“Om, man-u, pad-mi, om,” muttered Roger, using the prayer so familiar to all Buddhists in Tibet.
The man paused, looking a trifle surprised at the sound.
Roger, upsetting a pan of water on the earth, rose, standing near the wet space.
In words taught him by the interpreter, he spoke.
“What do you seek?” his phrase demanded, and his voice he kept very steady, even stern.
“You!”
The man, depending on surprise, made a quick grab, as Roger laid aside a fork and with apparent aimlessness, paying no heed—outwardly—took in his right hand a big iron ladle to stir the boiling soup.
As if unaware of the plan to attack, he went on, “Om man-u pad-mi om,” knowing that the first utterance had started Tip to whirling his generator armature.
The man made a grab. As though turning, Roger maneuvered so that his ladle was just where the man made the grab—but Roger was beyond the wet spot on which the man stepped.
Stepped up to stronger voltage, carried along the wire fixed to the ladle handle held in his rubber-gloved hand, Roger was immune to the current that had better conductivity through the man standing on wet earth.