It came dimly back into Nelson's mind across seven war-crowded years, the rapt talk of that blind old seer whom he'd saved from the murderous guerrillas.
"Still, still lives L'Lan the golden, deep in the guarding mountains! Still lives in L’Lan the ancient Brotherhood, for that hidden heartland of the world was the valley of creation!"
"I remember the story now," Nelson admitted. "A sort of Central Asian Garden-of-Eden myth."
"Yes, a myth, a legend," Li Kin said earnestly. "Yet this man Shan Kar says that he comes from L'Lan!"
Eric Nelson shrugged. " 'Nature imitates Art,' said Wilde. The tribe out there in the mountains probably named their valley after the legend."
"Perhaps so," Li Kin said doubtfully. He got to his feet. "Should we not go now?"
"Go along and tell Sloan I'll be there soon," Nelson said carelessly.
Li Kin's eyes nickered to the emptied Scotch bottle, and he hesitated a moment "Remember, we have to get away by morning."
"I'll be there," snapped Nelson and the little Chinese went silently out.
Eric Nelson looked after the little man with a sympathy he felt neither for himself not his three other fellow-officers. Li Kin was a patriot, an absurdly impractical patriot whose fervent dreams had set his feet stumbling through the quagmire of China's civil wars to this blind-alley end.