Читать книгу The Golden Skull: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story - Goodwin Harold Leland - Страница 2

Out of the Asiatic Dream's forward hold swung the sleek shape of an airplane fuselage. Rick bristled with nervous energy as he watched. He yelled, "Watch it! Take it easy with that winch!"

Scotty patted him on the shoulder. "Take it easy yourself before you pop a gusset. They're doing all right."

Rick didn't take his eyes off the plane. "Okay. But if they drop it, we'll hike into the mountains instead of flying in style. Hey, you! Lift it! Lift it clear of the rail!"

The plane was Rick's new Sky Wagon, a powerful little four-place job that had replaced his beloved Cub, wrecked by saboteurs, as related in Stairway to Danger. It had less than ten hours' flying time, and he didn't want it wrecked by having a careless winchman bash it against something. But in spite of his fears, the fuselage was lowered safely onto the waiting truck, the wings in their crates were brought out, and in a short time the boys were riding with the plane out to Manila International Airport.

The day was still young. The freighter had anchored off the Manila port area during the night, berthing in the early hours. The Spindrift party had checked into the Manila Hotel, and Tony, leaving the boys to supervise the unloading and clearance of their equipment, had gone off to the University of the Philippines. Now the crates of equipment were in the customs shed waiting to be picked up, and the plane was en route to the airport to be assembled. Everything was going smoothly, except …

"Chahda," Rick mused. "Where do you suppose he went?"

"The day I can figure out Chahda's comings and goings is the day I polish my crystal ball and solve the rest of the world's mysteries. He's probably off studying The World Almanac."

Chahda had been registered at the Manila Hotel but had checked out three days before their arrival. He had left no forwarding address and no message.

"He's probably somewhere in the Indian colony of Manila," Rick speculated. "Quite a few Indians here, mostly Hindus. They call 'em Bombays, Tony said."

"He'll show up," Scotty said. "He always does. Wonder how Tony is making out?"

Tony had gone to see a colleague, a Filipino archaeologist by the name of Dr. Remedios Okola. It was through Okola that arrangements had been made with the Philippine Government for their expedition – or would be made. Their permit had not yet been issued.

"I didn't know they had a university here." Scotty added, "Until Tony started writing to this Filipino scientist."

"You should read the stuff Tony brought," Rick replied. "The Philippines has a dozen universities."

Scotty grinned. "Chahda is probably taking a course in one of them. Getting a degree of D.D."

Rick took the bait. "What? Doctor of Divinity or Doctor of Dentistry?"

"Neither. Dean of Disappearances."

Rick groaned. Still, it was true. Chahda was the most disappearing person he had ever known. The truth was, as he well knew, Chahda loved the dramatic. The little Hindu boy thoroughly enjoyed baffling his pals with theatrical appearances and disappearances. Not that he did his vanishing act just for fun, however. There was usually a good reason.

Arrangements had been made by mail and confirmed by phone that morning for hangar space at Manila International Airport. While giant transpacific passenger liners landed or took off, and while the busy twin-engined island hoppers of Philippine Air Lines kept the field active, the boys assembled the Sky Wagon.

Even allowing for Rick's pride of ownership, the Sky Wagon was a beauty. It was painted pure white with a red strip along the fuselage. It could carry four, plus a fair amount of cargo. It had flaps which permitted slow landings and short take-offs, and it had retractable landing gear and variable-pitch propeller.

Under the rear seats was a special feature – a small hatch through which a winch-driven cable could be operated.

This was a typical Rick Brant labor-saving device. Back home, Rick was the errand boy for Spindrift Island, an island off the New Jersey coast where the famous Spindrift Foundation was located. Until he acquired the Sky Wagon, his grocery shopping meant landing at Whiteside Airport, hiking into town, picking up the groceries, lugging them back, loading them in the Cub and flying back to Spindrift.

Now he could phone in his order, get into the Sky Wagon, lower the weighted cable, and swoop low over the grocery store, which was located on the outskirts of Whiteside. The hook at the end of the cable snagged another cable hung between two steel poles on the roof of the store. The sack of groceries – it was a special strong canvas sack – were on the cable and needed only to be reeled into the plane.

It worked fine. The only trouble was that Rick had never collected eggs intact. The shock of the pickup was a little too much. When he solved that problem, he would make arrangements with the electronic supply house in Newark to let him put up the same kind of rig. Eventually, he hoped, he would get so efficient that he never would have to land on the mainland except to deliver a passenger or to pay a personal visit.

Rick and Scotty checked the plane over with the greatest of care, and then Rick got in and started the engine. He let it warm up, watching his instruments. Everything was fine. He motioned to Scotty, who was watching and listening from outside.

Scotty got in, and Rick taxied to the end of a runway. While he revved up the engine, Scotty obtained take-off permission from the control tower, and in a few moments they were air-borne, enjoying the sudden drop in temperature.

"First time I've stopped sweating in a week," Scotty said.

Rick nodded and motioned to pump up the landing gear. The hydraulic system worked on a hand pump between the two front seats. It was not as satisfactory as a motor-driven pump, but it took no electric power and used up no valuable weight. Besides, a few strokes on the pump did the job. He leveled off at five thousand feet above the city.

Below, the Pasig River cut the city in half. They traced the line of the great wall around Intramuros, the ancient walled city, and they found the white mass of the American Embassy across Dewey Boulevard from some very modern apartments. They passed over the Manila Hotel, then saw the ruins of infamous Fort Santiago.

Inland, the land was lush green with high mountains rising in the distance. To the north lay Mountain Province, and behind the screen of mountains was their destination.

There was still work to be done, so Rick reluctantly took the Sky Wagon down again. It was in perfect condition; no need for further flight.

They lunched at a modern drive-in on Dewey Boulevard, the split-lane highway that runs along the edge of Manila Bay, then picked up their crates of supplies at customs. This was a light expedition, so there were only three crates. One held their camp gear and trail clothing. Another crate held Tony Briotti's special tools and reference books. The third held the most important object of the expedition – the Spindrift Experimental Earth Scanner, called SEES for short, and further abbreviated by the boys to a sibilant hiss.

"How's the SS working?" Scotty would ask, and Rick would answer: "'Sfine 'scan be."

The boys were old hands at expeditions and they had learned from bitter experience about the number of unexpected things that can happen to baggage, so in spite of some opposition from the hotel clerk, they insisted on stowing the supplies in their room. This done, they got into bathing trunks and cooled off in the hotel pool. There was nothing to do now but wait for Tony – and Chahda.

When they returned from their swim a message was waiting, brought by a messenger from Tony Briotti. Rick read it, then handed it to Scotty. They were to have dinner with Tony's colleague Okola, and an Assistant Secretary of the Interior, a Mr. Lazada, at the latter's house. Dinner was at ten. They were to arrive a half hour early, and wear dinner jackets.

"Dinner at ten!" Scotty was stunned. "It must be a mistake. No one could live until that hour without food."

The desk clerk overheard the comment and smiled. "Old Spanish custom, sir. Many Filipinos follow Spanish custom."

"Very fine for those who are used to it," Rick said. "But here's one Americano who is not going to follow Filipinos who follow old Spanish custom."

"Two Americanos," Scotty corrected. "We will follow old American custom of snack early, English custom of dinner at eight, and then Spanish custom of dinner at ten. That way we get plenty chow, hey?"

This exchange was for their own benefit. The clerk did not overhear because they were hurrying to their rooms to change.

It was not too early to get into dinner jackets. They hauled out what Scotty called their "penguin rigs" and got into them. In spite of feeling a little self-conscious, they looked brown and handsome in their white tropical jackets with maroon bow ties.

They found a table on the porch, looking out over Manila Bay and the great field called The Luneta. By turning a little Rick could see the traffic on Dewey Boulevard. Rick had never seen anything like it. Apparently Filipino drivers were all mad at something, and all under the impression that no other vehicles were on the road. Also, Filipino drivers obviously had wild affection for their horns. They tooted constantly.

"The life of a pedestrian must be less than ten minutes in this town," Scotty commented.

"Pedestrians are nothing but the raw material for accidents," Rick agreed. "Look at that!"

Among the busses, the cars, and the jeeps that ranged the boulevard trotted a half-dozen two-wheeled carriages drawn by tiny horses. These were the calesas of bygone days, still competing with Manila's countless taxis for passengers.

"We should hire two and have a chariot race," Scotty suggested.

They had a sandwich and a cold drink made with calamansi, the pungent small Philippine limes, then walked across the boulevard to where the great wall of the old city rose high in the air. The wall was of huge stone blocks, rising about four times the boys' height into the air. It was perhaps twenty feet thick at the base.

Within the walls there had once been a city of a hundred thousand people, but it was there that in World War II the Japanese had chosen to make their last stand. Most of the people of the city had been wiped out, along with their Japanese captors, and of the ancient buildings only a cathedral remained. The area had been bulldozed flat in most places, and Quonset-type warehouses, called bodegas, had replaced the ruined Spanish buildings.

"Rick, look at this!" Scotty called, pointing to a fern-like plant that grew near the wall. "Watch." He touched it and the leaves rolled into tight tubes. "How about that?"

A Filipino gentleman, immaculate in a white nylon suit, watched them for a moment, then joined them. "The plant is strange to Americans, I think. It is a sensitive mimosa. You have the mimosa in America, but not this variety."

"It's good of you to explain, sir," Rick said.

"Not at all. In Tagalog, the plant is called makahiya. It means, literally, 'I am ashamed when you touch me.'"

"It's ashamed, so it closes up," Rick said. "That's charming. Tagalog must be a picturesque language."

The Filipino nodded. "It has a certain flavor. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Colonel Felix Rojas of the Philippine constabulary."

Rick took his first good look at the Filipino and immediately recognized the soldierly bearing and lean fitness of the professional soldier. He introduced himself and Scotty.

Colonel Rojas smiled. "The young men who are going to dine with the esteemed Assistant Secretary tonight, eh? Welcome to our country." He bowed and walked away, leaving them openmouthed. Then, as an afterthought, he turned. "Surprised? Don't be. We are interested in strangers until their intentions are known. Yours are above reproach." His smile faded. "However, you may be interested in another bit of Tagalog." He spoke briefly a phrase that seemed to be mostly vowels.

"What does it mean?" Scotty asked.

The colonel's eyes searched theirs. "What good is hay to a dead horse," he said and walked away.

The boys stared at each other.

"A very good question," Rick said at last. The colonel had vanished into the Manila Hotel. "Scotty, what good is hay to a dead horse?"

"The deceased equine has little use for hay," Scotty said. "Obviously. Was that a warning?"

"I don't know what it was," Rick said. The phrase could have been a warning, but of what? And how had the colonel known where they were dining? He put the question aloud.

Scotty shrugged. "Doesn't the constabulary come under the Department of the Interior? Maybe Lazada told him. A colonel would be pretty high rank in the constabulary; he could even be the commander."

The Philippine constabulary had a long and distinguished history. It was similar to a police force, but was a military organization. It was, Rick thought, something like a cross between the American state militia, the Texas Rangers, and any good state police force.

"I'm snowed," Rick said at last. "The only thing I'm sure of is that he wasn't looking for information when he asked what good is hay to a dead horse. Come on. Let's start for Lazada's."

The way led across busy Taft Avenue, named for the American president, across the Ayala Bridge which spanned the Pasig River, and past Malaccan Palace. The palace was the equivalent of our White House. In its time Spanish, American, and Japanese conquerors of the Philippines had lived there. Now it housed the president of the Republic of the Philippines.

It was very dark by the time they passed the palace. They left the street-lighted area and entered an area of old Spanish houses. The Pasig River was very close. They could smell the water hyacinth which floated endlessly down to the sea.

The air was heavy with unshed rain. The boys had long since shed their jackets and were carrying them. Now the heat seemed to push down on them, muffling even the sound of their leather soles on the cobbles. They passed a solitary street light and Rick read the sign. They were on the right track. The hotel clerk's directions, obtained before they ate, had been very good.

"Almost there," Rick whispered, then wondered why he hadn't spoken aloud.

Apparently Scotty was feeling the same physical oppression because he didn't comment on the whisper.

The houses were two-story, old Spanish style, with much wrought-iron fancy work. Few lights showed. Such houses presented only blank faces to the street. The life inside them found its open air in secluded patios in the rear.

"We must be getting close," Scotty said. His voice was very low.

Rick unsnapped his key ring. It had a pencil flashlight attached. He shot the light over the house fronts, searching for a number. A cream-colored lizard darted frantically out of the circle of light into protecting darkness.

"Two more numbers," Rick said. "Must be the house after the next one." He flashed the tiny light ahead and froze as he saw the shape of a man. Beside him, he felt Scotty tense.

It was silly to stand frozen. Rick moved ahead, slowly, and the shape took form. Turban, flowing tunic with sash. Fiercely whiskered face. A Sikh guard.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Sikhs – Indians – were noted for their bravery and fighting ability, and they could be found in most cities of the Far East, usually employed as private guards or police.

The Sikh came to attention and Rick noted that he was rather small for his race. Most Sikhs were big men. He had kept the light on the bearded face, noting that the beard was neatly tied in the Sikh fashion. Brown eyes stared unblinkingly. A hoarse voice said, "This ees house of Meester Secretary Lazada. Please to enter."

Suddenly the voice changed and Rick nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Go right on up the stairs, meatheads. Scotty must be hungry. He always is."

Rick choked.

"Chahda!"