GODS of the JUNGLE
By NELSON S. BOND
Deep in the ruined temple was a strange
room; and when Ramey came out of it, many
centuries of time had been wiped out....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories June and July 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Illustration: A dizzy whirl of events spun around them; a vast
cyclorama of all the scenes of history.]
In the darkness before the dawn, the sky was a vault of purple-black,
hoarfrosted with the spangles of innumerable stars. The moon, in its
dying quarter, was a silver scimitar dangling low on the horizon; the
earth below, from this lofty eyrie, was a shadowy disc more sensed than
seen.
Ramey Winters, glancing briefly from the illuminated instrument panel
into the tree-spired obscurity over which he flew, felt once more, as
ofttimes before during these last few weeks, the tugging hand of beauty
at his heart, and a curious wonderment that Night's jet mask could so
completely disguise the grim world slumbering below.
Burma by day was beautiful--but its beauty was that of the wakened
Amazon, bronze-girdled and strident, riding to battle with breasts
straitlaced, with soft hands gripping the sword. Steel monsters,
heavy-laden, groaned endlessly up the ancient Road which sprawls from
Mandalay to Bhamo and Momein, thence, over tortuous ways ripped from
sheer precipice by the naked hands of a million unpaid patriots, to
Tai-fu and Chunking, carrying arms and supplies to a beleaguered
Dragon. Of late there were other rumblings, too. The tramp of shuttling
troops, the ominous rasp of mechanized units, the hornet-tone of
aircraft winging bases.
So Burma by day; a Burma not yet actively in the War but perilously
close. But Burma by night--ah, that, thought Ramey Winters, was another
story Burma by night ... seen from the sky. A new land: a sweet, wild
land of mystery and charm ... of silver and shadow ... cool, chaste,
serene! As untouched and untouchable as the brooding gods of its
people. Burma--a land of stirring song and stranger story. Even up
here, in these thin heights where the air should be fresh and cool, it
seemed to Ramey that his nostrils scented wisps of sandalwood and musk.
And beneath the persistent drone of his own motors seemed to tremble
the faint, exotic pleading of native pipes.
It was a night of magic. Barrett felt it, too. Red Barrett, hard-boiled
and devil-may-care as they come, Ramey's chum and co-pilot--even he
felt it. He flashed his teeth at Ramey in an approving grin.
"Pretty, eh, keed?"
"Swell!" said Ramey. "Terrific! Kipling was right. Burma _is_ the most
beautiful country in the world."[1]
[Footnote 1: The Burma Road is the vital supply route over which the
Chinese Republic, cut off from almost all sea commerce by the Japanese
invaders, still maintains contact with the outside world. Were it
closed, it is doubtful whether the valiant army of General Chiang
Kai-shek could long continue its fight against aggression.--Ed.]
"Burma?" chuckled Red. "Don't look now, pal, but we ain't in Burma any
more. This kite we're flying eats mileage--or didn't you know? See that
hunk of silver ribbon below? Well, that ain't a ribbon; it's the Mekong
River. We're over either Thailand or Indo-China, or both."
Ramey glanced down swiftly. Barrett was right. The sullen blackness
below had suddenly been laced with a shining spiral of silver; the
mighty Mekong, boundary-line separating Siam (now Thailand) and French
Indo-China for more than 1,000 miles, coiled through the jungle like a
gigantic serpent, its scales drenched with moonlight.
Winters' dreaminess vanished instantly. One look at the instrument
panel and he shot into action. A tug and kick swung the old Curtis into
a lifting, southward arc, following the twisting river. His words to
Red Barrett were unhurried, but there was a tenseness in his voice.
"Okay. This is it, then. Keep 'em peeled, Red!"
"If I peel 'em any finer," Barrett grunted, "I won't have any eyelids.
Think we'll see anything?"
"I know damn well we will. Those Japs aren't moving south for a
clam-bake. They poured forty divisions into Indo-China--thanks to
Vichy! Thailand is next on the hit parade; then Burma, back door to
India. They want to close the Burma Road. So long as it's open, old
Chiang Kai-shek will keep on giving them fits. Our job is to find out
where they are concentrating their troops, so we'll be ready for them
when they prance into Thailand."
* * * * *
Red looked hungrily at the trigger-press before him.
"If there's troops," he said hopefully, "there'll be enemy 'planes,
huh, Ramey? Supposing one of them comes up to meet us? Can I--?"
"No! Definitely not!"
"But just by accident, like? I mean, if he attacked us first--"
"No, Red. Don't you see, all they're waiting for is an excuse to invade
Thailand? Let us shoot down a single Jap 'plane tonight, and tomorrow
their bombers will be over Bangkok. So--no shooting! Even if they fire
on us."
"We-e-ell--" grumbled Barrett--"okay! But I think it's a hell of a way
to fight a war. They bombed the _Tetuila_ and sank the _Panay_, and all
we got was: 'So sorry! Accidents will happen!' We're not even supposed
to defend ourselves."
Ramey grinned at him; a lean, knowing grin.
"Don't you worry about that, pal. Your Uncle Samuel knows what he's
doing. You and I were in the U.S. Army airforce till the bewhiskered
old gentleman in the striped pants graciously permitted us to 'resign'
and fly for China. But I notice our paychecks still bear Yankee
signatures. And don't forget--there are a thousand more like us.
Neutral soldiers of fortune, learning the ropes 'just in case.'
"But we've got to keep our noses clean tonight. Get all the pictures
and information we can, but don't get in any scrapes--them's our
orders. Well, where are we now?"
As they talked, Red had been deciding, as well as he could, their route
on the scroll-map before him. Now he drew a dubious circle.
"Here, maybe. Or here. About Kiang-khan."
"Good enough. And nothing stirring yet, hey? Well, we'll keep looking
for a few more minutes, then head back before dawn--_Hey!_ Get a load
of that! Campfires! A bivouac! Mark it, Red!"
The command was unnecessary. Barrett had also seen the encampment,
scored it on his chart. But now, as the pair craned intently into the
flame-dotted dark below, striving to guess the strength of the enemy
outpost, there leaped to life that which startled both of them to
awareness of a new peril. Searchbeams burst suddenly from the ground,
snaring them in a dazzling web; floodlights blazed a golden square in
the black jungle; there came the first, frantic coughs of anti-aircraft
fire--_phum-phum!_--from invisible guns, and the biting snarl of
hastily-revving motors. And:
"Get going!" roared Barrett. "We hit the jack-pot! It's an enemy
airfield!"
* * * * *
Ramey needed no prodding. The first slashing finger of light had
quickened into action the trained reflexes of an airman; already the
small pursuit 'plane was lifting, bobbing and weaving away from the
telltale beams. Now he gave it the gun; the snub-nosed Curtis flattened
and streaked away like a startled swallow.
None too soon. Whatever shortcomings the Japs might have as warriors,
they were speedy little devils. The Yankee fliers gained but a few
minutes, a few short miles, advantage before their pursuers were in the
air.
Even so, it should not have been difficult to escape in the dark. If
it had only _stayed_ dark as it should at this time of year, as it
would have in any other place imaginable. But--this was the Orient, the
semi-tropical topsy-turvy Land that skirts the China Seas.
Over the eastward horizon toward which they fled, an edge of ochre
crept. Thin haze and hesitant; then deepening, widening, spreading,
into a pearly, crepuscular veil. A cold and cheerless light against the
backdrop of which their ship, both men knew, loomed as a perfect target!
Ramey gasped his dismay.
"Dawn! But--but that's impossible! It's only four o'clock. The sun
shouldn't rise until--"
"_False_ dawn!" corrected Barrett with sudden, comprehending savagery.
"The famous 'dawn-before-sunrise'--that's what it is! I've read about
it. It's possible anywhere, but it happens mostly in this part of the
Orient. Result of flat country ... heat ... wide expanse of Pacific ...
refraction. You're heading the wrong way, pal."
Ramey nodded tightly.
"I know. I headed southeast to confuse them; didn't want to tip off our
base. I thought we could swing back when they gave up. But now--"
"Now what?"
"We can't turn back or they'd nab us, sure," gritted Ramey. "Our only
chance is to outrun them. Maybe we can get to Singapore or--"
"On what?" queried Barrett. "Marsh-gas from passing swamps? This
crate's only fueled for a thousand miles, keed. We've used half of
that. And Singapore's a good nine hundred south."
"We might make Bangkok--"
"Or Australia," suggested Barrett drily, "or Hawaii? All right,
chum--pull the cork. You ain't kidding me. This is the payoff, huh?"
Ramey, glancing up from the panel, met his comrade's calm, untroubled
eyes levelly for a moment. In that instant, it occurred to him that Red
Barrett was a hell of a fine guy. He wanted to say so, but men can't
say such things. Sometimes they don't have to. He just nodded.
"I guess so, redhead."
"I won four bucks from Jimmy Larkin yesterday," said Red irrelevantly,
"playing rummy. I should have collected it then." Again his eyes sought
the machine-gun hopefully. "As long as we're in for it, we might
just as well use up our old ammunition, huh, Ramey? We--" he hinted
virtuously--"don't want to let no _matériel_ fall into enemy hands--"
Ramey shook his head decisively.
"We won't fire on them. Not even if they fire on us first. Not even if
they shoot us down. We can't risk causing the 'incident' they want. Our
only chance is to outrun them, Red."
"Then we're in a hell of a pickle," Barrett told him gloomily. "Because
they're faster than us. They're catching us now. Hold your hat, keed!
Here it comes!"
* * * * *
And with his warning, it came! The first chattering snarl of
machine-gun fire from the foremost of their pursuers. Lead ripped and
slashed at the fleeing Curtis; above the roar of the motor shrilled
the _spang!_ of metal on metal; Ramey saw a crazy, zigzag line
appear miraculously in the cowling above him, heard the thin, high,
disappointed whine of ricochetting bullets. Again he tugged, kicked.
His 'plane leaped, darted to the right. Red grunted.
"Whew! That was close! One more like that--"
As if his words were an omen, another burst screamed about their ears.
And the lethal cacophony was doubled, now; the second of their three
attackers had found the range. The little ship seemed to jerk like a
live thing as fiery pellets pierced its skin. It was only a matter of
minutes before one of those bullets would find a vital spot, Ramey
knew. No use continuing this unequal battle. Knuckles white on the
stick, he yelled to his companion:
"Okay, Red--bail out! They can't land here. Maybe we can get away on
the ground. Red! _Red!_"
Then, as there came neither answering word nor movement, he shot a
quick glance at his buddy. One look told the story. Red did not move
because he could not. Limp as a bag of sodden meal, he lay slumped in
his seat, eyes closed, arms dangling uselessly at his sides. And in
horrible contrast to the pallor of his cheeks, his face was mottled
with a spreading nastiness that matched the color of his hair!
* * * * *
It was at that moment a sort of madness seized Ramey Winters.
He was a soldier, aware of, and daily accepting, the hazards of his
calling. He had seen death often; had several times heard whispering
within inches of his own ears the sigh of the ancient scythe. It did
not sicken him to see men die, nor was he afraid to die himself....
But this--this was different! This time the reaper had struck down Red
Barrett, his chum, his more-than-brother. Struck him down traitorously
and from behind without a chance to defend himself. Red, who had asked
nothing more than to go down fighting--and had not been granted that
break!
It did not even occur to Ramey that as he sat there, stunned, stricken,
about him still hammered the blazing darts of enemy fire. There was
welling within him a great flame, a torrential, all-consuming fire of
rage that burned through his veins like vitriol. And suddenly it no
longer seemed to matter that he was under orders to avoid all fights;
the problem of an "international incident" was a hollow legality in
which he had no concern.
If he thought at all, his thoughts were mere rationalization. Three
Japanese flyers--and himself! Lost in the clouds above a wild, green
jungle. Unspied upon, unseen. If none of the three were ever to return
to his base, who was to report this episode? Who accuse the Thais of
violating their neutrality? And did it make much difference, anyway?
Everyone knew the Sons of Heaven--on some excuse or other--would march
into Siam when they were ready. So--
Ramey decided. His hand found the trigger-press for which Red's fingers
had yearned. A kick on the rudder ... knee to the gun ... and the tiny
Curtis came up and over like a wild bird soaring. And it was no longer
a startled swallow, but a killer-shrike, vengeance-bent and striking
with the pent fury of boundless wrath. The butcher-bird darting on its
prey.
And finding it! Before the foremost of his pursuers could analyze
and parry this unexpected maneuver, Winters was upon him. In the
circular machine-gun sight the Jap airplane loomed nearer, larger, more
solid. Then--the gun bucked and kicked against his palms. The vision
before him quivered and seemed to crumple, sheered off and away, spun
giddily....
"_One!_" said Ramey Winters, and did not know he spoke aloud. "That's
one!"
He kicked over, sensing a danger behind him, and in that one motion
became attacker rather than attacked. It was a closer thing this
time. His foeman's gun bore squarely upon him for a brief, unguarded
moment. Ramey felt something like the jerk of a hand on his sleeve, and
glancing down, saw with mild astonishment that his leather flying coat
was split from wristband to elbow, spilling powdery fleece.
Then his 'plane righted itself, his own gun answered and--it was a most
amazing thing! Before his eyes the enemy ship blossomed into a crimson
bloom with burgeoning petals of black! A flower which suddenly burst
asunder and spiraled to earth in a host of flaming motes.
And that, he thought grimly, was _two_! The third--?
* * * * *
Swiftly he scanned the ever-lightening skies, but he could not locate
the missing 'plane. For a breathless moment he feared that in the melee
it had escaped; then the voice of his old Combat Instructor at Kelly
Field seemed to whisper an old, almost forgotten warning:
"_If you can't see it_, look out! _It's on your tail!_"
Once more, and this time with frantic haste, he shot the ship into a
climb, a wingover turn. But not before a hot hail, punching on metal
behind him like the vibrant tattoo of pounding rivets, rasped a song of
death in his ears. Then he was on a level with his enemy--and driving
headlong at him!
For a yearlong moment it seemed inevitable they must crash head on,
collide and destroy each other and go hurtling to earth locked in
flaming, loveless embrace! But not for an instant did Ramey's finger
relax its pressure on the trigger. And when scant yards separated their
whirling propellers, his bullets found their mark. The enemy pilot
suddenly collapsed in his seat; his body, pitching forward, was a dead
weight on the stick. And with a shuddering groan, the last Jap fighter
nosed earthward in a streaking dive!
It was a moment of triumph. But Ramey Winters never found time to savor
that victory. For even as he pulled back on the stick to lift himself
clear of the falling 'plane, the stick went dead in his hands! From
somewhere deep within the entrails of the gallant little Curtis came
the grinding clash of metals. At the last moment, a dying foeman had
evened the score. Ramey's motors spluttered and died, and the thin
song of wind lashing the fuselage was the only audible sound in an
awful silence as the ship, like a dancing leaf, glided earthward out of
control.
There was but one thing to do. Ramey plucked at the buckle of his
safety belt, prepared to go overside. And Red? Well--it was an airman's
burial. A moment of flame, then an unmarked grave in the jungle. Ramey
glanced once more at his chum. "So long, Red," he whispered. "See you
again, pal--"
Then he gasped. For Red's lips had fallen open, and a bubble of bloody
spittle was leaking from one corner of his mouth--but this tiny spume
pulsated faintly! Breathing! He was still alive!
* * * * *
And--it was no longer possible for Ramey to take to his 'chute.
Somehow, _somehow!_ he must get this crippled ship to earth. He stared
down wildly. Trees ... trees ... an endless tangle of foliage towering
high, bayonet-tipped. But--Ramey trembled with sudden, feverish
eagerness--over there a patch of lighter green! And something that
looked like gray walls, a manmade building! A cleared field. If he
could--
Once more and desperately he wrestled with the unresponsive stick. No
good! The rudders, then? If the aileron wires were undamaged he might
be able to control, to some extent, the direction of their glide. Ease
the brutal shock of landing.
But now the ground was a vast, blunt bulwark rushing up to meet them.
Like an organist treading the pedals of his instrument, Ramey played
the only controls he had. Composing out of urgency and stress a
symphony which, when the ultimate note was scored, must be either a
paean or a dirge!
And the ship responded. Weakly, true! But its nose lifted a trifle,
the ailerons caught and gripped the air, the drifting leaf spun lazily
toward the clearing. Earth looming larger, and the indistinguishable
whole of the jungle sharpened to single trees and tangled groves of
bamboo and liana. Gray of swamp water and brown of soil; sudden pink
of a frightened flamingo racing for leafy covert. Almost down,
now ... and the wind howling through the motionless propeller like a
taunting fiend. His own voice, strange in his ears, calling senseless
encouragement to his unhearing companion:
"All right, Red! Hold tight, boy! In a minute--"
Then one wheel touched the ground, bounced; the ship reeled shuddering
forward. Clear of the trees, but careening wildly, drunkenly, across a
furrowed field. Rocking, swaying madly.
Then--the crash! The moment of slashing pain ... the dancing light ...
the numb despair. Then nothing....
CHAPTER II
The Mystery of Angkor
When you are dead, the little demons gather and make merry. They
will not let you rest. Huddled about your weary soul they chatter in
bee-thin voices; they lift your head and force open your lips and pour
molten fire down your throat, a liquid fire that chokes and strangles.
Ramey strangled on liquid fire, and opened his eyes. He--he was not
dead, after all, but alive! The sweetness of native brandy was on his
lips, the far voices waxed nearer as consciousness returned, and he
was surrounded by the familiar figures of _not_ scarlet imps but human
beings!
Or--wait a minute! Maybe his first hunch was right after all. For
_most_ of those staring down at him looked like people, but surely the
vision bent closest was that of an angel? A golden-haired angel with
heaven-blue eyes, warm lips, a cool, white skin which the sun seemed
never to have burned, but only to have endowed with a memory of its own
inner glow.
"Lovely!" said Ramey drowsily, and the vision's face colored most
unecclesiastically. Behind Ramey someone chuckled. Ramey, turning
painfully, saw a tall, mahogany-skinned, nice-looking youngster with
brown hair and eyes, dancing eyes crow's-footed with the wrinkles of
perpetual mirth. This lad and the girl, he saw now, were the only
whites in the circle. All the others were natives. The young man
laughed again.
"Well, Sheila, there doesn't seem to be anything the matter with _this_
one! Or with his emotional reflexes."
Recollection seeped slowly back upon Ramey. He made an effort to rise.
"The--the 'plane," he said confusedly. "Went dead. I tried to set 'er
down in a field. Crashed--"
The girl restrained him gently but firmly. The cool touch of her hands
was soothing.
"You must lie still, now. Everything is going to be all right. You did
crash, yes. But fortunately we were here to drag you and your friend
out before the 'plane caught fire. After you've rested for a moment,
we'll take you to camp--"
It all came back to Ramey now. This time the girl's hands could not
prevent him from raising himself.
"Red! Is--is he all right, too?"
The young man answered.
"Your buddy? I suppose so, or Syd would be chanting a funeral march by
now. Hey, Syd! How's your patient?"
* * * * *
The huddle encircling Ramey split, admitting a third white man. Ramey
glanced at him casually, then started, took another good look, and
turned to peer over his shoulder again at the one who had called. The
two young men were as like as two peas in a pod. Same height, build,
coloring. Only their facial expressions differed. The newcomer's face
was as dour as the first chap's was jovial. He commented acidly, "I
wish you wouldn't be so boisterous, Lake! I guess he has a chance to
recover--if complications don't set in. Of course, these head injuries
are dangerous. It may be a fractured skull, or he may lose his sight--"
"Blind!" gasped Ramey. "Red? Oh, Lord--"
For the third time, the girl quieted him. This time with a smile.
"Don't get excited, soldier. Your companion's apparently in fine shape.
That's just Syd's nice, optimistic way of viewing things. 'Fractured
skull or loss of sight' is a favorable prognosis--coming from _him_!
If it were anything _really_ serious, Syd would have the workmen
digging a grave by now. Are you sure you feel well enough to get up?"
Ramey nodded, not daring to risk speech as he got to his feet. His
head throbbed like a concrete mixer, and there were rubber pipes where
his shin-bones should be. But somehow he managed it, and once off the
ground, began to feel better. He strode to Barrett's side. The blood
had been sponged from the redhead's face, and his head was rudely, but
efficiently, bandaged. He grinned at Ramey.
"Hyah, Sunday-driver! Next time holler before we go under a low bridge.
I forgot to duck!"
Ramey said, "You're lucky that bullet bounced itself off your bean. If
it had hit anything less solid you'd be on a slab now. How's the head
feel?"
"Like a wisdom tooth stuffed with sugar," complained Red. "If it's not
too much trouble, keed, how's for bringing me up to date on the news?
Where are we? And how did we get here?"
It was the smiling young man who supplied the answer to the first
question. He said, "You're at Angkor, Cambodia, French Indo-China. I'm
Lake O'Brien. The walking scowl over there is my brother, Syd, and to
save time, yes, we're twins. The young lady is Miss Sheila Aiken; her
father is the leader of our expedition. We're Americans. Southeastern
University Archeological Expedition, if that means anything to you. But
how about you? You're from the U.S.A., too, aren't you?"
Ramey nodded. "Flying for the Republic. That is--we were until the Japs
tagged us this morning. The reclining ex-airman with the bandaged dome
is Bob Barrett, 'Red' to all but his colorblind friends. I'm Ramey
Winters. We're greatly indebted to you for your help."
"Forget it!" grinned Lake. But the less genial twin shook his head
gloomily.
"This is a nasty mess. Indo-China is under Japanese 'protection,' you
know. If any of the Japs saw that dogfight from their camp down the
river, there'll be troops up here in an hour or so to investigate."
* * * * *
"Dogfight?" echoed Barrett. He stared at Ramey with sudden
understanding. "So _that's_ it! That's where they disappeared to? Why,
you scrapping son-of-a-gun! Get all three of them?"
Ramey nodded guiltily.
"I--I sort of blew my conk. I thought you--I mean--Oh, hell! What's the
difference? O'Brien's right. I got us all in a jam. The only thing for
us to do, Red, is to get the hell out of here, but quick! Before we
implicate a bunch of innocent bystanders. So, friends, if you'll point
the way to the Thai border--"
But it was the girl, Sheila, who this time spoke up.
"Nothing of the sort! You're in no fit condition to head into the
jungle, either of you! Besides, you'll have to have food, water,
blankets. And Daddy will want to see you."
Lake O'Brien voiced agreement.
"Sheila's right, Winters. This is a pretty secluded spot. Chances are
no one but us saw you crash. Even if they did, it'll take them quite a
while to get up the river."
"We-e-e-ll--" hesitated Ramey. It was Red's obvious weakness that
decided him. First aid was all right, but rest was what the scarlet-top
needed. "If you think it's safe--" he said.
So they started across the field. Only Syd O'Brien, frowning
uncertainly, ventured any unfavorable comment on the move. The
sour-visaged twin offered Barrett a supporting arm but grumbled even as
he did so.
"I don't like it!" he muttered forebodingly. "We're doing a foolish
thing. And no good will come of it...."
* * * * *
What sort of camp Ramey Winters had expected to see, he did not
clearly know. Something, perhaps, like the tented digs at Petra--Ramey
had once visited the rose-red cliffs in Arabia--or the shacks at
Ur-of-the-Chaldees. Archeology led men into strange, wild places. There
would be ruins here, no doubt; Ramey dimly remembered having glimpsed
gray buildings, or something of the sort, in the hectic moments
preceding the crash.
But never in the world had he dreamed of seeing that which he actually
beheld! Beyond the field sprawled a narrow grove of cane and palm; when
they had eased their way through this, they stood on the edge of a
wide, sluggish stream, once more looking out across flat terrain. And--
Ramey's eyes widened. Speech died at the incredible sight before him.
Because the stream was not a stream, but a seven hundred foot moat,
circling to left and right as far as the eye could see, spanned by a
tremendous paved causeway of sandstone which arched into the central
portico of a gigantic structure!
And what a structure! Roughly rectangular, at least one mile long on
every side, comprised of one massive central building and numberless,
smaller, flanking ones. The central edifice consisted of three stages
connected by numerous outer staircases, decreasing in dimension as they
rose, culminating in a lofty, pyramidal tower.
Red Barrett was popeyed, too. But the redthatch was never speechless.
He croaked, "Holy potatoes, Ramey--what's that? Do you see what I see?"
"If I don't," answered Ramey, "we're _both_ that way!" And he turned to
Lake O'Brien helplessly. "What--?"
Lake grinned.
"Temple of Angkor," he explained. "Angkor Vat. You mean to say you've
never heard of it?"
"Never! Who lives here?"
"Nobody," chuckled Lake, "but us archeologists. You see--But never
mind! Here comes Dr. Aiken. I'll let him do the explaining. It's his
pigeon."
Having met Sheila, Ramey would have known without an explanation her
relationship to the man now approaching. The scientist's hair was
iron-gray where hers was golden, and his shoulders were hunched with
long years of poring over pottery shards from obscure kitchen-maidens,
but they shared the same fine, small-boned structure, the same wide
brows, startlingly identical mist-blue eyes. He was accompanied by two
natives, aides of superior rank, evidently, since they were dressed in
European clothing.
* * * * *
Dr. Ian Aiken was an efficient man. In what sounded to Ramey like
one, continuous sentence, he introduced himself and his two Asiatic
assistants--"Sirabhar and Tomasaki; very fine boys, very!"--sent the
gaping workmen about their jobs, and herded the group toward the
temple. As they walked along he sated his own apparently boundless
curiosity with a resume of the important facts; by the time they had
reached the camp headquarters, a group of sheltered chambers within the
temple proper, he had appraised the situation and formed a decision.
"Sheila was correct!" he snapped brusquely. "Arrant nonsense to even
consider leaving here! Barrett's wound will need attention. You're both
tired. Need a good rest."
"But the Japs?" reminded Ramey. "Syd says they have a camp several
hours down the river?"
"Blast the Japs!" retorted Aiken pettishly. "Greedy little yellow
beasts, anyway. Never did like 'em! Don't you worry about the Japs.
Needn't know you're here. You two get out of those uniforms, burn 'em.
If they come sticking their dirty little snub-noses in here, you'll be
two junior members of my party. Diplomatic immunity. Won't dare touch
you!"
Barrett nodded to Ramey.
"That's so, pal. The Japs ain't looking for no more trouble with Uncle
Sam just now; not till Hitler turns on the green light, anyhow. Even if
they do see our crashed 'plane, they'll think we burned up in it."
"Unless one of the laborers spills the beans," Ramey reminded. "But if
Dr. Aiken thinks it's safe--?"
"Think? I know it! My men won't say a word. Not a word. Absolutely
loyal, every one of them. Furthermore, the Cambodians hate the Japs as
much as we do. More! Isn't that right, Tomasaki? All right, now--get
along with you! Clean clothes and a shower. Then we'll all have a bite
to eat."
So, smiling, the two young airmen left their peppery host for the time
being. Clothes were donated to them, khaki shirts and whipcord breeches
from the wardrobes of their new-found friends. Barrett was clothed
from the locker of Johnny Grinnell, only member of the expedition they
had not yet met; Ramey found the duds of either of the tall O'Briens a
perfect fit.
* * * * *
Thus it was that, feeling like new men, a short time later they sat
down to breakfast. The meal, as American as a World Series, was a feast
to two who had taken their fare for months in a Chinese Republic
messhall. Cereal, ham and eggs, griddle-cakes with maple syrup,
coffee--hot, black, aromatic coffee instead of green tea!--tempted
Ramey into over-eating till the waistband of Lake O'Brien's breeches
strained like a sausage skin.
It was then, after the empty dishes had been removed and he dragged
the luxurious fragrance of American-cigarette-smoke into his lungs,
that Ramey brought up the subject which had perplexed him ever since he
first saw this place.
"Dr. Aiken," he said, "if I weren't sitting right _in_ this building,
seeing it with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe it could exist. I never
dreamed there was such a place! How long has it been here?"
The archeologist quirked an eyebrow at Lake O'Brien, who grinned back.
The others--Sheila, Grinnell, even Syd--seemed to share his amusement.
Dr. Aiken shook his head.
"I don't know, Winters," he said.
"But then--who built it?"
Again an arch grin. "I don't know that, either."
For a moment Ramey stared at him bewilderedly. Then a slow flush
stained his cheeks. Oh, that was it? They were poking fun at him;
mocking his ignorance? Well, all right--if they wanted to act that way--
"Excuse me!" he said stiffly. "I didn't understand. Sorry to be so
stupid. Red, perhaps we'd better get ready to run along, after all. We
seem to be in the way here."
But Ian Aiken stayed him with a hand on the arm. He was still grinning,
but his grin was warm and friendly. "Sit down, Ramey, and don't be an
ass. We're not laughing at you. We're amused because the situation
is _what_ it is: so baffling that we must either smile it off or
surrender.
"The answers I just gave you were absolutely true--and no man alive
can tell you more. The mystery of Angkor is this: that here in the
depths of an aboriginal jungle we find a temple dwarfing the greatest
architectural work of present-day Man, and a city large enough to hold
thirty million souls--yet not a man in the world knows _who_ built this
marvel, or _when_ it was built, or _where_ the builders came from, or
where, above all, vanished the mighty race which once lived here!"