Chiun turned. "And what is it that they say?"
"That they're ... you know . . ."
Chiun cocked his head. "Yes?"
"Er, loose."
"And what makes you say such a slanderous thing?"
"The way some of them were looking at me. And you know the reputation South Sea island girls have."
"If it is sex you want, I would stick with your American women. They do it less but enjoy it more."
"That's no answer."
"It is the truth you do not wish to hear. Now, come." Chiun pushed ahead, hiking his skirts so they wouldn't snag on the snarled underbrush.
They came to the campfire. It was deserted except for the remains of a meal. The area was ringed with grotesque tiki gods. Here and there fallen darts feathered the ground. Chiun carefully harvested and buried every-one.
"This is impossible," Remo said angrily. "They couldn't escape. We had the entire place in view all the time."
"Octopus worshipers are very tricky. Let us find their hiding place."
"You know where to look?"
"Of course. They are very predictable. Whatever a real octopus does, they do."
Remo followed, searching his memory for octopus habits as described by National Geographic.
He wasn't surprised when Chiun led him to a coral cave at the foot of the plateau.
"Think they're in there?"
"Not if I know octopus worshipers," said Chiun, striding in.
Inside the cave, they came to a coral-ringed pool. "They went down this," Chiun explained. "It will lead to the open water. Are you prepared to follow?"
"Sure," Remo said casually. "What could be down there?"
"Ru-Taki-Nuhu, for one," said Chiun.
"Ha!" said Remo. But he didn't feel his bravado.
Chiun shrugged his long sleeves away from his arms and dived in. Remo kicked off his loafers and followed, thinking that at least a swim would get the salt stiffness out of his clothes.
The water was dark when Remo found his equilibrium. But he could see dimly. Chiun's skirts floated ahead of him, his feet kicking rhythmically.
Remo settled into a sweeping stroke that would keep him clear of the sharp coral outcroppings. The further they swam, the darker it got. But Remo knew that was temporary. They were heading for the sea. Moonlight would illuminate the open water.
But then Remo lost sight of Chiun. It happened so suddenly that Remo momentarily paused, thinking that he had blundered into a side tunnel. Then something wet and heavy brushed his wrist.
Must be Chiun, Remo thought. He reached out, and something cold wrapped around his arm.
Remo grabbed for it with the other hand and felt a slick length of sinew. He pulled at it, and his fingers encountered little flexible pads. And in that instant the image of an octopus' suckers flashed into his mind. His blood ran cold.
Chapter 18
Smith trembled.
He lifted his long thin fingers from the Folcroft terminal keyboard and they actually shook. He cleared his throat as he reached into the upper-right-hand desk drawer for relief.
The drawer contained an assortment of antacids in tablet, liquid, and foam form, aspirin in regular, double-strength, and children's strength, and five bottles of Alka-Seltzer. After a few moments Smith decided his headache bothered him more than his ulcer. He shook out three pink-and-orange children's aspirin tablets and chased them down with mineral water from his office dispenser.
He returned to the screen, rubbing the spot between his eyes where his eyeglasses rested on his nose, and where the headache seemed situated. His hands were steady again.
The screen stared back at him. The word "BLOCKED" flashed on and off in glowing green letters.
In all his years of CURE operations, Dr. Harold W. Smith had never encountered such sophisticated methods of denying computer access. He had searched Social Security records for data on the name James Churchward.
The file existed. But he couldn't get into it.
He logged into the regional IRS computer banks around the country. He never learned if there was a file for the man because, somehow, his requests were transferred to another computer at an unknown location. A keyboard light flashed like an angry red eye, warning Smith that his probe was being back-traced. Smith logged off hastily.
All other attempts to access routine records on James Churchward met with similar rebuffs. It was incredible. As if the person, although plainly in several data banks, did not exist. Or was not supposed to exist. In all cases, there wasn't even an access code that would allow someone who was presumably authorized to access those files. This left no doubt whatsoever in Smith's mind. Whoever he was, James Churchward was no ordinary man. These programs were too sophisticated. Smith recognized the probe transferral as a Moebius Siphon, a program he himself had devised years ago for CURE purposes. Obviously he was dealing with an operation as sophisticated as his own.
Baffled by his computer's inability to resolve the problem, Smith sent the terminal humming back into its desk well. Normal CURE resources had failed. Smith had only his own wits to fall back on.
He had to get into that house. Somehow.
Chapter 19
At first the Master of Sinanju mistook the blackness for a cavern opening. Then he noticed that the edges were misty and cloudlike. The blackness was spreading.
Chiun found himself enveloped in a blackness that was beyond even the ability of Sinanju-skilled eyes to penetrate. Chiun kicked around, looking for Remo. There was no sign of his pupil. He did not panic. Like Remo, he had enough oxygen in his lungs to survive over an hour underwater. But if the thing he suspected was lurking in these waters got hold of Remo, an hour might not be enough.
Chiun swam back to Remo's last position. His hands made sweeping patterns before his face. His stroke served him both as protection and as sensor. He prayed he would reach Remo in time, for Remo had been trained to battle many things, but not the minions of Ru-Taki-Nuhu.
Remo felt the constraining tentacles wrap around his legs, separating them. He struggled. Normally his strength was equal to just about any human foe. But underwater he lacked the leverage needed for most Sinanju defensive techniques. He floated in the grip of a many-armed monster. His free arm became entangled. In the blackness; which he understood was made by octopus ink, Remo couldn't tell if he was getting anyplace. He had no reference points. His only hope was to reach a coral outcropping.
But then Remo felt the unseen slimy bulk press closer to his chest and a thousand frightening images flooded his mind. In spite of his training, his ability to repress fear, this was a situation so primal that it triggered long-repressed phobias. Remo threshed wildly. The clinging octopus moved with him. But he couldn't shake it free. He felt the suckers gripping his bare arms like eager mouths. He sensed its dumb brain near him, thinking inchoate thoughts.
Then through the inky haze a dim something became visible. It looked like a shelled egg. Remo stared at it and realized it was staring back. Of course, the octopus' eye. Just the idea of that bloated, wrinkled head so close to his face was unnerving.
Remo shut his eyes. The memory of his too-long fingernails popped into his head. Remo raked at the afterimage of the eye that remained in his mind.
He felt something greasy collecting under his nails and raked again. The tentacles tightened and that was enough. Remo had something to work against. He jerked one arm suddenly. The tentacle clung, but he felt it go a little slack.