"I mean, not a statue of stone or masonry in the usual sense of the term. I think that it is a portable image of Buddha—an inflated gas bag like they use in the Easter parade. I think they intend to float it in the air—perhaps tow it—to impress the faithful. If the thing's really 500 feet long, it may be a blimp or a rigid airship with its own motors. But, whatever the details, I think our mystery is just a piece of propaganda for Neo-Buddhism, although a damned good one, from the native standpoint."
We all relaxed. This was an anticlimax. Stimson had built us up to something—just what, we were not sure—and then had pricked the bubble.
"Well, it sounds reasonable," Baker finally remarked, returning the print to Stimson, "although not particularly dangerous, and certainly not worth risking our necks to spy on. However, I don't think it's good enough to explain all of the supplies that have gone into Yat."
The consul nodded. "Yes, that's the rub. If they hadn't taken such pains to conceal the thing, I'd be inclined to call it just a cover for something else."
"Maybe it still is," said Baker.
Stimson looked at us carefully, as though making up his mind.
"That is where you gentlemen come in," he said finally. "I have reason to believe that our picture has tipped their hand, that they are going ahead with whatever they have planned in the next few days. Someone's got to get to Yat first—someone who can observe intelligently, and speak the language. My staff is all clerical, and there is no chance to get any CIA men now. You're the only ones available."
He paused. We looked at each other, and then at Baker. He cleared his throat a couple of times, took another squint at the photo, and then spoke.
"Speaking for myself, Stimson, when do we leave?"
"That goes for me too," said Martin. Chamberlin and I nodded.