"I'm no arsonist!" she protested. "The minorities would be hurt worst of all. The honky fat-cats will get their gas first, and the black man last. When the industries close for lack of fuel, the blacks will be fired first—and lynched first."
"Not if the revolution is successful," he said. "Then the blacks will be first, and the whites will wait. But we have to destroy the bases of white power, and energy is crucial to it."
She looked at him. This was a white talking. It was phony.
The Hyena made a motion as of dropping a pellet into the toilet. The warning was plain. "I'll study arson," she said. The Hyena considered. "I think you have not yet learned," he said. "One does not argue cases with the Hyena; one obeys without question." His thumb flicked, and though she tried to dodge, the curare-derivative barb caught her on the hand.
She whipped that hand to her face, biting into the skin to draw blood, trying to suck out the poison before it penetrated. But it was no use; she fell, as she had before.
She was in for it now. Before, the Hyena had merely searched her. This time he would torture her. He intended to drive out any vestige of self-will. Why had she resisted? She should have cooperated eagerly, giving no hint of her true feelings. Until her chance came.
Even her capitulation had not been enough for him. It had not been instant. But this experience had already shown her one thing: there was no simple way out of this. She had to get off Kill-13, and develop a defense against the curare darts.
The Hyena picked up her body, still naked, and carried her to a back room that was like a medieval dark-cell. He fastened her wrists and ankles to manacles set in the wall, letting her half-stand, half-hang there. Then he left her.
Was this all? Hung in isolation? He'd have to take her down soon, if he wanted her services. She could not last long, with the Demon-hunger growing in her. He knew that. He would free her before long, if he was sensible.
Sensible? There was the catch. The Hyena was a maniac. He was half insane. She had talked back to him; he just might let her rot here.
Hours passed. The curare wore off, but her pain grew. She could not rest; if she did not maintain her weight on her feet, her wrists took up the slack, and that was worse. She was hungry, thirsty, and the Demon monkey was on her back, the worst torture of all.
What was she to do? Call the Hyena? She knew that was what he wanted, and that he would torture her further by refusing to answer until he was quite ready. He wanted her to suffer, to lose all semblance of individual character. To accept his orders without question, no matter what they were. He would have her crying, crawling, mewling.
She could not. No man could do that to her. Better to die. But how would she react when the withdrawal agony became unbearable?
Was there an alternative? She had thought there was, when the Demon cult fell. She had tried the most positive approach she knew.
Sifu Teng Yu-Feng was short and fat and about fifty-five years old. His teeth were gold. The small fingers of each hand were bent or broken. Not impressive. But her contacts said he was the top man in the field, locally, and that he had been known to train promising students in kung fu without charge. And that he had command of many secret mysteries—mysteries that just might aid her in her quest for freedom from Kill-13.
"Ah, the Black Karate Mistress," the sifu said, recognizing her. "I have admired your barbarian handiwork."
"Sifu, I don't understand."
"You have been violent, yet you have punished many who required it, and you saved one who was worthy."
How had he known? She had a reputation as castrator of men. But she had told no one of her connection with Jason Striker, whom she had hauled from the burning remains of the Demon headquarters.
The sifu puffed on a tremendously long ivory pipe, possibly formed from the tusk of an elephant—one entire tusk. The end of its stem was shaped into little carved hands holding the bowl. "And now you come to me for help."
"I want to get off Kill-13.," she blurted. She did not like asking anything of any man, not even a sifu.
"That has never been done before," he murmured, blowing out fragrant smoke. Suddenly she recognized the odor: opium. How could an opium addict help her break her own addiction? "Except, perhaps, by one," he continued. "And he was not really on it. Your friend the judoka."
"Striker came to you?" This was amazing!
"He had no need to. He has had good instruction." The sifu's eyes gazed on her serenely. "But you are thoroughly addicted. For you, it would not be easy."
She didn't care about ease! "You can cure me?"
"No."
Disappointment was like a kakato-geri, a heel-kick, to her face. "Why?"
Another fragrant puff of smoke. "I do not take barbarian girls as students."
Rage came, like the shock of hurricane-force winds after the dead eye of the center of the storm. She was high on the Demon drug; she always dosed herself before undertaking any challenging project, even this quest to get off that drug. She had strength beyond what most men could imagine in a woman. She spread her legs and bent her arms in the contour known as the Horse Stance of kung fu and stood firmly in the sifu's doorway.
He puffed slowly on his ornate pipe, watching her. Nothing needed to be said. The Horse Stance was a model of difficulty for the novice; only with long practice could a person maintain it for more than a few minutes. Serious students learned to hold it for an hour or more. The sifu finished his pipeful, then got up and wandered back inside his kwoon, or practice hall, the kung fu dojo.
She stayed where she was, drawing on her Demon strength to hold the position. Half an hour had passed; had the drug let her feel pain, she would have been suffering. She had assumed a much deeper and lower Horse Stance than normal, one only for masters, much more difficult to hold.
Bye and bye the sifu wandered back. Two students followed him. They inspected Ilunga as if she were a statue, remarking on the form of her stance. "I'd give her another fifteen minutes," one said.
The other shook his head judiciously. "Ten, at the most. No woman can hold her legs apart longer than that." They laughed, male-fashion. But she did not move or speak.
Fifteen minutes later her stance had not changed. The two students shook their heads. "She must be dead," one remarked. "Fossilized." They departed.
As she passed an hour, a larger group appeared. Several of these assumed the Horse Stance opposite her. Five minutes passed; ten. The first student collapsed, unable to maintain it longer. One by one the others dropped; they were young, and simply not up to the grueling continuation. Sifu Teng settled down again and commenced another pipeful of sweet opium.
At an hour and a half the Kill-13 drug began to wear thin. Normally a sniff lasted longer than this, but the drug was used up faster by strenuous exertion. This was quite a test.
Her head became light, and waves of pain came—pain the drug had suppressed before. Sweat poured down her body in rivulets, making her itch, but she could not scratch. The itch became almost as bad as the pain. But she could not stop now; there was a considerable crowd of people, inside and outside the kwoon. An hour and forty-five minutes; she could see the big clock mounted inside the exercise hall. Her legs were numb, yet they hurt terribly. The prickling sensation that had started low now encompassed her whole body. She was racked by terrible cramps, especially in her buttocks.
Now the kwoon was packed with men, sitting on the floor, facing her, watching her, waiting for her to fall. No word was spoken. One hour fifty minutes. She clung to consciousness, but it was as though she rode a saddle of fire. Her head seemed to bobble just above that flame, rolling about, ready to fall in. Yet she suffered from water, too. She wanted very badly to empty her bladder, and the position was absolutely no help.
One hour fifty-five minutes. The burning reached up her neck, into her jaw, her palate, climbing, climbing. Her brain was cooking in agony; she was suffering Kill-13 withdrawal. But she would not stop.
Two hours! The face of the clock
loomed huge in her vision. Then she fell, crashing down like the statue some had said she was, and lost consciousness.
Hands hauled her up, firmly, gently, and set her in a chair. She had been out only a few seconds, but her lower half remained numb. Someone brought her fragrant herb tea, odd and bitter-tasting. She felt her strength returning.
Sifu Teng approached. "This is not a barbarian girl," he remarked. "This is a woman."
By no more than that did he signify the reversal of his prior decision. But the students broke discipline and applauded. Ilunga had set a kwoon record for the Horse Stance.
"Still, I cannot cure you." He paused. but she was too far gone to react. "I can only point out the way. You must cure yourself."
Relief was like a successful counterblow. "I have no money, only the will to be free."
He waved his hand negligently. "No more is required." And so Ilunga became the student of Sifu. The first thing she learned was that he frowned on the term "kung fu."
"Kung fu?" he asked as though mystified. "I do not know this word."
Perplexed, she tried to explain. "Kung fu-the Chinese boxing. Tiger's claw, crane's beak, dragon's tail—"
"Perhaps you refer to hsing-i or pa-kua. Hsing-i has twelve styles: dragon, tiger, monkey, horse, iguana, cock, hawk, snake, eagle, bear, swallow, and ostrich. Some schools include the mythical T'ai bird, the falcon, and the camel, omitting the ostrich and—"
"No, I mean kung fu, like karate," she said, amazed that he should profess such ignorance.
"There is a generic term for exercise," he said. "Perhaps that is what you refer to, kung fu. But this is no more definitive than saying 'businessman' for an American. What kind of exercise? It is not clear."
"The martial arts," she said. "To fight, to overcome—"
"The martial arts," he repeated. "That would be wu-shu. And still we do not know which martial art."
Ilunga realized that this was a lesson. The Demons had spoken of themselves as the kung fu temple, but this was no more accurate than the Black Muslim connection to the true Moslem religion. Borrowing a name meant nothing.
"Perhaps hsing-i, then," she agreed.
"Perhaps ch'in-na," he countered.
She was unfamiliar with this term, too. But now she had some notion how to proceed. "Please, sifu—I know nothing: Teach me."
He smiled, nodding. This was the attitude he wanted. "Meditation in repose is excellent, but meditation in activity is a thousand times superior. The mind must be in a state where the meditation is steady and continuous." He paused to take another puff of his opium.
Ilunga's heart sank. What could meditation do against the irresistible compulsion of Kill-13? The sifu could lecture all week, but if this was all he had to offer...
"Or tai-chi," he said, observing her doubt. "Permit me to make a demonstration. You are an agile woman, skilled in striking and evading, are you not?"
"Yes, sifu." At this point she was wondering how to excuse herself from this discussion without offending him. Sifu Teng might be a talkative old fraud, but he was treated with a respect bordering on worship by his students, and she didn't want more trouble than she already had.
He set aside his pipe and fetched several bricks from a pile in the corner of the courtyard and set them on the floor, two feet apart, in a circle. "Do you suppose you could escape the grasp of a man by jumping from brick to brick?" he inquired.
"That depends on the man, and the grasp," she said cautiously. The sifu placed his right hand on her back, unclenched, touching lightly. "This grasp." he murmured.
She was alert for the catch. "No more than that? No attack?"
"None," he assured her.
"That is no grasp at all," she protested. "I could escape it without effort."
"Then do so."
Mystified she jumped from one brick to the next. And stood surprised, for the gentle weight of that pudgy hand with its warped little finger was still upon her, just as though neither person had moved.
She jumped again, more quickly, but Teng jumped with her, his hand never moving, never varying its pressure.
Now she realized the nature of the demonstration. She launched herself around the circle of bricks, now ducking low, now leaping high, now weaving this way and that. But that soft touch remained. Amazed, she halted without warning, whirled about—and the sifu was gone.
"Well!" she said breathlessly. "So it was a trick!"
She put her hand over her shoulder to feel the place where his palm seemed to rest. There would be an empty glove there, perhaps. But her fingers touched warm flesh.
She spun again-and there was Sifu Teng. His hand had never left her.
"With such power to hold," he remarked, "could you also not let go?"
With such power, this power of tai-chi, was it possible? Could the reverse of such a thing break the hold of Kill-13? Perhaps so. And so she learned. She practiced the soft exercises of tai-chi, heightening her awareness and concentration. The movements were slow, smooth, flowing without strain, and it was as though she were floating in air. There was never any strain. It resembled the hard blows of karate—but these were gentle, dancelike.
Touch the South Wind. Her body turned to the south, hands moving around the rim of a great circle, left hand at the top. On they went, left hand dropping, right rising, and the right foot also rising. Then forward, and on into Touch the East Wind. The River Crests and Ebbs... The White Crane Pecks... The Mantis Springs... The Dragon's Tail Strikes... The Dark Lady Spins Flax... The King of Heaven Rides the Tiger... The Soft Endless Sea... The Eight Drunken Fairies... She learned them all. And her mental control strengthened.
But somehow it wasn't enough. She felt the growing control, but it still fell short of the strength of Kill-13.
Sifu Teng saw it too. "For you, tai-chi is not enough. Perhaps ch'in-na would work—but I am the wrong man to teach you that."
"Who is the right man?" she asked, relieved.
"Sifu Tuh Hsinn-wu. But he lives in Cuba."
Cuba! It might as well have been hell. There was no way she could go there except by hijacking a plane, and that sort of thing had become much less feasible than in prior years. The airlines had stringent protective measures, and the Cubans only dumped the hijackers in jail upon arrival. And jail would be the end of her, with her addiction. In Cuba, as in many foreign countries, the authorities dealt harshly with addicts.
So she and the sifu parted company amicably. Despite the failure, the experience had been worthwhile. She had not known before that there could be softness in martial art. This new approach did not improve her fighting ability significantly, but it did make her aware of the gentler side of her own nature, a side long suppressed. Now she could understand that a person who did not choose to fight was not necessarily a coward or weakling.
She had, however, picked up a few hints about the martial art of ch'in-na. Sifu Teng was master of it; he had declined to teach it to her because he felt he could not relate to her properly. But she had seen some of what he imparted to other students. He followed the mystic religion and philosophy of Taoism, a simple, frugal way of life—but he pointed out that the very word tao meant "sword" in Chinese. Hence there was a certain ambivalence, and she now understood just enough of this to know that he was not being capricious in referring her to an unreachable authority for further training.
Ch'in-na was neither boxing nor wrestling, neither karate nor judo, yet it was integral to both. It was called the muscle-splitting skill, the twisting skill, or simply "The Devil's Hand." It stabilized the opponent's body for a strike or throw, making maximum effect for minimum force. The student first studied anatomy, so as to know when and how to press, twist, or grasp. He learned to counter strikes and locks. He learned to attack swiftly but with relaxation, avoiding unnecessary force.
Some of the techniques were fantastic. Students practiced the "Well Fist," gesturing with a fist at water in a well, trying to make the water murmur. Theoretically this could lead, in
ten years or so, to a "Distance Death" blow against some hapless enemy. Or "One Finger," in which a man struck an iron bell with one finger, making it ring. Then he withdrew so that his finger did not quite touch it, trying to make it move without contact. Or to extinguish a candle by making his motion several feet away. This was another potential Distance Death blow.
Yet Sifu Teng was a man of peace. "Show me a man of violence who came to a good end," he said, and I will take him for my teacher." She had smiled, thinking it a joke, but he had been serious in his fashion.
Now, hanging from chains in the Hyena's dungeon, Ilunga found renewed meaning in Sifu Teng's teachings. The violent way was denied her now, but the gentle way remained. She could not attack the Hyena, but she could work on herself. As the pain mounted in her wrists and body, much as the pain of her Horse Stance had risen before, she concentrated on her inner system and made it fade. As her thirst intensified, she visualized a sea of water and imagined she was floating, and her thirst abated. The seemingly futile exercises of tai-chi became the key to relief.
But her need for the drug Kill-13 could not be assuaged so readily. Tai-chi had failed her before, and it would fail her now. Nothing sated the compulsive craving except the drug.
Unless—
The revelation was stunning. Tai-chi could not overcome the craving in direct confrontation, but it could change her attitude toward it. Suppose she took another addictive drug, and persuaded herself it was Kill-13? Heroin, perhaps. If she could make that conversion with the aid of the Chinese discipline, then she would be addicted to a drug she could obtain. She would still be an addict, but one of the Hyena's two great holds on her would be broken. And he would not know it.
Later, she could go the methadone route, taking the cure for heroin addiction. There were many methadone clinics around the country, and such treatment was legal.
Or cocaine, better yet! For heroin it was necessary to have a needle, which was awkward. But cocaine was sniffed, like Kill-13; in fact, she understood that cocaine was one of the thirteen secret ingredients of the Demon drug. Not only could she make that shift unobtrusively, it would be easier to convince herself that it was Kill-13. In fact, she could mix the two drugs, gradually shifting the ratio from one to the other, until it was all cocaine.