Dirk Edward's face registered surprise when he found that his arms would not move. They hung limp. Stupid arms. He needed them to swim with. He kicked, but suddenly there was pain in his hips.
He looked down and saw that he no longer had hips. His pelvis felt mushy, no longer solid. And his legs hung straight down like cooked noodles.
Then he was sinking, down, down into a beautiful world of coral reefs. He looked to see where he would land, and there was a gap in the reef below. He slipping down through it and all became black.
At first Dirk couldn't tell if he was dead or in some kind of dark hollow place. He decided he was dead, and further decided it didn't feel so bad after all. Then his eyes became accustomed to the dim light and he saw that he was surrounded by shelf upon shelf of dead people, all in big jars like bugs in specimen bottles.
The shelves shook, causing the jugs to wobble and topple. They broke, unleashing their contents in a dark red cloud like blood. Dead eyes stared at him accusingly and Dirk suddenly wondered if they were really dead. Some of them seemed to be pointed at him.
Dirk screamed then. His lungs emptied and the breathing reflex that could not be denied demanded that he inhale. He swallowed the water into his mouth and stomach and lungs. Odd, it tasted like wine.
He was dead when he floated down to solid ground, settling on a tiled floor like a discarded marionette.
Remo clambered up the Jonah Ark's hull and over the rail. Chiun had the foresail down. The wind filled it. "Take the tiller," the Master of Sinanju snapped.
Remo leaned into the tiller, and the junk came about slowly. He cursed its slow response time. The bow lined up on the shrinking island of Moo.
It was an incredible sight. Like a sand castle drying in the sun, Moo simply crumbled. The Royal Palace was sinking as the supporting ground disintegrated.
All around Moo, the water was turning to brownishblack mud.
"Can't we move faster?" Remo cried.
"The wind is not with us," Cliiun returned. He stood on the bow, his feet apart, his back stiff.
"How can it just sink like that?" Remo moaned.
"It is not. Use your eyes, not your heart to see, Remo." Moo was not sinking. It was spreading out. It lost height.
It lost shape. With sick eyes Remo saw tiny figures being pulled under the shifting porous volcanic soil. It was like dry quicksand. Others climbed palms and rode them down to the water. The boles snapped apart with thunderous splinterings. Remo lost sight of every tiny figure he picked out.
The junk wallowed closer. Remo's eyes searched the water for survivors. He saw none. He pushed at the tiller, sending the boat around.
"Might be some survivors on the other side," he called. Chiun said nothing in reply. Remo couldn't see his face. He wondered what thoughts were going through the Master of Sinanju's mind as he watched an important link to Sinanju's past crumble.
On the far end of the island, the soil was spreading even further into the water. The summit of Moo was barely ten feet above sea level now. And still it shifted and spread. It was all going to go.
"There!" Chiun cried. "I see the High Moo."
Remo peered past the rakish sails. He spotted the High Moo splashing helplessly in the water. His arms waved at them. He called for them to rescue him.
"Hurry, Remo," Chiun called back. He went to the rail.
"I can't get out and push this thing," Remo snapped back.
Then other figures appeared in the water. They surrounded the High Moo. At first Remo feared they were sharks. But they were Moovians. They grabbed at the High Moo, pulling at his face and hair and arms. They were beating on him, dragging him down with them.
They pulled him below the brown water, which was turning chlorophyll green from crushed vegetation. Bubbles marked the spot where the High Moo disappeared. One head surfaced after a while. A girl's. Remo thought he recognized her although her wet hair was plastered to her face. It was the Low Moo.
"Hold on," he called in Moovian.
"Nah," the Low Moo called back. "I am the last. All the others have perished. There are no more. Go away. Moo is no more. I have no subjects, no throne. There is no place for one such as I in your world. I no longer wish to live. Go, Remo, but never forget us."
"No chance," Remo said, diving into the water.
He set out for the Low Moo, but she saw his intentions and jacknifed under the water. Remo slipped down after her. He followed the trail of air bubbles that spilled from her open mouth. She wasn't even trying to hold her breath. She went as limp as a starfish and Remo knew before he reached her that she was gone.
He pulled her to the surface and tried desperately to squeeze the water from her lungs. He touched his lips to hers, and puffed steady breaths into them. "Come on, come on," he urged.
Her lips remained cold, her eyes closed. Reluctantly Remo let her go. The Low Moo floated away, her face brown and composed and nearly innocent.
Remo fought back the burning sensation in his eyes as he climbed aboard the junk. He couldn't understand why he should care that the cruel Low Mo had perished. He took the tiller, sending the junk around for another circuit of the island.
There were few bodies. They floated facedown, many of them.
The hammerhead sharks closed in.
"Shouldn't we stop them?" Remo asked. Chiun kept his back to him.
"No," Chiun-said distantly. "It is the way of the sea."
"That was the Low Moo I tried to rescue back there, you know."
"So? "
"I know it sounds strange, but I wish I could have saved her."
"Why?" Chiun asked in a cold voice. "If we took her back to America, she would only try to eat you again."
"Hey," Remo said angrily. He stormed up to Chiun and spun him around. "That was uncalled-for."
But then he saw the tears rilling down Chiun's lined cheeks and he swallowed.
"Sorry," he muttered sheepishly.
"History had repeated itself," Chiun said slowly. "Greed destroyed Old Moo, and greed has claimed what had survived almost five thousand years."
"Greed, nothing. It was those killers and their explosives."
"No, my son. Mere explosives would not have done all this. Old Moo sank because the High Moos of those days also forced their people to mine every foot of land in search of coin metal. Eventually they undermined the very earth, and the seas claimed Old Moo. Now the greedy sea has drunk the last of Moo, and the last poor Moovian. "
As they watched, the final patch of dry ground grew dark with moisture and soon it was indistinguishable from the ugly brown of the sea.
Steam rose in mighty tendrils from the place where Moo had been.
"Behold, Remo. Do you see those mighty arms reaching up to the very sky?"