"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?"