The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones
tonight. I’ll turn him over to you tomorrow; he’ll work with you. Well, I saw General Li last night and had a talk with him.”
“What did you discover?”
“That he’s on the level. I can’t savvy it at all.”
“Perhaps the fault is yours,” she said quietly. “Often we go looking for some deep, dark secret, when all the time it’s in plain sight.”
“Meaning what?”
“I’m not sure. But in spite of all his culture, education, ability, he’s still a Chinese. And at heart every Chinese is superstitious. A quality so simple that it may be the reason why he stands with Ming Shui.”
Duane’s eyes widened a trifle.
“Upon my word, you’re an angel of light!” he exclaimed. She laughed and went her way, leaving him thoughtful.
Parks got in late that night, and Duane spent four hours with him. Parks was a wizard with electronics. He had an absolute mastery of the radionic marvels that had resulted from the war. High frequencies, ultrasonic vibrations, the thousand and one applications of these wonders to everyday life, all were just so much hamburger to Parks. He listened to Duane and nodded.
“I can do what you want,” he said. “Mind, it’s not easy; it’ll cost like hell. But it can be done. If the image of Buddha is ready in two weeks, I’ll guarantee to have it in shape in another week. I’ll have to work on it with Miss Lawton, of course.”
“Go to it,” said Duane.
During the next few days he was very busy arranging for that Buddha to get from the moon to the earth. The ordinary bronze Buddha could never make it because of his weight; but one of light plastic would be very different, though looking the same. With the help of Wang, Duane got his plans laid, ordered the necessary helicopter, and made an eventful second trip with Wang to the Heavenly Peace Monastery.
And just here, destiny lammed him under the jaw.
* * * *
Winging out above the mountains, they picked up the golden roof of the monastery and hovered. Work was going on at one side of the courtyard; the chamber for the reception of the Buddha was building—roofless walls of thirty feet on each side, as Duane had prescribed. To Wang, who was a highly intelligent young man, he pointed it out.
“It’ll be your job to land the Buddha there,” he said, “when it’s ready. The larger helicopter can just make it, eh?”
“Easily,” said Wang, his slant eyes sparkling. “Oh, we can keep the helicopter a foot from the ground and land the Buddha. I heard one was being made.”
“What else did you hear?” demanded Duane sourly, as they settled.
Wang grinned: “Much. There are strong rumors of miracles. It will be great fun to see these dirty monks when it happens!”
“How do you know so much?” snapped Duane.
“I am a student of electronics,” said Wang, chuckling. “In fact, Mr. Parks is employing me on his work.”
Duane grunted in surprise, but made no comment. He opened the cab door as it came down to the ground, and stepped out. Half a dozen red-robed monks appeared and closed around him. One, to his astonishment, addressed him in English.
“Come. Ming Shui is awaiting you. I will interpret.”
Duane stared at the man; his yellow features were impassive, but he had pale angry eyes that held a strange light. The monks hustled Duane across the courtyard and in at the monastery entrance. He spoke to the self-appointed interpreter but had no answer; and, perplexed, found himself taken to the same room where he had previously spoken with Ming Shui.
The same screen was in place; the same cracked woman’s voice came from behind it. The group of monks seated themselves in a line, rosaries in hand. The interpreter spoke, and Ming Shui made reply; the monk turned to Duane, his pale eyes flashing.
“She says you will remain here as an earnest that the Buddha will arrive.”
“Remain here?” Duane was startled. “I’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“You have no choice,” said the other impassively. “A room is prepared for you; accept the situation, I advise you—”
With an angry oath, Duane leaped up and strode out of the room. No one else moved. He was not hindered, though he saw plenty of monks and workmen as he came into the courtyard. He halted, incredulous, and furious—Wang and the helicopter were gone. As he stood staring, the interpreter, with the pale eyes appeared and came to him, smiling thinly.
“Well, Mr. Duane, you see how it is,” he said in suave tones. “Shall I show you to your room? We might reach an understanding.”
Swiftly, instantly, Duane took acute warning and mastered himself. For some reason unknown, he was trapped—and here was the secret of this entire mystifying Turkestan imbroglio, here in this man. He felt it, and reacted promptly upon it.
“Very well,” he rejoined, choking down his anger. “Since there’s no help for it, go ahead. And just who are you?”
“My name is, or was, Tuyok Nokhoi. It may be familiar to you. This way, please.
Duane followed Tuyok without reply; but now alarm seized him. The mask was off, with a vengeance! Little as he knew this country, that name was indeed familiar; all Asia had rung with it in the last days of the war, and since.
Tuyok Nokhoi, Tuyok the Hound, had been the puppet Mongolian ruler under Japanese dominion, renowned for his cruelties and his abilities. When the little brown barbarians were smashed out of Asia, Tuyok had vanished from sight. No search, no vengeance, no justice had reached him; his disappearance was complete. He was supposed to have been killed in the savage fighting that swept Mongolia.
Well, here he was; and his open avowal of his name boded Duane no good.
* * * *
They came into a room, after climbing many stairs, high on the south face of the building; half a dozen floors above the rocks, thought Duane. It was a sunny, large room, comfortably furnished. The window was heavily barred, the massive door fastened on the outside; it was a prison.
Tuyok sat cross-legged on the floor; he had not taken his hands from beneath his red lama’s robe, significantly. Duane, who carried no arms, dropped on a big stuffed leather seat and looked at the lean, impassive yellow face.
“Well?” he asked.
“You are not to be harmed, if you accept the situation,” said Tuyok. “I am taking certain measures. You have interfered with my plans.”
“Too bad,” said Duane.
“For you, yes. Ming Shui is a superstitious old fool, like the others here. I do not propose to see you step in, work the miracle that she wants, and spoil my work. I am aware of what you and Miss Lawton are about, you see.”
“Let’s get it straight,” said Duane calmly. “Are you behind all the trouble we’ve had here in Turkestan?”
“I,” said Tuyok, “am out to make some money, Mr. Duane. I do not want Stratolines in this country of Sinkiang. I control the government and the monasteries.”
“You? How?”
“By superstition.” A sardonic grin crossed the yellow face. “I am a holy man from Tibet, a reincarnation of Buddha; I have lived seven hundred years. I have great powers. I make these Chinese and Tungans and Mongolians obey me; if they disobey me, they go mad.”
“Oh!” said Duane. He felt his senses swimming; he summoned up all his will-power to meet those strange eyes. “Hypnotic force, eh? Well, you can’t hypnotize me.”
“I’m aware of that. You want to live, Mr. Duane? Very well. Do my bidding, and I shall spare your life. Refuse, and you shall die in this room.”