Sjambak Part 8

Soek's eyebrows rose, poised in place like a seagull riding the wind.

"Weelbrrr! I did not know you for a man of learning!"

"Oh, you thought I was just a b.u.m, eh? Good enough to make picturama stars out of _gamelan_ players, but no special genius...."

"No, no, Weelbrrr."

"I know lots of tricks. I can take a flashlight battery, a piece of copper foil, a few transistors and bamboo tube and turn out a paralyzer gun that'll stop a man cold in his tracks. And you know how much it costs?"

"No, Weelbrrr. How much?"

"Ten cents. It wears out after two or three months, but what's the difference? I make 'em as a hobby--turn out two or three an hour."

"Weelbrrr! You're a man of marvels! h.e.l.lo! We will drink!"

And Murphy settled back in the wicker chair, sipping his rice beer.

"Today," said Murphy, "I get into a s.p.a.ce-suit, and ride out to the ruins in the plain. Ghatamipol, I think they're called. Like to come?"

"No, Weelbrrr." Soek Panjoebang looked off into the garden, her hands busy tucking a flower into her hair. A few minutes later she said, "Why must you waste your time among the rocks? There are better things to do and see. And it might well be--dangerous." She murmured the last word off-handedly.

"Danger? From the sjambaks?"

"Yes, perhaps."

"The Sultan's giving me a guard. Twenty men with crossbows."

"The sjambaks carry s.h.i.+elds."

"Why should they risk their lives attacking me?"

Soek Panjoebang shrugged. After a moment she rose to her feet. "Goodbye, Weelbrrr."

"Goodbye? Isn't this rather abrupt? Won't I see you tonight?"

"If so be Allah's will."

Murphy looked after the lithe swaying figure. She paused, plucked a yellow flower, looked over her shoulder. Her eyes, yellow as the flower, lucent as water-jewels, held his. Her face was utterly expressionless.

She turned, tossed away the flower with a jaunty gesture, and continued, her shoulders swinging.

Murphy breathed deeply. She might have made picturama at that....

One hour later he met his escort at the valley gate. They were dressed in s.p.a.ce-suits for the plains, twenty men with sullen faces. The trip to Ghatamipol clearly was not to their liking. Murphy climbed into his own suit, checked the oxygen pressure gauge, the seal at his collar. "All ready, boys?"

No one spoke. The silence drew out. The gatekeeper, on hand to let the party out, snickered. "They're all ready, Tuan."

"Well," said Murphy, "let's go then."

Outside the gate Murphy made a second check of his equipment. No leaks in his suit. Inside pressure: 14.6. Outside pressure: zero. His twenty guards morosely inspected their crossbows and slim swords.

The white ruins of Ghatamipol lay five miles across Pharasang Plain. The horizon was clear, the sun was high, the sky was black.

Murphy's radio hummed. Someone said sharply, "Look! There it goes!" He wheeled around; his guards had halted, and were pointing. He saw a fleet something vanis.h.i.+ng into the distance.

"Let's go," said Murphy. "There's nothing out there."

"Sjambak."

"Well, there's only one of them."

"Where one walks, others follow."

"That's why the twenty of you are here."

"It is madness! Challenging the sjambaks!"

"What is gained?" another argued.

"I'll be the judge of that," said Murphy, and set off along the plain.

The warriors reluctantly followed, muttering to each other over their radio intercoms.

The eroded city walls rose above them, occupied more and more of the sky. The platoon leader said in an angry voice, "We have gone far enough."

"You're under my orders," said Murphy. "We're going through the gate."

He punched the b.u.t.ton on his camera and pa.s.sed under the monstrous portal.

The city was frailer stuff than the wall, and had succ.u.mbed to the thin storms which had raged a million years after the pa.s.sing of life. Murphy marvelled at the scope of the ruins. Virgin archaeological territory! No telling what a few weeks digging might turn up. Murphy considered his expense account. s.h.i.+fkin was the obstacle.

There'd be tremendous prestige and publicity for _Know Your Universe!_ if Murphy uncovered a tomb, a library, works of art. The Sultan would gladly provide diggers. They were a st.u.r.dy enough people; they could make quite a showing in a week, if they were able to put aside their superst.i.tions, fears and dreads.

Murphy sized one of them up from the corner of his eye. He sat on a sunny slab of rock, and if he felt uneasy he concealed it quite successfully. In fact, thought Murphy, he appeared completely relaxed.

Maybe the problem of securing diggers was a minor one after all....

And here was an odd sidelight on the Singhalusi character. Once clear of the valley the man openly wore his s.h.i.+rt, a fine loose garment of electric blue, in defiance of the Sultan's edict. Of course out here he might be cold....

Murphy felt his own skin crawling. How could he be cold? How could he be alive? Where was his s.p.a.ce-suit? He lounged on the rock, grinning sardonically at Murphy. He wore heavy sandals, a black turban, loose breeches, the blue s.h.i.+rt. Nothing more.

Where were the others?

Murphy turned a feverish glance over his shoulder. A good three miles distant, bounding and leaping toward Singhalut, were twenty desperate figures. They all wore s.p.a.ce-suits. This man here ... A sjambak? A wizard? A hallucination?

The creature rose to his feet, strode springily toward Murphy. He carried a crossbow and a sword, like those of Murphy's fleet-footed guards. But he wore no s.p.a.ce-suit. Could there be breathable traces of an atmosphere? Murphy glanced at his gauge. Outside pressure: zero.