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!"