I worried a bit," Keaton-Yeats went on. "Even made a phone call or two. Discovered Brant and Scott were registered at the Peninsular Hotel. But by the time I phoned there, they had gone out. Having no engagements, I decided to look up this Golden Mouse place and at least add another soul to the party for safety's sake, so to speak. However, I never got in, for just as I turned into the proper alley, after a bit of searching, this Eurasian chap jumped on my running board. He asked did I care to help out three Americans who were in trouble. I assured him that it would be a pleasure, but I was already committed to two Americans, in a manner of speaking. He demanded names. I gave him the two I knew. He said you were mixed up in this affair in which he was taking a hand. I told him to get aboard and he did so. We tore around odd streets for some time. My nose is insulted from the things I've smelled tonight, I assure you. We were about to throw in our cards, then, as luck would have it, we spotted three rickshaw coolies, and blessed if they didn't turn out to be yours. We sped down that Blind Fisherman Street just in time to hear the most infernal commotion out in the bay. The rest you know."
There was no adequate way of thanking Keaton-Yeats. Without his kindly interest in two strangers, they would doubtless have lost their lives. But when they told him as much, he laughed it off.
"Oh, I'm sure that's overdoing it a bit. What that crew was probably after was a bit of ransom. Pirates are still something of a problem around here, you know. We've had regular ocean-going craft picked off by them and held. I've enjoyed it immensely, and if thanks are due, I'll give them to you. Life was getting to be a bit of a bore."
And that settled it, so far as Keaton-Yeats was concerned. He drove them to the Kowloon ferry, but suggested that they take a walla-walla in view of their disreputable appearance. As they shook hands all around, he said, "Oddest thing. To me, the most curious business was that chap who watched us. Not the Eurasian. Another one. It was because of him that we suspected new recruits for our pirate friends were on the way."
"What did he look like?" Rick asked.
"Can't say. We never did see his face. Or any of him, for that matter. Somewhere up the alley was an open door, and he was standing in it, against the light. At least I believe that was the case, for all we saw was his shadow. A most unusual shadow, at that. It was so long and thin that it looked like a pole with a head and limbs. Our Eurasian friend was a bit disturbed by it, too, for he mumbled something about blowing the creature's head off if he stepped out of his doorway."
"But you didn't see anything except the shadow?" Scotty asked.
"Not a blessed thing. There was just that form, outlined in light, stretching clear across the alley. It was uncanny, because to cast a shadow such as that the bloke must have been ten feet high and no thicker than a pencil!"
They had found the Golden Mouse. Now another bit of Chahda's cable had come to life. Rick's lips formed the words.
"Long Shadow!"
"Wheels within wheels and all of them turning merrily," Zircon said. "I am absolutely appalled at how little we know of what is going on."
The three of them, refreshed by showers, were in the hotel dining room having a late snack.
"Anyway, we have friends working for us," Scotty pointed out. "I think our British pal did just as he said. He found out that the Golden Mouse was not the sort of place for a couple of American tourists and decided to go there in case we needed help."
Rick agreed. "And thank heaven he did. But I have a couple of questions, besides the biggest one of all."
"The biggest one being: Where is Chahda?" Scotty added.
"Right. Also, I want to know why that motorboat appearing on the scene and flashing a searchlight made the junk gang jump us."
"I'm only speculating," Zircon replied, "but mightn't that have been a police boat on regular patrol? The junk gang would know it, I presume, and they might decide to get us tied up and under cover, just in case the police came too close."
"That's reasonable," Rick agreed. "We'll probably never know for sure, and that's as good an answer as any. Now, my next question is: Who was the Eurasian who got together with Keaton-Yeats?"
"You don't suppose it was Chahda?" Scotty suggested.
"Couldn't have been," Zircon replied. "Chahda wouldn't have faded away as soon as we got to shore. I can't imagine who the stranger was, except that he apparently was a friend. Also, I think it's clear that Canton Charlie certainly is not a friend, since our asking for Chahda resulted in our being kidnaped, or close to it."
Rick nodded. "Clear as air. Anyway, Bert's prediction was wrong. We didn't get our throats cut in Charlie's."
"He could have been only too right," Scotty reminded. "If we had gone there alone and hung around until the mob got wilder, it could have happened. What a wonderful crew of cutthroats! And they were on the way to getting set for a few fights among themselves when we left."
Rick glanced at big Hobart Zircon. "Having the professor along probably helped, too. Even the toughest thug would think twice before tackling him."
Zircon chuckled. "I must admit I've found it some advantage to be so sizable. What do you boys think of this strange shadow?"
"Strange is right." Rick stifled a yawn. "Keaton-Yeats thought he was unfriendly, and so did the Eurasian. But he didn't do anything very unfriendly, I guess. He just stood in a doorway."
"Chahda's cable said to beware of the long shadow," Scotty remembered.
"Which is a good reason to think that the man who cast the shadow is an enemy who now knows of our presence in Hong Kong," Zircon added. He glanced at his watch. "It's getting late. If the phone call our unknown friend mentioned to Rick doesn't come soon, it'll find me asleep when it does."
"Same here," Rick agreed. "Let's go up to bed."
Zircon paid the check and they took the elevator. As they walked down the long corridor to their room, Scotty scratched his head. "Mighty funny how everything was arranged for us at Canton Charlie's, wasn't it? We drop in, ask for Chahda, wait a while, get a note, and walk right into the arms of a reception committee. That's mighty good organization."
"They had plenty of time to get the junk ready for us," Rick pointed out. "We sat in Charlie's and cooled our heels for a long while."
"We should have had knives a foot long." Zircon smiled. "Then we could have given ourselves a manicure, like the Portuguese who left right after we arrived." He put his key in the lock and pushed the door open.
Rick had a confused impression of wild sounds, then something crashed into him and he landed flat on his back. As he scrambled to his feet, plaster showered down on him, and his ear separated the sounds. From within their room, a voice screamed, "Watch out! Take cover!" There was a blurred racket, as though a giant was running a stick along a monster picket fence at jet speed. Scotty was yelling something and Zircon was bellowing with rage. Then the thunderous stitching noise stopped.
All three of them started into the room at the same time, and Rick reached the door first. It was dark in the room, but in the faint light from the hallway he saw two figures struggling. He acted without thought. On a dresser just inside the door he had left a big flashlight. He grabbed it, jumped into the fray, and brought it down on the head of the man on top. The man slumped.
With a catlike twist the man who had been underneath wriggled free. Rick started to say, "What's going..." Then an open hand drove into his face and pushed him backward into Scotty and Zircon. The three of them fought for balance as Rick's assailant ran to the window, leaped out on to the fire escape, and was gone.
Scotty snapped on the light just as the man Rick had slugged staggered to his feet, blinking. He was of medium height, with a thin, dark face. He was dressed like a seaman, and apparently he was a Eurasian. Black eyes blazed at the three of them.
"Shut that blasted door! And bolt it!" the man commanded.
Zircon bellowed, "Don't be giving us orders! Explain..."
"I'm Carl Bradley," the man said.
Rick swallowed. Of the two men in the room, he had lowered the boom on the wrong one!
Scotty shut the door and threw the bolt.
"I've got to talk fast," Bradley said. "The hotel people will be up here in a few seconds and I don't want them to find me. It would mean too many explanations, and the police would want a statement I'd rather not have to give."
He straddled a chair. "I suppose you've guessed that I was the Eurasian with the young Englishman. It was just luck I picked him up, and more luck that we found your rickshaw coolies. Long Shadow's men had you, and Long Shadow was watching. That's why I faded when you got ashore. I intended following him, for once, instead of being followed myself. About the only thing I don't know about him is his secret headquarters. I didn't think I'd be able to get here, so I whispered to one of you that I'd phone. Well, Long Shadow led me here, up the fire escape. We came by a rather roundabout route, stopping while he ate. I suspected it was your room, but I didn't know for sure. He came in. I crouched on the fire escape. Didn't know what would happen, of course. Then we heard voices. I say we—he didn't know I was here, of course. He hauled a Schmeisser machine pistol from under his coat and slipped a clip in. There was just enough light for me to see the outline. It's distinctive."
A queer little shudder zipped down Rick's spine. A Schmeisser! It was the pistol known as the "burp gun," that sprayed slugs like a hose. No wonder he hadn't recognized the sound! He kept his eyes on Bradley, intent on what the slender JANIG man had to say.
"I yelled out a warning," Bradley went on, "and jumped through the window at him. Didn't dare take time to draw my gun. I kept yelling, hoping one of you would give me a hand. He's wiry as a thuggee bandit. Only I got a lump on the head instead."
"I'm sorry," Rick muttered.
"The damage is done and he's gone. Now I'll have to locate him again, if I can. Meanwhile, write this down. Quickly. I think I hear voices coming down the hall."
Scotty whipped a pencil and an envelope from an inside pocket.
"See the consul general. I've talked with him. He will give you a rubber boat and a Nansen bottle I've picked up. Outfit for the trail, and have plenty of weapons. Fly to Chungking and check in with the consul there. Ask him to give you a reliable guide. You're going to Korse Lenken. That's in Tibet." He spelled the name. "Chahda has gone on ahead. I'll follow. That's where the heavy water is coming from, I'm pretty sure. Chahda will check up. You can help him, then make tests to be sure it's really heavy water. Maybe you can do something about the source of the stuff. You'll have to see when you get there. I've got part of the story about what's being done with the water, but not all of it."
There definitely were voices outside now. The burp gun had brought the hotel people. In a moment there was a hammering on the door.
Bradley walked to the window. "You can let them in after I've gone. Any questions? Quickly!"
"What's the Nansen bottle for?" Zircon demanded.
"I don't know. I only know that Long Shadow bought five of them." Bradley threw a leg over the window sill and grinned at them. "Leave me out of any story you tell. I need a free hand for the next few days. And the less the police know about me the better for all of us." He hesitated as the pounding on the door grew louder, then a key grated in the lock. "I can tell you this," he said softly. "You can forget about an industrial plant. This is something else we're up against."
Then he was gone.
"Open the door," Zircon said. For the first time, Rick saw that the big scientist gripped his right arm just below the elbow, a red, sodden handkerchief balled in his left hand.
"You're wounded!" He jumped to the scientist's side.
"A scratch," Zircon said. "But it saved our lives. Tell you about it later. Open up, Scotty."
Scotty threw the door open and the English night clerk, three Chinese policemen, and half a dozen coolies piled in.
"What's going on here?" the clerk demanded. "What happened?"
"Nothing serious," Zircon said calmly. "There was evidently a bandit in our room. We opened the door and he fired with his submachine gun. Then, when he saw he hadn't killed us, he fled."
It wasn't a very convincing story. Rick saw suspicion in the faces of the hotel people. He threw in his nickel's worth. "What kept you so long? We've been trying to phone." He had a hunch the switchboard coolie was one of those in the room. Probably everyone on duty had raced up.
"We heard nothing downstairs," the night clerk said. "The floor coolie came down to get us. He took his time about it. Why was your door locked?"
Zircon tried hard to look sheepish. "I guess we must have bolted it in the confusion. Then, when you knocked, we tried to open it. It was a few seconds before we realized the bolt had been thrown and the door couldn't be opened unless the bolt was withdrawn. And the confounded thing stuck."
"Why didn't you yell?" one of the policemen demanded.
"Possibly you were yelling so loud yourselves you didn't hear us," Zircon said mildly. "You were making considerable noise."
The clerk frowned. "The manager will have to hear about this," he stated. "I doubt that he will believe your story. You may even be asked to pay damages."
Zircon drew himself up to his full height. "The day we pay damages for the privilege of being shot at in this disreputable dive you fatuously call a hotel will be the day Hong Kong sinks beneath the sea like Atlantis. Now have the goodness to clear out and let us get some sleep."
The clerk's face was scarlet. Rick tried to hide a grin.
"You'll have to make a formal statement to the police," the clerk snapped.
"In the morning," Zircon said. "In the morning we intend to see the American consul. You will hear more about this incident than you expect, my dear sir. Now clear out. We need our sleep. This has been most unsettling."
One of the policemen pointed to Zircon's bloodstained sleeve. "But you need medical attention, sir."
"I happen to be a doctor," Zircon said. That was true enough, but he was a doctor of science, not of medicine.
"You expect to treat yourself?" the clerk asked incredulously.
"Nothing to it," Zircon boomed. "A trifle. Why, once, when hunting in Africa, I had my back clawed by a lion. I stitched the wounds up myself."
The clerk was on the verge of a stroke. "You couldn't treat your own back," he almost screamed. "Impossible! How could you?"
"He turned around so he could see what he was doing," Scotty said. "Good night, all." He shepherded them through the door and closed it.
For a moment there was excited conversation from outside, then the clerk, the policemen, and the coolies retreated down the hall.
"They'll be back," Zircon said wearily, "but not before morning, I hope."
Rick looked at Scotty. "He turned around so he could see what he was doing," he repeated. "My sainted aunt!"
"Sewed up his own back," Scotty gibed. "Professor! You told that nice man a fib!"
"Great big juicy fib," Zircon said gravely. "Do I wash out my mouth with soap or do I get a medal?"
"Medal," the boys said, and laughed heartily.
"Whatever got into you?" Rick asked the scientist.
Zircon stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeve. "He was so pompous and so serious that I just couldn't resist. Besides, if I had been serious, we never would have gotten rid of them. Here, Rick. I'll need antiseptic and a gauze compress for this."
The boys looked at the wound. As Zircon had said, it was trivial. The slug had made a neat furrow across the surface of the skin, just deep enough to cause a good flow of blood. The wound already was clotting.
As Rick bandaged the scientist's brawny arm, Zircon said, "I recoiled instinctively when Bradley yelled. But not far enough. One slug just nicked me. But those heavy caliber weapons, like our service .45, will knock a man down anywhere they hit him. This one spun me around and I piled into you two. I think that is what saved us all."
"I didn't know what was happening," Rick said.
"Neither did I," Scotty agreed. "I've seen Schmeissers before, but I've never heard one fired until now."
"And let us hope we don't have to hear it again," Zircon added. When Rick finished bandaging his arm, the professor went to a suitcase and opened it, drawing out a folded map. "I'm curious about Korse Lenken," he said. "It's a new name to me. This map covers China and a part of Tibet. We may find it."
After a long search, Scotty whistled. "Here it is. And look where it is!"
Korse Lenken was a tiny dot in the vastness of the mountains just beyond the Chinese border at about 95° east longitude and 32° north latitude. No other town was noted on the map in the area, but high mountains were, and so were rivers. And Chahda was there, alone! At least Bradley had not mentioned any companion who traveled with the Hindu boy.
"We'll need to outfit completely," Zircon said. "Food, warm clothing, sleeping bags, and all the rest. And we'll need a rifle for Rick. We can get American rifles here. Also, I think we had better put in a small supply of ammunition beyond what we brought."
For a short while they speculated on the trip, and on the many things Bradley had left unsaid. It was unfortunate that they couldn't have had a few moments longer. But Rick could see that his presence in the room would have needed explaining, since he hadn't traveled up on the elevator. It was better for him to disappear.
Before getting into bed, they went to the door and opened it. Across the hall, Long Shadow's burp gun had made a fine mess. Plaster hung in patches and the laths behind were broken and splintered. Fortunately, the room opposite was a storage closet, so no one else had been in the line of fire. Rick looked at the dozens of holes and shook his head.
"If we'd been right in the doorway," he said, "we would now be so full of holes they could use us for mosquito netting—if the holes weren't so big." He looked at the other two and added, "I'm beginning to think Long Shadow doesn't like us."
Sing Lam-chiong dug heels into the flanks of his mule and trotted back to where Zircon, Scotty, and Rick were jogging along on their respective mounts.
"Good place to make lunch, in about ten minutes."
"Fine, Sing," Zircon said. "We could use lunch." The scientist looked down with distaste at his horse, a big hammerheaded black with the lines of a plow beast. "This creature is about as comfortable as a wooden sled."
Rick sympathized. His own nag, a pin-eared Chinese pony of a peculiar mouse-gray color, had no particular gait. He just waddled along, swaying from side to side and making his rider saddle sore.
Sing saluted and went back to the head of the column, which was made up of pack mules, each led by a Chinese bearer. There were four of the pack animals, each laden with the party's gear.
"He certainly knows this trail," Scotty commented.
"A good thing," Rick said. "The camping places are few and far between. I wish Korse Lenken were nearer."
The party was ten days out of Hong Kong, high in the mountain ranges that formed the backbone of south Asia. Since leaving the more civilized part of China they had trekked through alternate valleys and mountain passes, making good time in the valleys, but slowing to a snail's pace in the mountains. Sometimes the trail was wide enough for the three of them to ride abreast. Sometimes it clung to the mountainside with scarcely room for a single horse or mule. But Sing, leading the way, had a knack of picking the easiest route.
The Chinese guide was a gift from heaven. The Spindrifters had checked in at the American Consulate at Chungking, as Bradley had instructed them, and the consul had offered the loan of one of his own staff. Sing, normally a clerk at the consulate, had been born and brought up in the western reaches of outer Sinkiang Province, and he knew the area from wide travels with his father, a Chinese border police officer. Although he had never been to Korse Lenken, he had been close to it.
In a short while Sing called out in Chinese to the bearers and they followed him into a sort of pocket in the mountainside. Scotty, who was slightly ahead of Rick and Zircon, turned. "We've got company for lunch. There's another party already here."
In a moment the three Americans were greeting a portly Chinese who rose to greet them.
"Howdy, Mr. Ko," Rick said cordially. "We were wondering when we would catch up with you again."
Worthington Ko smiled and bowed. "We will doubtless meet many times until our paths separate. Please dismount and join me. My bearers have a good cooking fire you are welcome to use."
Ko was a textile merchant they had overtaken on the trail a short distance out of Chungking. Since then the two parties had passed and repassed each other several times. Ko had three mules, in addition to the one he rode, and two bearers. The mules carried only light packs. On the return trip, he had told them, they would be laden with Tibetan textiles. He was heading for the famous monastery of Rangan Lo to buy embroidery from the Buddhist monks. Eventually, the embroidery would find a market in Europe.
The three Spindrifters got down stiffly from their horses and found seats among the rocks next to the merchant. He smiled sympathetically. "You are stiff? These trails are very poor and one must travel them many times before one gets used to them." He took off his thick, horn-rimmed glasses and polished them on a scrap of silk. "After twenty years of it, I still find myself bent with weariness at the end of the day."
Sing busied himself with getting food ready. The Spindrift bearers unpacked utensils and their own rations of rice and dried meat.
Ko rose from his rocky seat and rearranged the long, flowing silk coat he wore. "I must be off. With your permission, I will proceed slowly, however, so that you will overtake me before nightfall."
"Of course," Zircon said. "But may I ask why?"
Ko's nearsighted eyes peered at the rifles carried in saddle sheaths on each of the three horses, and at Sing's shotgun. "I hope to take advantage of your weapons," he explained. "By nightfall we should reach Llhan Huang, which is a sort of crossroad. It marks the start of the Lenken country. The Lenkens are unlikely to attack a well-armed party of eight. But they delight in robbing a small party such as mine. For that reason, I usually manage to find a larger group to which to attach myself when entering the Llhan region." He smiled. "The armament you carry for hunting bharals will serve admirably to keep the Lenkens at a distance."
The Spindrift party had been warned that the tribe known as Lenkens were dangerous to travelers.
"We'll be delighted to have you join us," Zircon assured him.
Rick was about to suggest that the portly Chinese merchant wait until after the Spindrifters had eaten so they could all travel together, but he thought better of it. Ko had been cordial, but he had shown little interest in the American "hunting" party and Rick thought he probably preferred to travel at his own speed and in his own way.
Sing called that lunch was ready and they took mess kits to the fire and loaded them up with rice covered with a savory sauce, canned beef, and hot, crisp water chestnuts. As Rick sighed with gratitude over the first tasty mouthful, Scotty looked at the vanishing Ko party and mused, "Wonder how come he speaks English so perfectly?"
Sing overheard. He grinned. "No reason for surprise. Many Chinese are educated in American and English colleges both in China and in other countries. Like myself. I am a graduate of Oberlin."
"Guess that's right," Scotty admitted.
"Worthington is a rather strange name for a Chinese, Sing," Rick remarked.
The guide nodded. "It is. But I don't think it is his real one. Many Chinese take western first names, especially those who trade with westerners. That is because our own names are often too hard to say or remember."
"Have you ever met Ko before?" Zircon asked. "Since you've traveled widely in this region, I thought you might have come across him before."
"I don't think so," Sing replied. "But this is a very big country and there are many travelers like him."
Sing was certainly right in saying that there were many travelers, although the merchants like Ko were a minority. There were families of Tibetans walking along the trail, laden with their possessions, heading for goodness knew where. There were groups of horsemen, dressed in the quilted clothes of the mountain country and with peaked felt hats. Such men usually were armed with old-fashioned muskets and carried forked rests in which to lay the musket barrels for support while firing. There were parties of Chinese, sometimes on foot and sometimes with trains of mules or yaks, the oxlike Tibetan beasts of burden.
Frequently, especially in valley country, small villages lay near the trail. Often there were herders with their large flocks of sheep.
Although the trail slanted up and down, from valley to mountain pass and back down again, the way led constantly higher toward the white-capped peaks that have been called "The Backbone of the World." Beyond them, many hundreds of miles away, lay Nepal and India.
It was always cool now, and the Americans and Sing wore windbreakers and woolen sweaters. The bearers donned padded long coats. At night, the sleeping bags were comfortable; without them the Americans would have been chilled through and through.
"Make a guess, Sing," Rick requested. "How many more days to Korse Lenken?"
Sing counted on his fingers. "With fortune, maybe we'll get there late day after tomorrow. Depends on the trails."
Zircon sipped steaming tea standing up. He was too saddle sore to sit down. "Where do we camp tonight?"
"A mile or two past Llhan Huang. I know a good water supply there."
The bearers were standing around waiting patiently, already finished with cleaning up and packing, except for the Americans' teacups. They downed the last swallows of tea and handed the cups to Sing, then swung into the saddle again.
"I hope Sing is right about getting there day after tomorrow," Rick said as he shifted uncomfortably in the "chafing seat," as he called it. "This hay-burner is no luxury liner."
"Ditto," Scotty agreed. "Besides, I'm anxious to see Chahda."
Hobart Zircon nodded. "I hope whatever we find is worth the discomfort of this trip." He grinned. "At any rate, it's a new experience for all of us."
"I don't think I'll thank Bradley for it, though," Rick added. "Well, let's get moving."
He dug his heels into the pony's flanks and moved into position behind Sing. Scotty and Zircon fell back to bring up the rear. Although they were reasonably sure no one would attack them, Zircon felt it was best to have a rear guard and they had taken turns at the end of the column.
In spite of saddle soreness, Rick looked at the view with appreciation as the trail suddenly topped a rise. Far below spread a lush valley. Beyond were the last peaks they would have to cross before they came to Korse Lenken.