Текст книги "[The Girl From UNCLE 03] - The Golden Boats of Taradata Affair "

Автор книги: Simon Latter

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Lots of clichés to describe atmosphere. Cut it with a knife. It's bad or good, disruptive or mellowing. Husbands feel it around wives. Families react to it. Mass meetings are swayed by it. Lovers revel in it. Martinets exude it. Sulkers project it. Good salesmen create it. Atmosphere.

Threaded through its unseen but undeniable presence are a thousand, a million – a thousand million – tiny thought-waves flowing out, slamming back, physically manifested in attitudes of body, tones of voice, reflections in eyes and features. These personal physical giveaways can be controlled by strong-willed characters. Clever actors can, and do, stimulate and simulate atmosphere as a part of their craft.

Experienced operatives in the profession of organizational agent train themselves to receive these unseen influences of atmosphere. A good agent could be called a natural intuitive. This isn't merely a person who plays hunches. His skill is far more exact. It is almost a science. His training also develops a swift and sharply defining observation, similar to that of a top detective. Add this to his acute and finely tuned sensitivity to atmosphere, combined with physical alertness, and you have the formula for a successful top agent. Throw in the backing of a world-powerful organization, and you have a formidable opponent at any level of action.

The Padracks and Cheval were excellent actors. They projected no atmosphere through any physical expression. But to April Dancer and Mark Slate it was there as an emanating source strong enough to confirm that Andre Cheval was not only linked to the Padracks – they had already proved this by the decoy action on the island – but also was superior to them.

This meant that THRUSH had four levels of its operatives aboard Island Traveller, with Cheval on the top echelon; certainly not inferior to the Padracks, nor to Maleski. And if he was a scientist, he would be in the executive bracket. This placed the Padracks in field administration over Maleski, who would be in THRUSH'S personnel and field coordinating slot. At the fourth and lowest level were the hand picked toughies – the slog and sluggem boys, no doubt with their assigned leaders under Maleski.

The affair had at last assumed the true pattern of a THRUSH project. These four levels aboard Island Traveller were the nucleus of organization in depth. This was how THRUSH worked. Had to work. A small project of local irritation, or disruption of order, required only a field team of local wreckers. But in a large project they created their operation cells in self-contained units, each linking more closely as the project developed until all were in the end merged.

The nucleus thus expanded, though its nature and purpose did not change. The point at which these merged would be the production end of the project. When this was geared to its maximum, the results would be handled by the distribution or actual attacking forces already set up through their own nucleus centres. Mr. Waverly had intimated that such an organization might well be in existence through the apparently innocent coracle clubs. But this might be a false trail, laid especially for the purpose of diverting attention from the true purpose of the project.

April and Mark used the radio silence period to intensify their thoughts and clarify their future plans. The Padracks were leaving the ship at Taradata. Reports had shown they sometimes stayed over until Island Traveller returned on its next outward trip – sometimes they rejoined when the ship checked in on its return trip. The latter call was in a three-day period. The next outward trip would be in three to five weeks. Would Cheval also stay over in Taradata?

Taradata was a pinhead island compared with some of the others. Even Lagelo, the next port of call, was larger and, by all accounts of the researchers, welcomed visitors, as apposed to Taradata, where they did not. Lagelo was a cultured place, owning a fine library and bookshop. Why should Padrack, the bookman, concentrate on Taradata? Perhaps because Lagelo already had been converted to the written word. Assume the book business to be a front, and you had Taradata smack in your sights as a THRUSH production centre. Because Padrack was THRUSH before he was a bookman. Just as April was U.N.C.L,E. before she was a playgirl. Simple as that.

H.Q. would naturally be collating all reports and coming up with a similar result. The next directive to agents would be an S.F.D. April and Mark already were making their own plans to seek, find, and destroy. But proof wasn't yet conclusive. And even U.N.C.L.E. agents cannot proceed to blow up or otherwise disrupt a peaceful island without cause. Final decisions as to timing and method were often theirs, but Island Traveller was not Del Floria's dry-cleaning shop in the shadow of New York's United Nations building, where U.N.C.L.E.'S eyes and ears of the world poured in their proof – or non-proof – and where Mr. Waverly would press the appropriate button according to the measurement of that proof.

So when radio contact again opened, their own atmosphere was one of anticipation and preparedness. They raised Sama Paru in the midget sub at midnight.

"We are surfaced in a cave beyond Taramao Point," said Sama Paru. "It is very beautiful. A silver moon is spiked upon the black-barbed heads of the trees of the forests of the night. The sea is a whispering mirror around us, lapping the golden sands below the blood-red rocks."

"Oh, Gawd!" Mark exclaimed. "Skip the commercial and tell us why you're there."

Randy Kovac came in with a chuckle. "It's gone to his head – a sort of tropic fever, I guess. We've come direct from Mr. Waverly's naval H.Q. and are waiting for Count Kazan and the launch to rendezvous with us here."

"For what purpose?" April asked.

"Observation of coastline, and to chart depth and currents in possible landing areas, apart from the main beaches and harbour. The far side of the island has an unbroken coral reef off-shore. No boat could cross it without being ripped apart."

Mark said: "Do you have any information of landing parties by the Navy?"

"Mr. Waverly did not specify that action," said Randy Kovac.

"Don't you start!" Mark snapped. "The word 'no' would have been quite sufficient."

April asked: "Did you meet the launch? Did Kazan deliver a passenger to Mr. Waverly?"

"I'll say he did! Wow! What a dish! Are all researchers like her?" Randy Kovac fairly bubbled.

"They're usually old, fat and greasy," said Mark. "Why didn't the launch come with you?"

"The Navy doctor was treating Kazan and Carlson."

"Were they sick or injured?"

Sama Paru said: "I have never seen such colds. Poor Kazan – he was so full of cold he could not speak! Wheezing, sneezing, shivering – you would not believe such a cold could be caught in this climate. Carlson was not quite so bad. He is a big man, and he was coughing like a foghorn. Colamina Sherez was one sad lady – all red-nosed and red– eyed."

"Gosh, I'm sorry!" said April. "Tropical colds can be quite bad, but they don't usually last long."

"Get the infra-red camera quickly!" Sama Pam's voice sounded urgent.

Mark and April waited silently after Sama broke off conversation. He came back in a few minutes.

"The maps we have do not show any habitation on Taramao Point – only a forest of small trees running inland, curving down to a valley. But we have just seen lights flickering from there. Randy has taken photos. I have looked through the night glasses. The flickering is caused by the trees moving. The lights are stationary – like a door or windows opening and closing to release light."

"A signal?" said Mark. "Is Island Traveller visible to you?"

"No – we cannot see your lights. Wait, now – Randy is checking instruments. There is something else – standby."

Again they waited. Later Sama Paru said: "An engine – or more than one – we have picked up the vibrations. There is also a thudding – rhythmic, like small regular explosions."

"How far?" They heard Sama asking Randy to check instruments and telling him how to obtain readings.

"Two miles, landward," said Sama. "We are about three hundred yards off-shore. The beach shelves deeply towards us so we cannot get closer. Even the launch could not."

"Have you any frogmen's gear on board?"

"Yes, four shallow-water outfits. But we must not leave the sub until the launch arrives and you also are at Taradata. Those are orders."

"Okay," said April. "Use your time to survey all of the coastline you can. Make a note of any likely landing spots. Randy – what's all this about your special maps?"

"The researchers' plan maps and the regular maps don't tally. Someone's lost a whole section of the island. The contour lines don't tally."

"And you went on record with your own maps?"

"Yes, Miss Dancer." Randy Kovac sounded apprehensive. His grand ambition was to be an agent. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were his heroes, Mark Slate his idol, but woman-wise and agent-wise, April Dancer was his goddess. To please her was to feel the gods smile upon him. To fail her would be stark tragedy.

"Well, if you believe you are right, you should say so," said April cheerfully. "We rely on you back-room boys not to work blindly. The researchers could be wrong. There can't be many modern maps of this part of the world, and they might be too old and badly drawn."

"Oh, they are!" said Randy eagerly. "Indeed they are, Miss Dancer." He laughed ruefully. "Mr. Waverly said that only doughnuts had pieces out of the middle – not islands – so I would be assigned to Mr. Paru for field progress work to check my own figures – so – so here I am."

"Welcome to the rat-race." Mark was friendly. "Sama, did Kazan mention Cheval?"

"Colamina did. Kazan lost his voice. I too remember the name Chaminal. He once went to the Arctic with some expedition to study stresses on the human body – something like that. And he was the man who identified the little bug a few years ago, before we were overrun by an influenza epidemic. Yes – I know of him. A clever man, I think. But these scientists – there are so many. I couldn't say exactly what he is."

"He's not been mixed up in any trouble in Europe?"

"Not to my knowledge."

April's communicator began bleeping.

"Contact out," said Mark to Sama. "H.Q. is on."

April said: "Yes, sir?"

"Ah, Miss Dancer! Is Mr. Slate with you?"

"Here, sir," said Mark. "We've been talking to the D.X.5."

"Good – then you know why the launch is delayed. It is now on its way, Kazan and Carlson having received maximum dosages to help relieve their considerable sufferings. Miss Sherez is aboard here – likewise affected. It is on this matter I call you."

"Yes, sir?"

"You will remember the phial Miss Sherez obtained as sample of contents of boxes now on your ship?"

"I remember," said Mark.

"Mr. Kazan foolishly opened this phial – gently sniffing at the contents, trying to assess its purpose. Mr. Carlson and Miss Sherez also – er – hmm – had a sniff! We have just analysed the contents. They are the most vicious cold virus you could ever wish to meet. That is, if one ever wishes so to do.

"The point is that it appears highly probable that all the boxes contain the same contents. Moreover, we have ascertained that a large quantity of a similar virus, suspended in a jelly, was reported missing from a government research centre close to the Mexican border."

"Reported missing?" said April. "Did they think it walked out?"

"Laboratory jargonese," said Mr. Waverly. "Undoubtedly it was pinched. It appears to have been packed into phials by someone who knew that extreme heat would melt the jelly and make the virus an uncontrollable mass. The jelly has, in fact, melted in the phial. These virus multiply in heat. And as long as they stay in a warm atmosphere, they will continue to multiply. Each phial – if broken – will be a near-lethal bomb in its effect upon those closest to it, who will at once inhale a vast concentration of the virus. Do you follow me?"

Mark said: "Mr. Waverly, sir – we are an astonishing way ahead of you!"

"I thought you might be," said Mr. Waverly. "Do I need to add that there is no possible way of giving immunization? The effects can be treated, but severely dosed persons would die of congestion before penicillin or other drugs could have any effect. In such a concentration of virus, a mask is some protection. But – as our expert says – it would be as much help as a paper tissue against cigarette smoke. In other words – if you devise a mask to prevent the virus entering mouth and nose, you will suffocate yourself."

"A gas mask?" April suggested. "Or smoke mask?"

"In time, perhaps," said Mr. Waverly. "They have been experimenting on such an appliance for about ten years. In another ten, perhaps…"

"And a ruddy great 'tishoo' to you too!" Mark muttered.

Mr. Waverly overheard it. "Levity will not solve our immediate problem, Mr. Slate. These virus cannot be destroyed by water. Once released, they will be drawn up by the sun, multiply even more in heat, and travel with the breeze. A crucible heat might be effective, but the phials would explode and crack the container – it would need experts to carry it out in specially controlled conditions. I doubt if any exist on the Island Traveller, in which these boxes of phials now repose. In fact, we could say you are indeed sitting on them right now."

"We hadn't overlooked the fact," said April. "What are your orders, sir?"

"In the circumstances, Miss Dancer, I have no alternative but to issue an open directive for the guidance of all agents assigned to this project. You now are operating on S.F.D. directive. We are standing by to aid you in any way we can. Seek, find, and destroy. Good luck to you!"

April looked at Mark.

"D'you have a hanky?" he said. "I feel a sneeze coming on."

CHAPTER SEVEN: COOPERATION PLUS

THE enemy – and THRUSH forever was the enemy – in the form of Lucy Padrack had, through personal weakness, betrayed the presence of an operative cell aboard Island Traveller.

The personal weaknesses of April Dancer and Mark Slate lost them much of the advantage they had gained. Perhaps the word "weakness" is unfair. No one told the passengers the E.T.A. of Island Traveller at Taradata. Most passengers didn't care. The islands were off the rat-race routes of the world. Most people were merely seeking sun and fun – not timetables. Mark made his own estimation, but they should have checked. They didn't.

They slept too late. No radio calls through ear and pillow receivers disturbed them. They reached the dawn-gilded deck in time to see the flat-decked harbour launch bobbing shorewards. On the launch were the Padracks, Cheval, and a cluster of boxes.

"S. and F.," said Mark glumly. "But D.? Not this time."

"Let's not feel too bad," said April. "We agreed last night that, short of calling in the Navy, we couldn't capture the ship single-handed. And we couldn't chuck the boxes overboard, even if we'd battled our way to the hold."

"But we could have tried. We just slept." Mark cussed softly as Chas came towards them. "So your V.I.P.s have special treatment, huh?"

Chas peered shorewards. "Who – them? They always get taken off first."

Mark saw Kazan's launch speeding towards the ship.

"Your rich boy-friend has arrived. Devoted, ain't he?" said Chas. "Why don't you hail him and ask him to take you off for a trip?" There was a hard edge to his voice.

"Why should I? If it's any of your business?"

"Suit yourself. Only trying to be helpful," said Chas. "But if you don't get off now – you'll stay aboard. The island is barred to visitors on this trip."

"What have they got?" said Mark. "Rabies?"

The brown eyes surveyed him calmly, quizzically. "It'd be nice to know," said Chas softly. "Very nice, it would be – to know just what they have got."

April looked steadily at him. "It had to come, Chas. You knew that, didn't you? Both ends against the middle is okay while you can keep swinging. Comes a time when they close up. Then you duck out and let them go ker-plonk. But if you can't duck…"

Mark said: "Ker-runch! Nasty! Not nice, eh, Chas?"

"Nah!" The brown eyes danced with defiant laughter. "Like you say, mate – not nice."

"Mate?" said Mark. "Not sonny?"

"You got to grow up sometimes. Could be now."

"Not money, Chas," said April. "We've got money. From us you can't buy."

Chas nodded. "And a Navy over the horizon."

"But you don't scare?" said Mark.

"Daddy warned me," said Chas. "They've never done this before. You tell. I play. There comes a time."

"Palaga backing?" said April. "Palaga company? The Taradata boat trade? Economy sewn up? Restricted travel? A deposed chief? Introduction of guards? All radio contact through new authority? Slow, very slow."

"And plenty profit for the taking?" said Mark. "Lush pickings. New engines, special cargo rates. Even pirates never had it so good."

Chas nodded. "You know some good history. That's how it was."

"So now you want out?"

"Nah – I want in. Some of my people are in the valley." He jerked his thumb at the shore-line. "Up to two trips ago they came to meet me. Then only a few. Then none at all. Now they've sealed the port. No one goes out. No one comes in – except them lot. I'd empty the ship at Lagelo. Fill it with my people. I'll open this port – you bet. Thugs I take as part of the game. But not funny-looking phials, nor top scientists. Not on these islands."

April took off her headscarf and flagged the launch. Kazan saw and zoomed an arc, to curve back to the ship.

"I'm going to reccy," she said. "Hold Kazan while I get my gear."

The launch bumped the side as April reappeared. Captain Sidano came down from the bridge. Chas said: "Go astern, Cap'n."

"But Maleski says…"

"Rot your guts!" Chas bellowed. "Go astern!"

April said quietly to Mark: "Crunch coming. You can handle?"

"Sure. Get going. We'll be in touch. Warn the sub and Waverly."

She was down the rope ladder and into the launch when Maleski came thumping up.

"Get below – both of you," he snarled.

Chas winked at Mark.

"Get knotted," said Chas.

"My sentiments entirely," said Mark.

"Come," said Maleski. "Move." A gun was levelled on them.

Mark moved. So did Chas. Mark chopped the gun-wrist, crashed a foot against Maleski's knee-cap. Maleski buckled, but swung a fist, spinning Mark away. His foot kicked the gun. Sheer luck. It shot overboard.

Maleski bellowed orders. Chas whistled – a long, fluting call. Maleski went to put the boot in as Mark stumbled. Chas hooked his foot under Maleski's raised leg. Maleski fell on Mark, who squirmed away, rolling, then jumping, cat-like.

Maleski's men came pounding from amidships. Chas's own seamen sprang from the bridge and positions aft. Followed melee-filled seconds of turmoil. Difficult to see who was doing what to whom. Mark and Maleski, clear of the THRUSH men. Maleski heavier, swinging blows, using the boot to groin and stomach. Mark weaving, darting in with numbing blows.

Leader of the THRUSH men, flaying air with a cargo hook, reached them as Mark pivoted to dance out of Maleski's boot range. Maleski lunged into the man's path as the hook slashed down, intended for Mark's face. It tore open Maleski's skull. The blow, together with his own impetus, crashed him against the deck rail. He crumbled, dangling doll-like, before sliding over – bumped once on a porthole, and dropped into the sea.

Mark caught the THRUSH man, who stood transfixed by surprise, and applied a lever lock with such force that the man's arm snapped and his shoulder was dislocated. The hook dropped as he sprawled away.

Two more THRUSH men broke clear of Chas and his sea men. Mark attempted to leap away so as to strike as they came past. His foot stumbled on the THRUSH leader. As his body angled, so a heavy shoulder crashed into him like a charging bull. Mark was flung up and back. He hit the rail, grabbed vainly at air, then plummeted backwards.

His brain flashed warnings. From this height a belly-flop into the sea would split his guts open. He spun his body in mid-air, straightened arms and legs as the cool green mass rushed up at him.

Not really cool. Surprisingly warm. He went deep in a tortuous, unending dive. Tortuous because his lungs, already pressured by the fight, had not had time to fill. Steel clamps locked around his chest. His ears sang with pressure. He had no breath to exhale. Could not inhale.

Willpower alone kept him from panic, forcing his body to act smoothly to help his upward travel. Long, agonizing seconds moving through a green cavern. Then growing lighter, amber-green, to burst into sunlight, mouth retching, gasping, as he trod water.

Swiftly recovering, Mark began to swim. Maleski's body lay, face downwards, sleeping on the green-sea couch. The ship now was going astern, very slowly. Mark swam around – saw the launch heading towards Taramao Point.

Suddenly the ship's engines stopped. Mark trod water, searching for a rope, not wanting to go back to where the ladder hung. He heard a low whistle, looked up as a rope snaked down: Captain Sidano's head appeared over the rail as he hitched the rope to a stanchion. Mark swung up, using feet on the hull and fast-hauling on the rope.

Sidano said: "Maleski is dead?"

"Yup. You changed sides, skipper?"

"I am still captain of a ship. I cannot support murder or mutiny, nor leave a passenger to drown."

"Hallelujah!" Mark squeezed water from his hair. "Thou hast seen the light!"

Sidano's heavy face creased in what appeared to be a smile. It made him look as if he were going to cry.

"And great shall be my salvation! I must lower a boat to pick up the body. Maleski was killed by one of his own men. You are a witness."

"What goes on?" Mark indicated the far side, now hid en by the superstructure.

"Chas is in control. The seamen have overpowered Maleski's men. I do not know who you are, but legally you are a free man, even though we signed you on from the same prison as them. There are things I do not understand."

Mark thumped the captain's chest with a stabbing finger.

"In that, my crafty captain, you are not alone. But this I tell you – there now is only one side on this ship. You will obey orders, or, so help me, I'll call up our Navy and have you and the whole caboodle arrested."

"But I have done nothing wrong. Even now, I do all the right things. I do not break the law of the sea."

"What nationality are you?"

"Me? I am Palaganian."

"I might have known it. Anyway – forget your seagoing purity. We can still arrest you and apologize later."

Sidano pulled a package of letters from his pocket. His strong, stubby fingers shredded them into small pieces – confetti floating seawards.

"Now there is nothing that anyone can arrest me for – at any time."

"You must have been off the bridge and into Maleski's belongings before he hit the water."

Sidano spat over the side. "I already had them while he was helping the Padracks. Later, I would have killed him." He beamed his tearful-looking smile. "I am such a happy man this lovely morning. Ah, but you would not understand how it feels to see a blackmailer die!"

"I can imagine," said Mark, wringing out his shirt. "What was the object?"

"Only to use my rank, my signature as a Palaganian captain, my silence about certain types of cargo. Some equipment must not be carried on a Palaganian island ship unless it is supplied by Palaga. Many things like that could not be done without the captain's knowledge."

Mark squee-jeed his pants. "What type of equipment?"

"Laboratory equipment used for medical research. Anything that can be used for processing must come through Palaga. Also presses – small power presses. Such things are forbidden. Palaga is protected by International Law. No other ship would carry them to the islands. Palaga controls all the Customs in the islands."

"Including Taradata?"

"Ah! You must ask Chas about that. He knows more of how somebody has got control. You know he is the owner?"

"So he told me. And you've been double-crossing him?"

"No, that is not so. Well – at first, perhaps, but not for the later trips."

"Palaga – one-time paradise of the pirates!" Mark exclaimed. "As Chas would say: a nice bunch of rake-off merchants you are! But, my God! Don't you squeal when things get out of control! The trouble is, the damage you do has to be cleaned up by somebody else."

"Why, yes," said Sidano. "No respectable pirate ever cleaned up after himself!... That is my little joke," he added hastily.

"I'm laughing my head off!" Mark pulled on his shirt.

"Okay, Sidano – back to your bridge. We're going into Taradata."

"The owner will tell me – not you."

"I am telling you. You're not the only people who can play pirates. Obey orders, or I'll call up a boarding party." Mark left Sidano, ran between the holds, met Chas on the way.

"Sidano will do as he's told," said Chas. "I overheard you talking." He pointed upwards. "I was looking for him to order stop ship, so we could pick you up." He grinned. "That was a nice howdedo! Our regular crew have been wanting to have a go at Maleski's men – so have I." Blood oozed from cuts on his arms. His knuckles were skinned, one eye puffed in promise of a blue-black "shiner". "I'm going below to cure these cuts." Chas surveyed Mark. "You ain't cut, are you? Got to be careful in this part of the world."

"I'm not cut, but I'll come with you. Tell the captain to stay stopped for a while longer."

"Okay. See you in the purser's office."

Mark went to his own cabin, collected certain gear, including special assault devices, then decided to make a quick change so as to fit on some secret body attachments because his clothes were shrinking – a fact he hadn't allowed for. "All nice stuff!" he chuckled. "That Chas is going to lose some of his profit on this gear!"

Fortunately, the U.N.C.L.E. communicator and other electronic devices were waterproofed. A quick test showed these were functioning well. He made a three-way link-up between April Dancer on the launch, Sama Paru in the submarine, and Mr. Waverly on his floating H.Q.

"I'll come back to you in a short while," said Mark. "Standby."

What Chas called the purser's office was at the end of the passenger cabins. Mark hadn't seen inside it. The door was double-locked, with a steel outer. He now saw why. Smallish, with a domed ceiling, the air pungent with the smell of incense. Bright-coloured woven mats, small, odd-shaped, formed a circle beneath a rack of glistening gold, purple and flame-red robes. Chas was kneeling on the mats, stripped to his waist. He turned.

"Shut the door, please." His voice was quieter, deeper, and had lost its cockney intonation. He pointed to a heavily ornamented flask on a shelf next to the robes. "Will you help me?"

"Surely. How?"

"Take the flask. Pour some of the contents slowly over my head, then over the cuts. Take no notice of me."

When Mark turned from lifting the flask, he saw that Chas was now completely still – the stillness of death. No movement of chest or stomach as in normal breathing. No flicker of life in the wide-staring eyes. Mark observed this, but made no comment as he poured the liquid Chas had requested. This done, he gently sniffed the flask. The liquid was scented – not unlike lavender water. He replaced the flask, then turned to see the cuts bubbling as if the liquid consisted of peroxide of hydrogen or a similar fluid.

After nearly five minutes the life returned to Chas's eyes, and his body moved in rhythmic breathing. He began to speak in a foreign tongue, softly, gently. Mark caught the words "Y-Shan-U" and what sounded like "Mort ah mortshan ah mort, deeya, deeya", but the rest was spoken too fast and too softly to catch.

Then Chas quivered, blinked his eyes, moved his arms. The bubbling on the cuts had ceased. In fact, no cuts were now visible, merely slight crustations of dried blood. Chas brushed these away so that only a few whitish marks remained on the skin.

He smiled up at Mark. "Thanks." He rose to his feet.

"Self-induced trance?" said Mark. "Part of your religion?"

Chas nodded. "I thought you'd be interested." He glanced at the flask. "That's only water, y'know. Drink some, if you like. A little oil of lavender rubbed on the rim gives the spirit some pleasure. It likes music too. And colour."

"The faith of the flowers, the bird songs, and the colours of earth, sea and sky," said Mark quietly. "I've heard of it. Y-Shan-U,"

"S'right," said Chas, reverting to his cockney accent. "Y-Shan-U it is. But you don't need to bother your head about it. Just wanted you to see that it works."

Mark smiled. "And some of your faithful are on Taradata? Your own people on Lagelo want them to return. You have promised they will. If there were free entry and exit, you could bring them off because you can hypnotize them. But the time has gone on and on until now you realize they may be prisoners there. Today, to all except special persons, entry and exit is banned. You can't reach them. But if you return to Lagelo without them – eh, Chas? What will happen?"

Chas shrugged. "They'll likely chop me ruddy head off." He pointed to the robes. "And I'll certainly lose me little Boy Scout lot." He grinned. "You sure are quick at figuring. How d'you do it? I thought my performance would impress you. It ain't a fake, y'know."

Mark chuckled. "I know it isn't. That's how you survived your terrible treatment in the war. You hypnotized yourself to resist pain. Many eastern religions have priests who can do that – from fire walking to sticking bamboo rods through their skins."

"Yeah – I can do that too. So you know more than most people. But you couldn't know I'm in a spot over our people on Taradata."

"It had to be something like that – mate." Mark grinned. "There was no money in it for you in changing sides – or ceasing to be neutral. You've built yourself a way-out reputation among the islands. Probably it was you who revived an ancient religion, using your power of hypnosis to add colour. I guess it grew faster and bigger than you expected."

"You can say that again!" said Chas. "It went like a bomb. All a giggle at first. Made me feel secure and important – and wanted. S'funny, ain't it? Even my old Daddy believes in me. Who was that bloke who created another bloke what did him up?"