The Golden Skull: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story. Goodwin Harold Leland
to it," Rick said. "But here's one Americano who is not going to follow Filipinos who follow old Spanish custom."
"Two Americanos," Scotty corrected. "We will follow old American custom of snack early, English custom of dinner at eight, and then Spanish custom of dinner at ten. That way we get plenty chow, hey?"
This exchange was for their own benefit. The clerk did not overhear because they were hurrying to their rooms to change.
It was not too early to get into dinner jackets. They hauled out what Scotty called their "penguin rigs" and got into them. In spite of feeling a little self-conscious, they looked brown and handsome in their white tropical jackets with maroon bow ties.
They found a table on the porch, looking out over Manila Bay and the great field called The Luneta. By turning a little Rick could see the traffic on Dewey Boulevard. Rick had never seen anything like it. Apparently Filipino drivers were all mad at something, and all under the impression that no other vehicles were on the road. Also, Filipino drivers obviously had wild affection for their horns. They tooted constantly.
"The life of a pedestrian must be less than ten minutes in this town," Scotty commented.
"Pedestrians are nothing but the raw material for accidents," Rick agreed. "Look at that!"
Among the busses, the cars, and the jeeps that ranged the boulevard trotted a half-dozen two-wheeled carriages drawn by tiny horses. These were the calesas of bygone days, still competing with Manila's countless taxis for passengers.
"We should hire two and have a chariot race," Scotty suggested.
They had a sandwich and a cold drink made with calamansi, the pungent small Philippine limes, then walked across the boulevard to where the great wall of the old city rose high in the air. The wall was of huge stone blocks, rising about four times the boys' height into the air. It was perhaps twenty feet thick at the base.
Within the walls there had once been a city of a hundred thousand people, but it was there that in World War II the Japanese had chosen to make their last stand. Most of the people of the city had been wiped out, along with their Japanese captors, and of the ancient buildings only a cathedral remained. The area had been bulldozed flat in most places, and Quonset-type warehouses, called bodegas, had replaced the ruined Spanish buildings.
"Rick, look at this!" Scotty called, pointing to a fern-like plant that grew near the wall. "Watch." He touched it and the leaves rolled into tight tubes. "How about that?"
A Filipino gentleman, immaculate in a white nylon suit, watched them for a moment, then joined them. "The plant is strange to Americans, I think. It is a sensitive mimosa. You have the mimosa in America, but not this variety."
"It's good of you to explain, sir," Rick said.
"Not at all. In Tagalog, the plant is called makahiya. It means, literally, 'I am ashamed when you touch me.'"
"It's ashamed, so it closes up," Rick said. "That's charming. Tagalog must be a picturesque language."
The Filipino nodded. "It has a certain flavor. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Colonel Felix Rojas of the Philippine constabulary."
Rick took his first good look at the Filipino and immediately recognized the soldierly bearing and lean fitness of the professional soldier. He introduced himself and Scotty.
Colonel Rojas smiled. "The young men who are going to dine with the esteemed Assistant Secretary tonight, eh? Welcome to our country." He bowed and walked away, leaving them openmouthed. Then, as an afterthought, he turned. "Surprised? Don't be. We are interested in strangers until their intentions are known. Yours are above reproach." His smile faded. "However, you may be interested in another bit of Tagalog." He spoke briefly a phrase that seemed to be mostly vowels.
"What does it mean?" Scotty asked.
The colonel's eyes searched theirs. "What good is hay to a dead horse," he said and walked away.
The boys stared at each other.
"A very good question," Rick said at last. The colonel had vanished into the Manila Hotel. "Scotty, what good is hay to a dead horse?"
"The deceased equine has little use for hay," Scotty said. "Obviously. Was that a warning?"
"I don't know what it was," Rick said. The phrase could have been a warning, but of what? And how had the colonel known where they were dining? He put the question aloud.
Scotty shrugged. "Doesn't the constabulary come under the Department of the Interior? Maybe Lazada told him. A colonel would be pretty high rank in the constabulary; he could even be the commander."
The Philippine constabulary had a long and distinguished history. It was similar to a police force, but was a military organization. It was, Rick thought, something like a cross between the American state militia, the Texas Rangers, and any good state police force.
"I'm snowed," Rick said at last. "The only thing I'm sure of is that he wasn't looking for information when he asked what good is hay to a dead horse. Come on. Let's start for Lazada's."
The way led across busy Taft Avenue, named for the American president, across the Ayala Bridge which spanned the Pasig River, and past Malaccan Palace. The palace was the equivalent of our White House. In its time Spanish, American, and Japanese conquerors of the Philippines had lived there. Now it housed the president of the Republic of the Philippines.
It was very dark by the time they passed the palace. They left the street-lighted area and entered an area of old Spanish houses. The Pasig River was very close. They could smell the water hyacinth which floated endlessly down to the sea.
The air was heavy with unshed rain. The boys had long since shed their jackets and were carrying them. Now the heat seemed to push down on them, muffling even the sound of their leather soles on the cobbles. They passed a solitary street light and Rick read the sign. They were on the right track. The hotel clerk's directions, obtained before they ate, had been very good.
"Almost there," Rick whispered, then wondered why he hadn't spoken aloud.
Apparently Scotty was feeling the same physical oppression because he didn't comment on the whisper.
The houses were two-story, old Spanish style, with much wrought-iron fancy work. Few lights showed. Such houses presented only blank faces to the street. The life inside them found its open air in secluded patios in the rear.
"We must be getting close," Scotty said. His voice was very low.
Rick unsnapped his key ring. It had a pencil flashlight attached. He shot the light over the house fronts, searching for a number. A cream-colored lizard darted frantically out of the circle of light into protecting darkness.
"Two more numbers," Rick said. "Must be the house after the next one." He flashed the tiny light ahead and froze as he saw the shape of a man. Beside him, he felt Scotty tense.
It was silly to stand frozen. Rick moved ahead, slowly, and the shape took form. Turban, flowing tunic with sash. Fiercely whiskered face. A Sikh guard.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Sikhs – Indians – were noted for their bravery and fighting ability, and they could be found in most cities of the Far East, usually employed as private guards or police.
The Sikh came to attention and Rick noted that he was rather small for his race. Most Sikhs were big men. He had kept the light on the bearded face, noting that the beard was neatly tied in the Sikh fashion. Brown eyes stared unblinkingly. A hoarse voice said, "This ees house of Meester Secretary Lazada. Please to enter."
Suddenly the voice changed and Rick nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Go right on up the stairs, meatheads. Scotty must be hungry. He always is."
Rick choked.
"Chahda!"
CHAPTER III
The Gods of Banaue
Scotty reached out for the Hindu boy, but Chahda stepped nimbly aside. "Not time for horseplay now," he said. "Or talk either. Houseboy will hear. It important I stay under cover. You go up and eat. Later, if I can, I will come to Manila