Slave Ship

  As soon as we were across the bridge into the town itself Nina turned on me: "Miller," she snapped, "if you can't relax we'll never get through. Walk slowly. You've been walking a long way; you're tired; you don't want to hop like a grasshopper and attract attention."

  I transferred the cord tied to Josie's collar to my other hand. "Sure," I said. "What do we do, walk right through the town?"

  "What else?" It was early morning, but already the streets were crowded. Most of the people moving about the narrow streets were Arab-African mixtures of one hue or another; but there was an admixture of Orientals and a handful of Europeans. More than half of the Orientals wore the yellow robes, blouse or shorts of the Caodais. But they were not alone; several priests we passed were obviously nearly pure African. Caodaism, like the Mohammedans before them, practiced a rigid sort of tolerance; there was no distinction in skin color or creed for them—if the man whose skin was in question was willing to embrace the Caodai revelations and, if necessary, join the Caodai armed forces.

  And hundreds of millions throughout the Asian and African world had been more than willing.

  The streets were not only narrow, they wound like worm holes in an apple. I had to consult Jose's superior sense of direction—bending and talking to her under pretense of loosening her collar—to keep us heading straight through the town. She was almost the only leashed dog in sight, and therefore attracted a little more attention than I liked. The Madagascan custom appeared to be to let dogs roam the streets, as unhampered and as privileged as a Benares bull.

  Everyone, it appeared, spoke French. I remembered that the Caodais themselves had come from a section of the Indonesian peninsula once under French rule, and of course Madagascar had been French for nearly a century; but all the same it seemed odd to hear brown, black, tan and yellow faces conversing in the language I associated with bombed-out cities and Eastern finishing schools. . . .

  "Softly," said Nina. "Keep your eyes on your lunch."

  We were squatted beside the road as a company of Caodai infantry swung past. There was a sort of clearing in the vegetation, on the outskirts of the little town we had crossed; there were Oriental vendors of foods, and we were not the only ones who had paused there for a bite to eat. The Caodai soldiers paid no attention to any of us, being disciplined, eyes-front troops.

  They passed. Nina left me for a moment with the dog, and talked briefly to one of the vendors. She came back with a handful of dried dates and two Coca-Colas and said;

  "Security troops, I think. There are slave labor camps ahead. Does Josie recognize this road?"

  I spoke to the dog; she growled back dubiously. "It smelled altogether different," I translated for Nina, "but she thinks it's the same place. It has something to do with daytime smells and nighttime smells."

  Nina nodded. "It checks. Labor camps beyond the bend in the road, something big on the other side of them. According to the Coke man there's nothing to stop us going right along the road—all the Caodai installations are off to one side, on the bank of the river."

  It was high noon, or nearly, and most of the other pedestrians were disappearing down side roads and into shops and cafes. Nina and I conferred briefly, and followed their example. We struck out boldly down one of the little dirt paths toward the river, looking for a place to use as a base of operations. No one stopped us, no one paid any attention. I was expecting Caodai infantrymen to pounce out at us from behind every tree; I must have shown it, because Nina snapped: "I told you, Logan, relax. Nobody's going to bother us."

  I suppose she was right. After all, we were not a platoon of commandoing marines, antiflash-painted, Tommy-gun-carrying, camouflage-helmeted. We were only a man and a woman and a dog; and if I had seen a party like ours anywhere in the United States I would scarcely have noticed the image that flashed on the retina of my eye. Except—

  Come to think of it, I would have noticed such a party. I said curiously to Nina: "Notice anything about these people? Civilians! Outside of the Caodai priests, and the troops that marched by in the road—how many have you seen in uniform?"

  She nodded thoughtfully. "Funny," she said. "A peculiar way to fight a war, I guess. You'd think they'd be as deep in this thing as we are, wouldn't you? Now look," she said, dismissing it, "how about holing up here and sending Josie in for a look?"

  It was a good enough place, on the shore of the river, where we might appear to be resting and enjoying the view if anyone should come along, I talked to Josie long enough to make sure she understood. Josie was a patient dog, but she had very little comprehension of just what we superior humans were about, there on the banks of the Madagascan creek. She wasn't a stray mutt, and she didn't want to act like one; she complained that she had been told many times that it was impolite and inexcusable to eat out of garbage cans on nuzzle refuse piles for stray morsels—and yet that was what we were asking her to do now, to justify her wanderings. She was a well-brought-up bitch who had been taught to stay close to her home and master and I finally snarled loud enough to convince her; she rolled over on her back, and I had to pat her stomach to let her know we were still friends. With the canine equivalent of a shrug she started out.

  She was gone for nearly ten hours.

  "Dogs have no sense of time," I explained to Nina—possibly for the hundredth time.

  She said reluctantly, "I know. I'm sorry if I'm pestering you. But I'm getting worried."

  We had something to worry about, I agreed—but not out loud. I was the junior member of our expedition, and though we had never articulated a command relationship I was perfectly willing to treat Nina's "suggestions" as orders. Spying was her line of work, not mine. But it was dark. We were in enemy territory, and a good bet to be shot out of hand in case someone asked us questions. Our scout was overdue reporting back; and Nina was getting worried. And without any fuss, our relative positions changed; we were no longer commander and j.g., we were worried woman and—howsoever falsely—reassuring man. I liked it much better that way.

  "Stay here. I'll take a look around," said the man to the woman.

  "The devil you will," said the commander to the j.g. "Use your fat head for something, Logan. How do you expect to find the dog—whistle and clap your hands, all the way from here to the Caodai installation?"

  I said reasonably: "Of course not. I just want to take a look around—"

  "You said that. No."

  So that was that—for the time being.

  But time passed, and Josie stayed away; and what it came down to in the long run was the choice of which of us should go looking. And I won, if you can call it that.

  Madagascar was an unfriendly place, after dark of a night; I could hear vehicles on the paved road—but I stayed off it; I could hear voices, now and again, around the houses that fronted on the river—but I gave them a wide berth. I felt something like a fawn somehow driven to slink through Central Park from end to end, avoiding the worrisome human smell from all about. Only I was more purposeful than a fawn, of course; closer perhaps to a beast of prey—say a fox, trying to raid a henhouse.

  And unaware (or all too frighteningly aware) that the henhouse was guarded by mastiffs.

  We had just about given up on Josie; I wasn't so much looking for the dog as trying to accomplish the dog's job. If Josie turned up where Nina waited in the clearing, good; Nina would hold her there until I returned. But if not, we could not stay there forever; it would then be my spied-out information we would go back to the whaleboat with, not Josie's. All I wanted was one clear look at the secret installation up ahead. Much more than that I couldn't hope for; but from whatever I could find out then, we could plan.

  And I got my look at it.

  There were lights ahead. I was on the brink of the woods, facing a plowed-up open strip that surrounded a lighted, barbed-wire-enclosed compound—the prison camps, I supposed. There were Caodai guards emplaced about the fence, but not so close to me that I had to worry about them; their attention would certainly all he
inward, toward the prisoners. But beyond the barbed wire, perhaps a quarter of a mile, there were two brightly lit, yellow brick towers.

  So far, so good. I skirted the edge of the plowed ground and headed for the lighted towers. I was pretty lucky. I must have got a hundred yards farther along before they caught me.

  XV

  "WESTERN SWINE!" hissed the Caodai. "Stay and brood on your crimes, Western swine!"

  It didn't seem fair for him to call me that; he was as white as I. Fair-haired and chunky, he might have been of Dutch ancestry, but the Caodais didn't care about that.

  He threw me into a cell and marched his detail away. I was in a yellow-walled room underneath the twin-towered building I had seen alight.

  Logan, old boy, I told myself, you've had it. Consider the facts: I was out of uniform in Caodai territory—that made me a spy. It was well known what the Caodais did to spies; there had been grim stories.

  There was only bright spot. Nina and Semyon were still free. They knew I had been captured, so they would be careful Would being careful be enough? I didn't know, but, on thinking it over, I decided it wouldn't, because there simply was no precaution they could take that would counterbalance the fact that they had to penetrate the temple I was in.

  I couldn't forget what the briefing officer had told us all, back on Monmouth; this expedition had to work, because the Caodais could not continue to be in possession of the secret of the Glotch.

  "Western swine!"

  My Dutch friend was at the door. He wasn't alone. A very dark Caodai, wearing a shoulder patch that looked like a rook in chess, brought in a case full of shiny things. Half a dozen other Caodais followed, and two of them grabbed me.

  The dark one took a hypodermic needle out of the case.

  "Wait a minute!" I said sharply. "You can't do this to me! I claim the protection of international law. You can execute me, but—ow!" He was mighty clumsy with that needle.

  It tingled for a second, and then my whole upper arm and shoulder began to feel cold. Well, I knew what was coming next. Subtle Oriental poisons, for a start. Then brainwashing. Torture.

  I said to myself, Good-by, Elsie. I was beginning to feel cold all over; the fair-skinned Caodai was standing over me, but he seemed very far away.

  He took out a pad of paper. "Your name?" he demanded.

  Name, rank and serial number. That was all, I reminded myself. I gave them to him as briskly and finally as I could: "Miller, Logan, lieutenant junior grade, X-SaT-32880515."

  "How did you get here?"

  I stiffened; it was beginning. But he would never find out about Monmouth and the whaleboat from me. "I refuse to answer," I said distinctly.

  It took an effort. The yellow walls were swirling around me now; I no longer felt cold, I hardly felt anything at all. I could barely hear the Dutch Caodai saying, "Where are your companions?"

  Which one? Semyon was in the whaleboat, I supposed, but Nina—I got a grip on myself. "No answer," I said.

  I stared at him blearily, wondering what made a man like him turn renegade. Of course, when the Caodais overran the former Dutch colonies in the Indies they had picked up everyone who would join them—in that respect the Caodais were a perfect democracy. But still and all, a white renegade in Caodai uniform was hard to take.

  "Atheistic Western swine," hissed the Caodai, "don't dare call me a renegade!"

  Fantastic, I thought to myself drowsily, it's almost as if I were speaking my thoughts aloud.

  I woke up with a jump. I had a sour, tinny taste in my mouth, and an unbelievable headache.

  Nina Willette was shaking me. "You cracked! Miller, listen to me."

  I blinked blearily at her. She said, with pity and reproach: "They worked you over, didn't they, Logan? But you shouldn't have cracked."

  "Hey," I said, "hold it!" I sat up and tried to set her straight. "I gave them my name and rank and serial number, right? That's all. I didn't crack!"

  "No?" She looked at me, and the pity was subtracted from her gaze, leaving only the reproach. "Then how did they know where I was?"

  I said, "Be reasonable, Nina, they must have—"

  "How did they know my name?"

  "My good God!" I whispered. "That needle. They must have shot me full of scopolamine . . ."

  "Exactly, atheistic Western swine," said the blond Caodai, opening the door. "Exactly."

  They were not gentle with us, but I hardly noticed. Truth serum! The psychic censors numbed, the questions answered—I must have spilled my guts for fair.

  It was no comfort to reassure myself that it was not my fault. Because it was a lie. It was my fault; my fault for allowing myself to be captured, my fault for being there in the first place.

  We were led out of the cell, Nina Willette and I, and up into the main workings of the twin-towered temple. Target Gamma! We were in the middle of it. If only we had some way of getting back to America with what we were seeing now!

  And yet—and yet, coming blearily out of my fog of self-reproach, looking about me against the faint, almost vanished chance that I might some day be able to get back and report, what would I have said?

  I could say: "We went through a long yellow corridor full of Caodais."

  I could say: "They looked at us as though we were lepers."

  But I couldn't say, for instance, that I had learned the secret of the weapon they called the Glotch, because there was no sign of anything like that anywhere around. An arsenal? I had thought we might be headed for something like that; but this didn't look like an arsenal. It. looked more like a hospital, or perhaps a medical library, than anything else I had ever encountered, and that wasn't really a matter of looks but of smell, the faint underlayer of ether and iodoform you find in medical places. There were no whirring machines or hidden industrial plants, only the whispering air and medicinal odor and white-and-pastel look, in the little rooms we caught glimpses of.

  And for this we had sacrificed Monmouth.

  We reached a high-ceilinged room where an old Caodai in a scarlet cloak stood frozen beside a bright globe.

  "Votre Sainteté," said the blond-haired Caodai, "les americains."

  Nina stiffened beside me. "The pope," she whispered, unbelieving.

  It took me a moment to understand what she meant. Not the pontiff of Rome, no, but the supreme chief of the Caodais, who wore the same title: The old Caodai by the globe of the world was Nguyen-Yat-Hugo himself!

  Picture the Devil come to life.

  Remember what I had seen of old Nguyen. Latrine posters, showing him luring helpless U.N. soldiery into haunts of bawdy vice, his yellow face wicked and fierce, his long fingers clawed like a killer cat's.

  But he was only a man.

  If he was evil, it did not show in his face. He stood gravely watching us as we approached He was tall for an Indo-Chinese, old but not senile, his robes curious, but not ridiculous. I remembered the Caodais in their stockade north of Project Mako, and their fantastic paper figurines of this man. It was hard not to think of him as a figure of fun (Mardi gras masks and Jack-in-the-boxes), but in his presence it wasn't hard at all.

  "You slime!"

  Not evil but anger. He spoke to us, and he was raging. Nina, beside me, made a little choking sound. He lashed into us, cut us to ribbons. We were slime, wretches, unfit to live. We stood there and listened. What else could we do?

  He finally rounded a period and stopped; and his face was as emotionless as before. He said something short and foreign to one of the Caodai priests—a middle-aged woman who looked like my mother's laundress—and we all waited for a second while the priest left and returned.

  When she returned she brought another woman with her, a slight brown-haired woman in faded khaki. I stared at her curiously as she blinked in the light. It crossed my mind that she was no Caodai. She had the look of an American, though her dress might have been Caodai as much as anything else. She looked out of place here. I watched her, waiting for something to happen that would explain
why she was here.

  By-and-by I noticed that the Caodais were watching me.

  And then I realized who the girl was.

  Strange? That I should see my long-lost wife and not at once recognize her?

  I suppose so; but I wasn't the only one that had to do a double-take; Elsie didn't quiver a muscle until I yelled her name.

  There was a dizzy, slippery, sliding moment when everything around me crashed into new arrangements and meanings and I stood still, like an idiot, bawling her name and staring. And then I was running toward her and she toward me, and—

  We shook hands.

  Call it that, anyway. At least it was more that than a lovers' hug. We stopped inches apart and I reached out my hands toward hers. It was a strained, formal moment. Perhaps the strain would have passed and we would have been in each other's arms, but the Caodai chief stopped us. "Your wife," he said in a clear, savage voice. "Enjoy her for this moment, my Lieutenant. She may not live to the next."

  I had dropped Elsie's hands, spun around and was halfway to him, in a single reflex, before the Caodai officers brought me up. They were between me and Nguyen, and their weapons were in their hands. I stopped. I said, "What the devil are you up to?"

  "Up to?" he repeated bitterly. "No, Lieutenant; I want to know what you are up to, not I. Perhaps we could have pieced out our information from your subconscious, where we found your wife's name and the story of your interesting voyage here. But it would have taken time, and I do not have time."

  I took a deep breath, and the officers slowly bolstered their guns. Nina was on one side of me and Elsie on the other. I said: "What do you want?"