"But . . . but this man is Grumley," Dr. Gerling sputtered.
"Grumley! Are you certain?"
"Absolutely. I know Grumley. But what is he doing here?"
"Obviously he's hiding here. Why didn't you check this room more carefully?" Smith demanded.
Dr. Gerling drew himself up sternly. "You instructed me in quite explicit language, Dr. Smith, that the patient Chiun was not to be disturbed by the staff for any reason."
"Yes, yes, you are right. I did," Smith said distractedly.
"And you further neglected to inform me that Mr. Chiun had been discharged."
"It was quite sudden, actually," Smith admitted.
"Well, here is the solution to our little mystery. I shall escort Mr. Grumley back to his room."
"Yes, carry on. Thank you, doctor," said Dr. Harold W. Smith. He left the room hurriedly, clutching his clipboard. Despite his acute embarrassment, Smith was relieved. He had indeed neglected to brief Dr. Gerling when Remo and Chiun had abruptly moved out of Folcroft. He had no idea where they had gone after that. They had promised to communicate with him once they were settled in a new location, but had not. It had been Smith's policy to relocate them at intervals. They had ended up residing at Folcroft by default.
Wherever they were, at least the disappearance of Gilbert Grumley had no connection with Smith's main problem. And that eliminated the possibility that Folcroft had been compromised.
Now it was time to close out that other matter.
Chapter 34
Darkness fell upon the tiny island of Moo.
The cooking fires were doused with water. The riotous birds of day fell silent. Shining clouds hid the moon. Yawning and stretching, the peasants of Moo retreated to their grass huts. The High Moo had already retired to his palace.
"I don't see the Low Moo," Remo whispered. They were on the roof parapet of the Royal Palace. The entire expanse of the island lay before them.
Chiun's face lifted to the freshening sea breeze, like a cat catching a scent.
"She is the least of our concerns this night," he said quietly. His hazel eyes, like polished agates, searched the village huts scattered like so many haphazard dice around the palace.
"You haven't seen her when she's angry."
"I will go below to guard the door to the High Moo's quarters," Chiun remarked after the last Moovian had slipped into his home.
"Check," Remo said. "I've got Uk-Uk's hut in my sights."
"If he leaves, or anyone else acts suspicious, take them alive. "
"No problem."
"I go now. Remember-have nothing to do with the Low Moo this night."
"Yeah. Sure," Remo said vaguely.
Chiun paused. Then he slipped down the stone staircase. Remo was a willful pupil, he ruminated. But in the end, he could handle himself. It was not for Remo's safety that Chiun feared his tryst with the Low Moo. Remo had always had bad luck with women. He did not need a further shock to his opinion of the other sex.
Hours passed and Remo was growing bored. The clouds parted long past midnight, bathing the island in silver illumination. The moonlight was strong, but not strong enough to pick out colors. The breeze-worried jungle was a gray-and-white expanse. Out beyond the eastern shore, the Pacific danced with diamond-hard lights. The Jonah Ark bobbed like a grotesque cork.
Dolla-Dree, Low Moo of Moo, sauntered into the village far into the night. Remo watched as she stepped in and out of patches of moonlight. Her face was radiant with expectation. Her hips moved like the palms and Remo felt a momentary pang at the thought of Chiun's admonition to avoid her.
But business came first. Maybe he could explain it to the Low Moo before the night was over.
Then the Low Moo padded up to Remo's quarters and slipped in through the window.
Remo hesitated. He considered dropping to the ground to talk with her. But a stealthy shadow flitting from hut to hut drew his attention. He followed it with his eyes.
The shadow disappeared into a mangrove thicket. Probably a Moovian with an assignation, Remo decided. It was not Uk-Uk.
Then other figures crept out into the open. They went in different directions, apparently oblivious of one another. Some gathered together in the darkness and slipped off in groups. They were not always of opposite sexes. Oh, well, Remo thought. Anything that people did in civilization, they probably did on Moo.
The metalsmith, Uk-Uk, came out after most of the skulking had quieted down. Remo went over the parapet, hung by his fingers, and dropped to the dirt with no more sound than the clap of a baby's hands.
He trailed the metalsmith at a safe distance. The old man loped along toward the great cluster of mines cut into the sheer western wall of the Moovian plateau.
Along the way, Remo's acute hearing picked up voices. "The High Moo must die tonight," a male voice whispered. "I will tear his eyes out with my bare hands," a lilting young girl's voice promised vehemently.
Fixing the metalsmith's location in his mind, Remo slipped off the path. He eased in the direction of the voices. He dropped to one knee and parted the high turtle grass.
Three Moovians squatted under a banyan tree. They were discussing, in quiet, forceful tones, a variety of ways to kill the High Moo. Remo, concerned that the metalsmith would get away, memorized their faces and glided away unseen.
Other voices rose from the jungle as Remo crept along the path. "The tyranny must end. We are as worthy as he is."
"The Low Moo is less royal than I am. Let her work in the mines."
"Why should we toil to fill the High Moo's coffers when all he fills is our stomachs?"
"Most of the stored rice goes to the insects anyway. We do not need to grow so much."
Remo counted twenty-seven plotters in groups of twos and threes. Worried, he pressed on. The ground dropped off sharply. Remo had to climb down.
Uk-Uk, the metalsmith, ducked into an active mine just as Remo caught up with him.
Remo drifted up to the entrance and put an ear to the solid bulwark of earth that framed its black maw. Vibrations of muttering voices carried through the dirt.
"No, not tonight." It was Uk-Uk's raspy voice. "Others plot tonight. Let them have their chance. If we have to kill them too, we will. But after the High Moo and his she-whelp are food for the sharks, only Uk-Uk will know the place where the coins are stored."
"What about the Master of Sinanchu and his slave?" someone asked.
"Let them return to their world. Moo is not for those with white skins."
"But the Master of Sinanchu has yellow skin."