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

Автор книги: Simon Latter

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"Frankenstein?"

"That's him. That's me too. But it's not all fake – not by a long way. To me, perhaps – or it was – but not to them. I really can cure people. I really can 'see' things – sense 'em – always have been able to. But they expect me to do ruddy miracles!" Chas sighed deeply. "Oh, mate, wotta mess! And a relief too. You're the only man I've ever told."

"Are your 'wives' your followers?"

Chas nodded. "All except the Palaga one. They all visited the island and fell in love with me – or me flippin' image."

"And subscribed heavily to your funds?"

"S'right."

"But the Palaga one did it on a strictly business basis?"

"Well, y'know them Palagas – hard-faced lot, they are. Her papa owns the ruddy wharf, she owns the warehouses with her brother. What you might call a marriage of convenience, like."

Mark chuckled. "Oh, brother! I never met a man who could lose his head in so many places! Why don't you just pocket your cash and fly out into the deep blue yonder?"

"Me?" Chas yelped. "Why should I? I love it around here. Besides – I got fifteen children. I loves kids. And I likes me freedom."

Mark rolled his eyes. "Freedom, he calls it! Okay, mate – here's where you earn it. From you I want cooperation plus, else there's going to be fifteen orphans, five widows, and a leaderless army of the faithful. Got it?"

Chas nodded. "I not only got it – looks like I'm stuck with it!"

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE TARA

APRIL DANCER digested Mark Slate's latest information, linking it with Sama Paru's report and her own observations.

"Randy Kovac is right," she said. "The maps are not accurate. We don't want to enter the harbour yet – can't, anyway, they've swung two harbour craft side-on across the entry channel. Island Traveller is standing off."

Mr. Waverly said: "You've checked the beaches?"

"Yes, sir. Our way was barred by a bevy of beautiful pearl divers – or that's what they claimed to be. We couldn't get the launch past them. They were trailing a steel-cable net. We went back to the cave below Taramao Point and found the coracles which Mr. Paru and Randy Kovac saw being towed out to moorings during the night."

"Then they must have been brought down the rock– face?"

"Yes, sir. The sound of a motor-driven hoist was heard. They appear to be lowered four at a time. Native swimmers tow them to mooring rings in the rocks. The boats cannot be seen from the sea."

Mr. Waverly said: "Come in, Mr. Slate. Why?"

"The man Chas says he was told these were ex-invoice exports."

"Meaning someone on the island was fiddling the export quota? How many have been removed in this way?"

"At a rough guess – over a period – about six thousand. They're easily stowed, and very light."

"Does he know their worth?"

"No, sir."

"Then I will tell you. Within the last twenty-four hours we have received information that these craft are bought in the States for not more than three hundred dollars. They are all – repeat all – sold to the coracle clubs. THRUSH agents in those clubs take personal delivery. The local island lining is replaced by plastic to make them more seaworthy in the hands of learners, the original lining being some sort of leaf or bark which is not obtainable at home. Simple and cheap, Mr. Slate. Hours of innocent pleasure for three hundred dollars. Why should anyone want, or need, to swindle the exporters? You tell me that special hatches were cut in the ship's hull, special lifting gear installed, special bulk heads and panelling. That is a colossal outlay for such a comparatively low-priced article."

"Yes, sir, and Chas received ten dollars commission for each one – on top of freight charges."

"Absurd," said Mr. Waverly. "It doesn't make sense."

April cut in: "But it does, sir, if the actual exporter wanted to cover up the number he was sending out from the island."

"Good gracious, Miss Dancer – you would think they were made of gold!"

"They've made a lot of gold for certain people out here," said Mark. "All the seamen receive a cash bonus for handling that cargo. They'll work it at any hour of the day or night. In fact, they call them their little golden boats of Taradata.

"And they pay the same rate for sending the repaired boats from Palaga. These come all the way from the States. They rip out the broken plastic, re-weave the hull, then ship them back here to be re-lined – and re-exported." Mark laughed. "I still can't see who makes the profit. The Palaganians charge at least a hundred dollars to repair them. It's a handcraft job. Freight and commission swallows another fifty. Then they have to be lined, and shipped all the way back – for only three hundred dollars. Even THRUSH isn't that crazy."

"That's it!" April exclaimed. "That's the one thing that stands out. The boats are woven in Taradata, but they also can be woven – as when they are repaired – in Palaga. Does THRUSH build up to control of an island just to make little boats that can also be made somewhere else?"

"Yes," said Mark. "Because they have. So what's 'it', Lady Brain?"

"'It' is the lining, you dope!"

"Charming," said Mark. "A few pressed leaves or malleable bark..." He broke off, then added softly: "Containing a new drug?"

April said tensely: "Which grows only on Taradata?" Mark continued: "And is not known in its original state, and li'l ol' toy boat is so cute with its li'l ol' lining." He paused. "If Chas knew this, I'll hang him from the mast arm, so help me!"

"Go to it," said Mr. Waverly. "S.F.D. is still operative. I shall expect to hear from you by midnight."

Free from the continual presence of his blackmailer, his roughneck auxiliary crew, and other pressures aboard his ship, Captain Sidano assumed a new stature. Chas helped in this transformation. Previously, he had maintained a neutral role. Although the owner, he liked working around Island Traveller. He could observe everything, especially those things which gave him massive profits, and was able to check on others which might increase costs. But he hadn't actively concerned himself with the running of the ship. He'd been content to follow a policy of them-as-pays-most-has-most-say. Now, he cooperated with Mark and supported his captain.

The THRUSH-recruited thugs were manacled in the for'ard hold under charges of murder, mutiny, and breaking of parole. Several of them talked freely, declaring that their orders, after landing on Taradata, were to report to a man named Tom-Tom, who would issue them with weapons and uniforms. They would then be enrolled as guards. A large cash bonus had been offered, half to be paid on landing, half at the end of their work. Whatever work that was to be, they didn't know, but it didn't take much guessing to class it as some form of brutality. They were those sort of men.

Captain Sidano collected statements from witnesses. One of the other passengers, disturbed by the noise, had come on deck in time to witness the killing of Maleski and the ferocious fight between Chas and his seamen and Maleski's men. Sidano covered himself, his owner and the crew by these statements, and entered his log accordingly. Then he set Island Traveller out to sea, where he performed a burial service on Maleski.

"I am now at your service, gentlemen, and wait your orders," said Sidano, when all was completed. "I have some passengers who would like to visit Taradata, but they do not insist. I have cargo to unload, but that can wait, if necessary. My ship and crew are now under my full control. You will inform me of your decisions?" He strode away to his cabin.

Chas chuckled. "Regular old sea-dog, ain't he? Ex-Merchant Navy, y'know. Couldn't get used to the free and easy island ways. Sort of lost his direction for a while. Could have finished up a suicide, or a lush, boozing himself to death on some island. I've seen it happen before. I reckon it's thanks to you we've all come to our senses. Free and easy is a fine way of living. There's only one drawback. Nothing comes free, and living too easy rots a man and prostitutes a woman." He grinned at Mark. "Sort of corny, huh? Little ol' corn philosopher, that's me. Sorry I called you sonny. You're a fine young fella. I still dunno what mob you belong to, but you can count me in."

Mark laughed. "My 'mob' will be happy to have you help us." He called up April Dancer in the launch.

In an hour she had rejoined the ship. Kazan and Lars Carlson also came aboard. Kazan was still a sick man. The virus had hit him hard, although injections helped keep down his temperature and eased the congestion. They gathered in the captain's cabin as Island Traveller rode at anchor. Chas was tending the passengers' needs.

"A false shore-line?" said Captain Sidano. "How can that be possible?"

"It's possible right enough," said April. "Your ship couldn't get close enough inshore to use the powerful glasses you need."

"A deep breakwater to turn the tides around the headland," said Lars. "Then they dredge the beaches and bull doze the sand further out. In six months, you would have a new outline. The tides would help. Also they would give deep water in the coves below Taramao Point. Ya – it has been done."

Mark peered through the porthole "Three or four native huts, palm trees, a background of tropical foliage. Looks innocent enough."

"The whole of the background is false," said April. "As false as a movie back-projection. A great scenic slab. I bet the few clumps of greenery are plastic. They flop in the breeze. Not like the real thing at all, but you have to bring them to close focus to see it."

"And who would – a-a-shoo! – bodder?" said Kazan, wheezing terribly.

"Not many visitors would bother," said Sidano. "They take pretty camera shots – that is all. And those beaches have been banned to visitors for a long time. There are big signs saying 'Stone fish in great numbers – keep out or die'. That scares off strangers. And there are guards who stop anyone else. Gradually, the area back of the small port itself has been closed to visitors."

"So they move their shore-line and build a scenic barrier to hide whatever they've got back of the beaches. What used to be there, Captain?" Mark asked.

"A valley, some native long huts, sugar plantations, and, of course, the Tara hills rising up to Taramao Point through the tara growth."

"What is tara growth?" April asked.

Sidano spread his hands about fourteen inches apart. "A fern plant with fronds about so big, but the fronds are so close it looks like a large fan. It is peculiar to this island, and obviously gave it the name – The word data itself means time – the time the tara plant was ready for picking by the islanders, who line their boats with it – the little coracles and small fishing craft. They also use it to thatch their houses. It has many local uses." He chuckled. "Even to make a local drink. I never tasted it, but old sailors have told me it is most foul but a great cure for scurvy and other ailments."

"This stuff doesn't grow anywhere else?" April asked.

Sidano shrugged. "Not in this form. It is something to do with the soil. I believe there is a tara fern in New Zealand, but it does not grow like this. The island tara has to be cut very carefully, and there is an art in its drying and pressing. And if they do not cut it, it will overwhelm all their homes." He pointed through the porthole to Taramao Point. "Those trees are all tara ferns which have been left to grow. The bark of those is stripped to make the coracles. Once the trees reach about eight or nine feet high, they stop growing, but they will make new bark." He looked at April and Mark. "But is this not an idle conversation? We have missed the tide this morning. Do we wait for the later tide or sail to Lagelo? The boats across the harbour mouth are foolish. I can crunch them aside with my ship."

April glanced at Mark, who nodded.

"We go in on the tide, Captain. You will tie up at the dock and unload your cargo in the usual way."

Mark said: "Would this mean an overnight stop? You can't unload and take on cargo and still get out on the tide?"

Sidano nodded. "That is so. I will advise my passengers not to leave the ship. I cannot guarantee your safety if you go ashore, and I do not have enough men to go with you as guards."

"We'll handle our end," said Mark. "You use your men for the work and to prevent any attempt at a takeover of the ship."

"You think this might happen?"

Mark shrugged. "If they hadn't closed up the island, I'd say no. But as things are – yes, they might try it."

"Then I think you should call upon your own country's Naval craft, which is a day's sailing from us, and request the assistance of a landing party," said Sidano briskly. He smiled. "To protect their nationals, of course. We do not want Palaga screaming about an international incident and claiming millions of dollars compensation. I am Palaganian, and I know how we work these things."

"Keep the idea in reserve," said Mark. "If we disappear, then no one gets off the island until we're found." He looked at April and the others. "Agreed?"

April nodded. "Ya," said Lars. "It is our job first."

"Use it as bluff," said Kazan, speaking more clearly now that his latest injection had taken effect. "Radio ashore. Tell dem you're cubbing id – but you'll call up de Davy to protect pashengers. Pardod by English!"

"Good idea," said April. "A captain would take such precautions."

"I bet they reply that passengers on board will not be molested," said Mark. "That safeguards the ship, and leaves us on our own if we go ashore. Which suits us."

"It is all very foolhardy," said Sidano. "I do not see the need."

"You stick to your job," said April. "We'll do ours. We're used to working alone. If my people wanted to use the Navy, they'd have done so. What is the island set-up? Who are Lodori and Tom-Tom?"

"Lodori is a doctor, also the island's teacher. Tom-Tom is cousin to Mareet, the present chief who deposed Kuala. They call him 'Boy' Kuala. He is quite old, but has a boyish face. The Mareets have Palaga blood. The Kualas have not. Kuala's daughter, Imali, married Tom-Tom, after her sister Iloni refused him." The captain shrugged. "These islands have many troubles like that. All family matters – not bad, unless foreigners interfere. I think this has happened on Taradata. We keep out of them. It is best."

"So Mareet is chief. Where is Kuala?" Mark asked.

Again Sidano shrugged. "We do not ask. It is their affair."

"We'll make it ours now," said April. "It should be interesting."

CHAPTER NINE: SELECTIVE KILL

IT happened as they expected. The Taradata port officer told Captain Sidano to bring his ship in on the next tide, to keep his passengers aboard, and to discharge and take on cargo in time to leave on the morning tide. He even gave an official reason for the landing ban – an epidemic of island fever, a reason to which no authority could object – nor query – as it was backed by the Taradata medical officer, Dr. George Lodori.

The U.N.C.L.E. team – except Sama Paru and Randy Kovac, who were well out to sea in the submarine – made their plans, which included taking several of the younger passengers joy-riding in the launch. Lars Carlson shed his wig and sunglasses. Count Kazan, recovering with each hour, acted the gracious, wealthy host. They all swam and frolicked in the sea within sight of the beaches.

Clusters of gorgeous-looking girls waved to them, but didn't swim out from the sands. Obviously, they were as much guards as ornamental local colour, and already had fixed the steel-mesh net below the water so that no propeller-driven craft could pass without being smashed up.

April, Mark and Lars took it in turns to swim under water. But only one at a time left their guests, so the fun and games were not interrupted, and the cutting shears passed from one to the other until the whole mesh had been severed, sinking to the sea bed.

Lars raised the sun awning on the launch, adding colour and covering from shore-based binoculars his own activities of preparing certain weapons and assault aids. Kazan kept their guests amused on the inflatable raft, even serving drinks and providing paper sunshades to protect the lady visitors' fair skins. There were all the outward and visible signs of wealth and leisure combined for the delight of everyone.

This also helped April and Mark to relax in preparation for the action ahead. Mark got rid of his whiskers fairly painlessly, but Lars's idea of a hair-trim was the "chop– chop-ouch!" variety. Mark emerged half-scalped – the massacre being covered by a jaunty red-bobble cap. It so changed his appearance that the passenger-guests failed at first to recognize him.

Several miles east of them, beyond the anchored Island Traveller, the Dx5 submarine cruised the sea depths at low speed, stopping every now and then as it overran the tide-rise. They hoped to be directly under the towering slope of Taramao Point at the same time as Island Traveller slipped into harbour. Already the shadows were lengthening over the Point when the launch returned to the ship; which immediately started engines, upped anchor, and swung shoreward.

Sidano put her astern before actually entering harbour. One of the stern hatchways opened. Two coracles were lowered into the water, April Dancer and Mark Slate slid down the guide-ropes into the tiny craft, carrying special oars made that afternoon by Island Traveller's chippy – who had also given them expert tuition in coracle handling.

Opposite the beach – dark material draped over her white hull, paint daubed on bright metal – the launch sidled in on the tide, its drift corrected by Kazan with one expertly-wielded oar over the stern. In the cave, the submarine surfaced very slowly. Two rubber-suited figures emerged onto the hull. One swung into the sea, carrying a grappling anchor to one of the rocks, then returned to the submarine. Sama Paru whispered: "Ready?" Randy Kovac nodded. Both men snapped on headgear and visors, slid into the velvet-dark sea, and began silently to swim to the rock-face.

As Island Traveller tied up, the cargo-dock lights and the ship's own deck lights came on almost together. Their reflection sheened the water, flared against the harbour arms, casting inky-purple shadow over the two coracles paddling to shallow water.

At last April and Mark lifted the tiny craft clear of the water and on to the sand, then crept on thick-soled overshoes up the shadow of the wall. "There are no stone fish," the seamen had said. "Only the usual risk in stepping from an incoming tide when the deadly barbs may rise from the moving sand. But above the water-line – no."

They reached a fencing laced with barbed wire. Light from the harbour, to the left of it, showed four guards between the fence and a round hut in comparative shadow away to their right. Mark whispered in April's ear. She nodded, then shedding the overshoes, sped wraith-like to the hut and was lost in its shadow.

Mark removed his own overshoes, trod quietly, to a vantage point of shadow midway, then deliberately kicked sand. The four figures turned like puppets at the sound.

"Hullo!" said Mark softly. "Can you direct me to Fifth Avenue? I'm Father Christmas looking for a present to happen to."

They rushed towards him, then halted after the first impetus of surprise. Three of them hung back to push the fourth guard forward. He held a rifle awkwardly, not aimed but with one hand around the stock, the barrel pointing away from his side.

"I'm sure you haven't got a licence for that," said Mark. "Sorry, fellas." His sleep guns fired with hissing spats at four targets outlined against the distant lights.

He had leapt among them even before they crumpled, ripping away the rifle, hurling it into the sea. It was a silly, unthinking trick, for it made a loud splash. Mark dropped to the sand – waited, breath held. No more guards. Empty space from here to the beach backdrop. A cluster of huts beyond the fence. An opening between, leading to the harbour, from whence came the chug of the winches lifting cargo.

Mark dragged the unconscious guards into deep shadow, then raced to the hut. It was much larger than he expected. Round, with a conical roof, laced with palm and other foliage over cane sticks.

April came close, whispered. "Steel. It's all steel. The jungle stuff is fake top-dressing. Come back here."

Around the far side she lifted a portion of cane and palm leaf, disclosing a large opening the size of a letter-box. They peered through it. The area around the opening vibrated slightly. Air was sucked past their cheeks. A restricted view showed men – native islanders wearing a type of sarong-like mini-kilt of coloured cloth. Some had coloured bangles on their right arms, none on the left. Some wore necklaces of sharks' teeth or shells. The youngest had no such adornment. All were grouped, squatting on their haunches in a semi-circle, around an imposing-looking man with white hair, gnarled hands, high-veined arms, yet a smoothly boyish face.

He was speaking quietly, soothingly, his dark eyes gentle, his white teeth gleaming in the dim light thrown from one electric globe. Two gaps in his teeth gave him an even more boyish air – almost mischievous. Several of his listeners appeared to be either asleep or entranced by his words.

"Air-conditioned," April whispered. "Vents around the top. This is no native hovel. Surely that's Kuala?"

Mark nodded. "Chief 'Boy' Kuala himself. He's practising Y-Shan-U. Well, it's one way of keeping up their spirits!"

"Hypnotism?" she queried. "Trance states? Will it do them harm if we break it up?"

"Let's try." Mark put his mouth into one end of the slot, called softly "Y-Shan-U" a number of times, while April kept watch.

"He's heard you. He's coming over! " she said suddenly.

Mark bobbed his head down, to see "Boy" Kuala coming close.

"Who calls?" said Kuala.

"I come from the High Priest of Y-Shan-U. He is on the island boat. The great Chas says listen to me. I have come to save your people. You will help me?"

April said: "I'll say he will! He's laughing like a liberated general."

"Listen, Chief Kuala – listen. Tell your men to stand well back from the door. We're going to use explosive. You understand? Boom-boom!"

"My dear chap," said Chief Kuala, "have you no modern explosives? A couple of boom-booms will bring all the guards on you."

April giggled joyously. "Not to worry, Chiefie Boy. We have all mod-cons." She showed Mark the door area cut below an inspection flap. They worked swiftly to pack the quite simple lock with explosive. In two minutes the charge was ready. They packed sand around it, ripped the self-ignitor and stood well back. The lock blew with a flat-sounding "splat". The sand absorbed the vapour. Chief Kuala pushed open the door. Light flared out.

"Wow! Switch off the light – if you can!" April warned.

They shook hands as if just greeting him off a plane. It was all rather unreal, so calmly did Chief Kuala accept their presence. Mark whispered to April: "This makes it easier than we expected. Will you get all the info we need while I go reccy the other hut and link up with Kazan?"

She nodded. "I'll meet you over by the backdrop – that group of palms."

Mark soon found the same type of inspection flap and lock in the new hut. But this one's occupants were all women, one older than the others, but even she was glowingly handsome. The rest were young and more lovely than the alleged pearl-diving girls had been. All wore native dress, as if they were part of a Bali-Bali film. Mark quickly made contact, his appearance causing considerable surprise and excitement.

The older woman said: "I am Bayee, the wife of Kuala. How is it you come here?"

Mark explained quickly, then told them how he would blow the lock, how they should turn out the light, and at once run to the deep shadow by the palm trees. All went as he intended. Except the exodus.

Lars Carlson and Count Kazan were coming along the beach from their landing point, wearing only swimming trunks and carrying clothes and assault gear in waterproof packs. The girls took them for guards, or at least as belonging to their enemy factions.

Although a ladies' man, not even Kazan could cope with this rush of them. Lars didn't like to use his strength against women, so they toppled him too. Mark leapt to help them. He daren't yell loudly, and warned Bayee not to do so. He could only struggle through the press of lovely, writhing bodies, whispering fiercely: "We're friends, friends! Get back, get back to the trees!"

Mark had an armful of young girl, his face in the tummy of another, when April's cold voice said: "Of all the sex crazy louts! Get up, you over-sexed slob! We've work to do! Hear me, Mark?"

The arrival of Chief Kuala and commands from Bayee soon calmed the girls. They all moved to the shadow of trees.

"They have suffered much at the hands of Mareet's men," said Kuala. "You must forgive them."

"A pleasure," said Lars, grinning hugely. "A lovely welcome – ya?"

April groaned. "I give up! Do I have men or boys with me on this operation? Get yourselves dressed and your gear ready. We're going in behind this tropical facade and, with the chiefs help, we're going to isolate and destroy all the THRUSH cell on the island."

The check contact came when Sama Paru and Randy Kovac were on a ledge midway between sea and cave. Sama listened carefully, then spoke very softly and briefly to give their position and estimated time it might take for them to reach the valley. He relayed the information into Randy Kovac's ear.

"April and the other three have made contact with the real chief. He and his wife are going with our agents because once the islanders see that Kuala is alive, they will flock to him. That is – all those islanders who have been forced to work for Mareet and, through him, for THRUSH. So every islander left is an enrolled THRUSH member, and we attack accordingly."

"How do we know?" said Randy.

"We say, Y-Shan-U. If they answer, Y-Shan-U, they are Kuala's people. The others just won't answer. They dare not use the words because their own spirits will strike them dumb."

"Lot of mumbo-jumbo." said Randy.

Sama said sharply: "No more than some of our Western mumbo-jumbo. Who are we to judge? Anyway, that's the drill. April, Mark, Kazan and Lars are now behind the false shore-line. April says to thank you for some inspired desk work."

Randy beamed. "What is there?"

"A production-line, no less! A whole row of what look like native long houses but is really a factory. Boat-making one end – then tara processing plant, then laboratory and offices, then an entrance into the headland." Sama pointed upward. "The chief says it is hollowed out into passages and caves. Natives who caused trouble were forced to work up here, stripping bark and digging out the dust."

"What dust?"

"I don't think the chief knows for sure, but the THRUSH scientists use it in their process of curing the tara plant. Our job is to destroy the whole package. No ifs or huts. Got it?"

Randy nodded. "Will I have to kill?"

Sama stared at him. Starlight made Randy's face white. Or was it starlight?

"You will know," he said. "Every agent has to learn it. We're in a war – an undeclared war. We're in the selective-kill business – not the overkill. So you will know whether it's him or you. But if you don't – it will be you who dies. It's quite simple really. Let's go!"

Easy to reach now. A large cave, smooth floor. A telescopic gantry, motor-driven pulleys attached, could extend way out over the rock-face to lower a load on to the water. Plenty of bars embedded in rock for hand-holds. A loading platform next to an endless-belt loader. Two coracles still on the lifting claws.

The cave narrowed to a long, low room. Store racks one side filled with two-inch-wide lathes of bark, each piece smoothed, polished. Little flat-car, trollies the length of the bark sat on wooden rails, shiny with use. A winching machine to pull the trollies up. A braking shoe to hold them steady on the down trip. Tub-shaped trollies interspersed in the line. From a passage to the right, a sound of thudding, not rhythmic, uneven, almost laborious. Occasionally a clink of metal against metal.

Sama Paru made signs. They wrecked the winching machine with two well-placed near-silent explosive packs, then jammed the trollies before severing the cables in many places. Sama moved, beckoning, treading as if on eggshells into the passage. At a bend, he halted, hand raised warningly. They peered around.

A cavern of orange light and flickering shadows – yellowish dust wreathing. A tangy, soda-like smell, not unpleasant. But all else was.

Three guards, one with a gun, two with whips. White men – big, craggy-rough. And about a score of islanders – digging, digging, digging. As one slowed, so the whip lashed down.

Sama Paru's eyes glittered. Randy Kovac's belly froze, but he nodded in understanding.

Sama stood at the entrance.

"Y-Shan-U!" he cried.

The guard with the gun whirled, barrel levelling. Sama shot him between the eyes.

The thudding ceased, shovels clattered down. A score of sobbing voices chanted: "Y-Shan-U! Y-Shan-U!"

"Drop the whips," Sama called.

One man was slow. "Who the hell are you? You'll die for this!"

Sama's attention was on this man. Randy saw the other guard's gun sliding up from its holster. The barrel was clear when Randy fired. The man was flung back, staggered, fell. Two islanders grabbed shovels and hammered his head in fury.

The third guard leapt, clasped an islander in front of him as he drew his gun, fired over the man's shoulder. The bullet spanged dust from the passage floor. Sama's sleep gun was now clear. So was Randy's. He had reacted lightning fast. Both fired together. One dart hit the islander. The other hit the guard in the shoulder. It threw his gun-arm off-target.

Sama yelled to the islanders: "Come!" and hustled Randy along the passage. At the end, Randy was sick.

Sama ignored him and silenced the jabbering islanders.

"One," he said, holding up a finger. "One who speaks as I speak. Understand?"