It was the absence of a car that had caused Smith's initial disquiet to blossom into full-blown suspicion. He lived in an exclusive section of Rye, far from the bus routes. It was the kind of tree-lined peaceful suburban neighborhood he had once dreamed of retiring to, but now understood he could never enjoy because the only retirement from CURE would involve his death.
And if there was one absolute to living in suburbia, it was ownership of an automobile. The owners of the house next door did not own a car. Smith's wife had noticed this, and according to her, the neighbors had confirmed it.
No car, no furniture, no sign of habitation.
As Smith lay in the sand trap, attired in a short-sleeved pullover jersey and khaki pants, he tried to reason out who would buy a house and not furnish it.
More and more, it seemed to him as if the house were purchased; not as a home, but as some kind of blind. Or a staging area.
Grimly Smith climbed to his feet. Something was very wrong. It was time to stop pussyfooting around. He could no longer ignore the obvious. Replacing his driver and pocketing his ball, Smith pushed his golf bag back to the clubhouse.
"That was quick," said the caddy whom Smith had refused earlier.
"I'm more rusty than I thought," Smith muttered.
"Then you should stay out there. Work out the rust."
"Another time," said Smith, anxious to leave. He had attracted attention to himself by returning so early. That was a mistake. It was part of his job never to call undue attention to himself. But this had the earmarks of an emergency. Smith would bring all the awesome computer power of CURE to bear on the puzzle of learning who the new owner of the house next door was, and everything about his background.
As Smith drove off, every caddy and member in the club surged to the windows. Everyone wanted to see the mysterious Dr. Harold W. Smith, who paid the annual membership fee on time every year, but who hadn't been seen on the golf course in a decade. A few of the older members, hearing of Smith's brief visitation, expressed surprise. They had assumed Smith had passed away years ago.
Chapter 10
Tu-Min-Ka, High Moo of Moo, Lord of the Water Ocean, Wearer of the Golden Feather Crown, and He Whose Face Adorns the Coin of the Realm, ascended the worn stone steps.
Two guards, scarlet feathers dangling from their long shark-tooth spears, walked before him. Two others walked behind. Also following behind, ahead of the trailing guards, but a respectful two paces behind the High Moo, was the royal priest, Teihotu. He was cloaked in black, his narrow black eyes intent. Even the moonlight coming through the square openings cut into the passageway walls failed to light his pinched features.
The lead guards halted at the hardwood door, pivoted in place, and stiffened on either side, their spears snapping across their bare chests in the traditional salute.
The High Moo stopped. He turned to his royal priest. "Teihotu, I would be alone."
"As you please," the royal priest replied. He gathered his cloak about him like protective wings.
"I have asked you to accompany me only because if I lose you too, I will have none to trust."
"I understand," said the royal priest. His eyes were small, like those of a bird.
"My guards will see to your safety. But I will pass the evening watching the eastern sky, for although my daughter has been gone far longer than I anticipated, I feel in my heart that she lives yet."
"So the stars tell me."
"You trust the stars. I trust my heart."
"As you wish."
And without another word, the High Moo passed through the door onto the roof of his palace, overlooking the low rice fields to the north and the mine-dotted slope to the east. He averted his eyes from the south, where the banyan trees grew thick and the Tall-Things-That-Were-Not-Men walked by moonlight. It was the place called the Grove of Ghosts, and for as long as he lived, only forty-one years, he had never dared to enter it. Although he knew some of his subjects were, even now, skulking there to perform who knew what obscene oblations.
It was to the east that the High Moo directed his kingly visage. His eyes were bold and proud. He was a squat, square man, thick of limb and well-muscled. He ruled this kingdom by dint of his mighty right arm, and he would die before he surrendered the Shark Throne.
But even he could not battle the things that walked by night and wore the faces of his villagers.
"Give me a skull to break, and I will prevail," he muttered to the unheeding wind. "But against the very spirits of evil, I am no match."
The waves to the east were dappled with moonglade. It was a beautiful sight, but it sent chills through the High Moo. For he knew that the greatest portion of his kingdom lay under those fantastic waters. The fishes had long ago ceased to feast on his great-great-great-grandfather's great-great-great-grandfather, but it still chilled him to look at the waters by night. Who could know when the Mighty Giver of Life might rise up to engulf them all? Even the royal priest said that the portents were back. The stars were moving into the position they had occupied when Old Moo, Great Moo, had fallen into oblivion.
But the High Moo did not truly believe the royal priest's portents. He believed in what he could touch and conquer and vanquish.
The wind caused the golden plume that stood up stiffly from the metal fillet that served as his crown to shiver. He folded his bronzed arms on his thick hairless chest.
Where was she? Where was Dolla-Dree, his daughter, Low Moo of Moo, and the only person he could trust to venture into the lost lands? Only she could be trusted to find the Master of Sinanju-if indeed there was a living Master of Sinanju. For had not the priests for centuries said that when Moo sank, so had China and India and Korea and all the other lands with which Moo had traded in those days?
But the High Moo did not truly believe that all was water beyond the horizon. There had been ships sighted. Some of these vessels were greater than a building. But all passed by without heeding this island far from any other land. There were tales of men with skin the color of a pale moon, who came from lands to the east. Such men had landed on Moo only three or four generations past. No lands to the east were known to Old Moo, just the western lands of Korea and China.
No, the land world endured, just as this speck of Moo had endured. And if life endured, so would the House of Sinanju. The royal priest had scoffed at the High Moo's assertion that this must be true, but he had held firm. Priests only wanted you to believe what they said was true. Else, how could they control you?
No, Moo endured. Sinanju endured. But to be certain, he had sent his daughter to the lands to the east, not to the west. She would learn there where to find the Master of Sinanju, if he still lived. Now he must wait for his daughter. He would wait until he was old and white-haired and the sun had wrinkled him like a turtle, and his kingly burdens had bent his spine. He would wait.
It was in the deepest part of the night, when the sea breezes seemed to hold their breath, and the High Moo's heart held the greatest loneliness, that the stillness of his sleeping kingdom was shattered.
The High Moo was leaning on the parapet, his arms folded, his eyes set on the eastern sky, when something sailed up from the courtyard below.
The High Moo's warrior-trained reflexes reacted instantly. He ducked the missile. He threw himself on the roof and rolled.
"Guards, to my side!" he called.
The object broke not five feet from him. Two of the guards burst through the door. "There!" he told them.
And their eyes fell on the clay jar. It lay in pieces, not flat, but completely shattered. Dark liquid drained from it in all directions. And from under the clay shards, something writhed and threw out ropy appendages.
"Slay it!" ordered the High Moo, coming to his feet. But a single hooded eye peered out in a crack between falling clay bits, and the guards let out a combined screech and fled the roof.
One of them had dropped a war club, and the High Moo dived to recover it.
He noticed that the stairwell was dark. There were no signs of the other guards, or the royal priest, Teihotu. He returned to the roof. The thing was free of its prison now.
It was, as he knew it would be, an octopus. It was black, and the moon was reflected on his shiny hide. It flopped its tentacles weakly in the unfamiliar environment. The greater portion of the seawater had flowed into a drainage channel cut into the roof, and the octopus began to slide along it, desperate to cling to its true element.
The High Moo pounced as he slipped toward the roofs edge. He mashed one tentacle into jelly. Then, bringing the club up again, he struck the mortal blow.
It fell on water.
The octopus had slipped over the parapet with boneless fluidity. It struck the ground below with a wet smack that caused the hairs on the back of the High Moo's head to stand up.
Down in the courtyard, the royal priest came running from the palace, accompanied by the other guards-the two who had not run away.
"There!" cried the High Moo. "Below me. Kill it!"