Rick Brant - The Lost City Part 8

"Right away," Rick said. He started to ask what drivers, but the distraught manager ran ahead, down to the lobby. All seemed quiet there, barring the presence of crates in the center of the floor.

"Outside," the manager said. "You will see."

The boys hurried to the front entrance and stopped short at a sight that made it difficult to keep a poker face.

The gharry drivers had taken up quarters in front of the hotel. Rick's large tip had seemed to them a promise of more rupees from the generous Sahibs. Their families had joined them. One group was cooking a meal over a fire in a charcoal brazier right in front of the door. Little children were running around happily. Some of the drivers were asleep.

Scotty pointed, and Rick looked over to where one of them was being shaved by a barber called in for the occasion. There were so many that they blocked traffic, and the din was appalling.

The professors and Van Groot appeared and looked out at the confusion in the street. Zircon came to the manager's rescue with an order to the drivers to load the equipment at once.

In a few moments order was restored, the equipment was piled in the gharries, and their personal baggage was brought down. Then, at a word from Zircon, the party piled into the carriages and started for Victoria Railroad Terminus.

Rick looked around at the nearest gharries and asked, "Where's Chahda?"

"In one of the other carriages, I guess," Scotty answered.

"Must be," Rick said, and settled back to enjoy the ride.

But at the railroad station Chahda did not appear. The equipment was loaded into the spare compartment and one of the station guards was detailed to watch it. The gharry drivers were paid off with the usual confusion, then the party took stock.

"That seems to be everything," Zircon said.

"Chahda's missing," Rick reminded him.

"I daresay he'll show up," Van Groot said. "Perhaps he had some unfinished business." He smiled. "The little beggar seems to be a man of affairs, don't you think?"

Rick didn't like the patronizing tone. "I don't think he'd have gone off without saying something."

"He likely missed us at the hotel," Zircon suggested. "Or he may have gone off for something to eat. I'm sure he'll show up."

"We ourselves had better eat," Weiss said. "You know these Indian trains. It will be several days before we get a decent meal again."

"You shall be my guests," Van Groot announced. He waved the ever-present mentholated tissue. "Now, gentlemen, no refusals! We will have lunch at the Coffee Club on Churchgate Street."

He hailed a taxi and the party climbed in. Rick kept watch for Chahda as they drove down Hornby Road toward Churchgate, but there was no sign of the boy, "h.e.l.l be waiting for us at the train," Scotty said. "He wouldn't take a chance on being left behind."

Van Groot was an excellent and interesting host. He told them tales of the Tibetan country and of the people. "They're Buddhists," he said, "and most faithful to their beliefs. Can't even swat a fly, because harming anything, even a centipede, means loss of merit in the next world. Quite touching, after a fashion."

And he told them tales of Lhasa, the forbidden city of the Dalai Lama, where, unfortunately, their travels would not take them. Before any of them realized it, their time was up and they had to hurry back.

The taxi pulled up at the barnlike railroad station just as the warning whistle blew. Rick looked around for Chahda. He ran to the nearest official and asked if anyone had inquired for the American party, but the man didn't understand English.

"Hurry, Rick," Zircon called.

The shrill whistle gave a long blast. Rick ran for his compartment, past the second- and third-cla.s.s carriages, past bearded pa.s.sengers, hooded Moslem women, ragged Hindus and uniformed colonials, and past goats that traveled with their owners, and chickens in crates, and water carriers with goatskins.

There was no sign of an erect Hindu boy in a new white suit.

Rick climbed into the compartment and said desperately, "He's not here!"

Van Groot stood on the platform, holding a tissue to his nose to guard him from the dust of the station. "Don't imagine that you'll see him again," he remarked. "These little street boys are like that. Most undependable. Well, bon voyage. Best of fortune and all that."

The train jerked and began to move. Van Groot lifted the riding crop he carried, in a gesture of farewell. Zircon leaned over and closed the compartment door.

Rick started to protest, but realized the uselessness of it. They couldn't wait for Chahda. He went to the door and looked back along the platform, seeing the figure of Van Groot slowly recede.

Suddenly there was a smaller figure in white running along the platform.

Chahda!

He was running for all he was worth, and he was shouting something Rick couldn't hear.

"Stop the train! Chahda's here!" Rick yelled.

The little figure in white came even with Van Groot, and started to pa.s.s him.

Rick saw Van Groot's riding crop go up, then lash down. Chahda's running legs faltered and he fell face down on the platform.

CHAPTER X.

The Odor of Menthol

RICK grabbed for the compartment-door handle and started to swing it open, but Scotty caught his arm.

"The train's moving, dope!"

Rick whirled. "Chahda! He's out there. Van Groot knocked him down!"

Scotty pulled him away from the door. "You can't do anything about it now. You'd be killed if you tried to get off!"

"We have to stop the train," Rick said desperately.

The professors joined Scotty.

"It's unfortunate," Zircon spoke with finality. "But there is nothing we can do, Rick. The boy just missed the train, that's all."

"But why did Van Groot hit him?"

"Are you sure he did, Rick?" Weiss asked.

"Of course I'm sure! He was running up the platform, shouting something. When he got to Van Groot, I saw him knock Chahda down with that riding crop he carries."

"Odd," Zircon frowned.

"Maybe he brushed against Van Groot," Scotty suggested. "He doesn't like Indians. He might knock him down."

"That's it, of course," Weiss agreed.

Rick sank into the compartment seat. They were far out of the station now, and railroad yards were giving way to open country. They had crossed the bridge from Bombay to the mainland of India.

"I wonder why Chahda was late?" Rick said, and his thoughts kept going back to the Hindu boy's comments on the map. "He said the route to Tengi-Bu was wrong."

"I imagine the Asiatic Geographical Union knows more about that than Chahda," Weiss remarked.

"Maybe he went to say good-bye to his family," Scotty said.

Zircon shrugged. "Whatever the reason, he's far behind us now. It's regrettable that Van Groot struck him, but I think Scotty's explanation accounts for that. Chahda brushed against him and Van Groot retaliated."

Rick stared morosely out the window. He wasn't satisfied with any of the explanations offered, but he had no better ones to present. They would probably never know, because in a few days Chahda would be a thousand miles behind.

He looked around the compartment, noticing that Zircon had arranged for boxes of rations and for sheets and pillowcases. Their equipment was in the next compartment, the door securely locked. He reached up and turned on the fan and unhappily settled himself for the trip.

Days and nights intermingled and Rick couldn't have said how long they had been traveling. The stops were the only things that broke the monotony. They would get out and walk on the platform to stretch their legs, and crowds of natives would gather at a little distance and watch them.

The crowds were as much a part of India as the clay dust and the red-bra.s.s sun. They waited for the train at one stop and the same crowd seemed to be waiting for it at the next, so uniform were they in character. They looked alike, they sounded alike. Their wild cries as they hawked their wares, their begging, their murmured conversations all blended and formed a vast sigh that was purely Indian.

Sometimes Scotty looked longingly at the fresh food offered by vendors on the station platforms, but those foods were not safe. Even the water wasn't safe, and they had to drink the stale, warm, boiled water provided for pa.s.sengers. When they ate, it was sparingly, and from the boxes of rations. Occasionally Zircon did permit them to buy a little fruit, but they had to peel it so thoroughly that there was little left but the stones.

They did not talk much. It was too hot to think about things to say. Rick and Scotty slept as much as they could, for sleep was their only escape from the heat, the dust, and the monotony.

"Rick! Wake up! Hit the deck!"

It was Scotty, standing over him and fully dressed.

"Where are we?" Rick asked.

"Nepal. The end of the line."

Rick jumped to the window. The long journey was over! The tracks had come to a dead end against the side of a mountain. There was a ramshackle wooden station and a white-roofed building beside it. And noise. The crowd was waiting again.

But this crowd didn't sigh like the ones of India. This crowd growled. They were all men and dressed in strange, padded clothing that looked like tailored quilts. Their feet were wrapped in bulky, bandagelike coverings and lashed tight with thongs. Their faces were swarthy and all of them seemed to be exactly the same height, as though a blight had stunted them simultaneously.

And beyond, like a great curtain, stood the mountains of Tibet! Each one in the party reached for his quota of the baggage and hurried toward the door of the train. Rick was the first to step to the ground, and as he did, the growl of the crowd rose in crescendo and moved in on him. He gave Zircon and Weiss a hand with their baggage, and soon the four were standing in the center of the mob on the platform.

"One of us will have to supervise the unloading of the equipment," Zircon shouted above the din.

"I'll do it, sir," Scotty offered, and pushed his way back toward the compartment.

"Looks like they all want to work for us," Rick commented, scanning the avid faces.

"We'll pick no guide from this mob," Zircon answered. "I'm to see the Tibetan border official here."

The scientist began pushing through the closely packed, noisy crowd and Rick followed him to the official-looking building beside the station. Weiss went back to help Scotty. Zircon took the four pa.s.sports from his pocket and walked through the door marked Customs. It took a moment to become accustomed to the dimness, but they finally located a cubbyhole of an office at the end of the gloomy hall.

A slim figure stepped from the door and bowed. He wore a strangely mixed garb - a wide, blue sash, balloon-sleeve shirt, and striped pants pressed the wrong way. They looked as though they were worn only for official business - and business had been poor since 1923.

"Sirs," he purred, bowing again, "could do for you?"

"Yes. I am Professor Zircon," the scientist began.

"Of the Americans party, yes," the man finished for him. "So too bad. I am sorry." He said it in a monotone, flicking his liquid brown eyes from one to the other.

It was difficult to understand these people, Rick thought. They were always sorry for something. He wondered what it was this time.

"Sorry for what?" Zircon asked.

The official bowed low again. "Regards permission for the entry into Tibet. Revoked it were. Suddenly revoked!"

Rick looked at Zircon and for a moment they were both speechless, then Zircon exploded.

"Revoked! Why, look here ... This is a scientific expedition. We've come halfway around the world! This thing was settled through official channels long ago. It couldn't have been revoked!"

"Suddenly revoked," the official repeated.

Rick looked hard at the man and decided he didn't like him. He resented his abruptness in telling them the bad news - as if he had rehea.r.s.ed it.

"Look here," Zircon roared. "I must get in touch with your Tibetan government. There's been a mistake."

The official grinned. "No wires ... no wires to august government."

Rick felt sure the man had been waiting to spring that.

Then his nose detected an odor.

So accustomed had he become to the sea of smells that was India, that he no longer had the habit of consciously identifying each new one. But this odor struck his nostrils and burned.

Menthol!

Into his mind flashed the picture of a menthol-dipped tissue held to a sniffing nose.

It was incredible. They were a thousand miles, half a world away from Bombay, and yet here was a trademark. The unexpected revocation of permission, the story that sounded rehea.r.s.ed, the very type of man before them - all seemed to be connected, somehow, with the menthol.

The official stared out of the dingy window as though he had forgotten them both completely. Zircon stomped up and down the room, choking with frustration and anger.

Then Rick spoke out of the growing certainty in his mind, turning his back so that the official could not see his face. He hoped that Zircon saw his wink as he said, "If we're going to be delayed, sir, shouldn't we pay off our bearers so that they can return to Bombay?"

"Bearers? What bearers?" Zircon bellowed.

Rick winked again. "Our menservants, sir," he said.