Dragon Dance (3 page)

“I don't know. We came in over that bulwark there, but she could have swung on her anchor chain. In fact, she could have swung right round.”

So was it half a mile to shore, or over five thousand? It made a difference.

“When it starts to get light . . .”

“Yes,” Brad said. “Meanwhile we'd better take cover, in case one of the crew comes along. There's a pile of cargo amidships.”

They found a coil of rope to sit on. The wind was freshening further, and there was an occasional drop of rain. Simon said, keeping his voice low: “You really think they're from the north?”

“They must be.”

“You don't suppose? . . .”

“What?”

“That they could have come from China?”

“Across five thousand miles of ocean? In a junk?”

Brad's voice had its impatient, patronizing tone. Of course, it was ridiculous, when one thought about it. Brad went on: “It's true the Chinese junk was aerodynamically one of the most efficient sailing vessels ever built. In our world they were voyaging to India in the fourth century, to Africa in the Middle
Ages. But to travel five thousand miles out of sight of land!”

“Okay, okay.”

A patter of running feet put an end to conversation. There was a bustle of activity, voices calling in a strange language. Simon crouched lower. He heard the flap of sail, the rattle of an anchor being weighed. He felt alarm at that. If they were setting sail, it knocked the notion of a short swim to shore on the head. But even if they knew in which direction shore was, they couldn't dive overboard at the moment without being spotted. He tried to console himself with the thought that the junk would probably stick close to the coast, anyway—perhaps put in at some point before their final destination, wherever that might be.

After a time, the activity died away, leaving the ordinary sounds of wind and waves and creaking timbers. Simon's head was thumping still; he felt tired, and a bit sick. He dozed and, coming awake, was aware of an area in which the absolute dark was lightening slightly. Dawn. But the odd thing was that the lighter patch wasn't on either port or starboard beam, but directly astern. He pointed that out to Brad.

“Yes, I'd noticed. We may be rounding a headland.”

Simon began to be able to see his surroundings more clearly. The junk was bigger than the Roman ship in which they had crossed the Atlantic. There were five masts, each carrying a square lugsail. The sails consisted of a series of panels, stiffened by bamboo battens. According to Brad, these functioned like Venetian blinds. The release of a halyard allowed them to fold on top of one another: a quick way of shortening sail. The mast was unsupported by stays or shrouds. At the stern, there was a high section, like the castle in early Western sailing ships.

The growing light revealed something else—unbroken ocean on all sides. Simon remarked uneasily: “Some headland.”

There was a pause before Brad said: “Maybe we'd better get below for the time being. We're a bit conspicuous on deck.”

“Down among the zombies?”

“There must be other holds.”

Simon was happy to leave Brad in charge of the exploration; he still felt woozy. They found another hatch, and Brad went down while Simon squatted at
the top. Brad came back up with an uneasy baffled look on his face.

“It's occupied. And also by deep sleepers.”

“More Indians?”

“No. Chinese.”

“But . . .”

“It's not so crowded, and they're not lying on bare boards. They've got mats and pillows.” He shook his head. “I don't get it.”

“Sun's almost up.”

“I know. Come on.”

They found refuge eventually in a hold packed with sacks and boxes. When they had settled themselves, Simon said: “How far north do you think their home port might be?” Brad did not answer. “Or south?”

Brad said: “Maybe I got it wrong.”

“I don't believe it! You got something wrong—
and
you're admitting?”

Brad was preoccupied.

“Time and distance are the problem. You couldn't store enough food and fresh water for the crew of a vessel this big on a voyage lasting that long. And if you pick up a human cargo on the way, it makes it
even more impossible. But if the human cargo can sleep through the trip—and you can put the majority of your crew to sleep as well . . . Most of the time you could get by with a handful of men. In emergencies, presumably you could wake them up and send them back to sleep afterwards. It might work. Nothing else fits the facts.”

“Are you saying they put the Indians—and a lot of their own men—into some kind of hibernation? How?”

“I don't know. But in our own world there were mystics who claimed they could control metabolism. Even in the West—the
Guinness Book of World Records
included a man who survived ten feet underground for more than a hundred days.”

Simon thought about it. “So you think we might be heading for China, after all?”

“Could be.”

He thought about that, too. “It's a long swim back already. And it would be a long time to go undetected as stowaways. How many Chinese were there in that hold?”

“A lot. Over fifty.”

“And how many awake, crewing, would you say?”

“Once a course was set, two or three should be able to manage.”

“Two or three,” Simon said, “against two of us. And they don't know we're awake.”

Brad nodded. “It's something to think about. But we'd better wait for dark.”

•  •  •

It was a long day. They dozed much of the time. At one point, Simon woke with another raging thirst but dared not risk going up on deck to the water tank. When at last the hatch's square of light faded with dusk, he asked Brad: “What's the plan of action?”

“We'll need to reconnoitre—find out how many there are, and where. Then pick them off.”

Imminence made the idea less attractive. Simon said: “We might be able to find a dinghy and get away.”

“We might. I'd think it was easier to jump the Chinese than launch a dinghy without being spotted. Also, we've been sailing over twelve hours, and we're probably in the Kuroshio current, which does better than two knots across the Pacific. Add on wind speed from five large sails, and that makes quite a distance to row back.”

“I suppose you're right. Shall we press on?”

They made a cautious exploration of the deck. Lights showed in the elevated stern section, but they checked the forward deck carefully before heading there. At a suitable observation spot, they settled down to watch comings and goings. One lamp revealed a galley on the lower level, and someone preparing food. Simon whispered: “I make it three—two above and one below.”

“Check.”

“The one in the galley's on his own. If we got close, we could make some sort of noise to attract his attention and jump him when he came out.”

“We could attract the attention of his buddies, too.”

Cooking smells wafted to them. It didn't smell a lot like the Chinese food Simon remembered, but it was tantalizing. He could hear the waves slapping against the junk's sides, the hiss of wind in the sails. Then another sound: the small boom of a gong.

“Dinner is served,” Brad said. “Which I guess means the other two have to come below. Let's move.”

•  •  •

The upper stern deck had cabins fronted by a gangway which ran the width of the junk. There was just one companionway, on the port beam. They stationed themselves on either side, in the shadows.

If they came down together, it could be tricky, Simon thought, clutching the billet of wood which was his weapon. But only one pair of footsteps sounded on the gangway overhead, and descended the ladder. As the figure came level, he moved out quickly and swung. There was a realization, both satisfying and sickening, of the blow solidly connecting with flesh, followed by a grunt of exhaled breath.

The man collapsed. Brad ran his hands over him and found a dagger. They pulled him into the shadows as they heard more footsteps. The sick feeling had gone, and Simon felt on top of the world. He counted the descending steps: eleven, twelve . . . Leaping, he swung again, and heard a squawk of anger.

This one staggered, but recovered. Brad launched himself at him from the other side, and they struggled. In the lamplight that spilled from the galley, Simon could see two writhing pairs of legs. He got hold of a
leg wearing long baggy trousers and pulled violently. The second Chinese hit the deck with a heavy thump. Brad gathered a dagger from him, too, and handed it to Simon as the cook came out. He obviously didn't suspect anything: he wasn't even carrying a kitchen knife. Seeing the daggers in their hands, he backed away, muttering.

“So far, so good,” Simon said happily.

“Don't say that,” Brad warned. “Can you bring up one of those coils of rope?”

Simon tied up the two they had ambushed. The first was flat out, the second conscious but not offering opposition. The cook stood by the open galley door.

“Him, too?”

Brad said: “I thought we might talk him into serving supper first.”

Simon waggled the dagger, and the cook backed into the galley. On the stove there was a large dish of rice and several smaller dishes. Another gesture with the dagger got the right results. The cook ladled food into bowls and handed them to them.

They ate hungrily, cramming food in with their fingers. There were chopsticks on the table, but Simon didn't think this was the time to start using
them. He emptied his bowl and was about to hand it back for a refill when he saw the cook looking past them, towards the open door. Not that old trick, he thought, but his own eyes followed automatically. Another Chinese stood there, holding a stick.

Brad had seen him, too. “Looks like we missed one.”

“But only one.”

Brad put his bowl down. “I thought it was going too well.”

“When I give the signal,” Simon said, “we go for him.”

“I don't think so.”

“When you give the signal, then. What are we waiting for?”

The Chinese raised the stick and said something which sounded like an order.

“I think he wants us to drop the daggers,” Brad said.

“Are you saying we should?” Simon stared at him incredulously. “Give in to one man, with a stick?”

“It's not a stick,” Brad said.

He reached out and took the dagger from Simon and tossed it, along with his own, to the floor.

“It's a gun.”

S
IMON AWOKE CRAMPED AND STIFF
. He tried to turn over and found that although the upper part of his body responded, something was holding his feet. He took in noises: creaking timbers, sounds of wind and sea, a nearer clanking sound. The clanking began when he tried to move and stopped when he did.

Brad said: “You awake, Si?”

He reached down and touched the chains which hobbled his ankles, and remembered the previous night.

“I'm awake.”

Early morning light through a square porthole showed him his surroundings. It was a cabin about six feet by twelve, bare except for the heap of charcoal which took up half the floor area and reached almost to the deck above. Fuel for the galley, presumably.

Brad said: “The door's bolted on the other side. Not that we'd be likely to get far with these leg irons.”

Simon examined his ankles. The fetters were steel, of better quality than he had seen this side of the fireball. One was clamped round each ankle, and a very short chain connected them. He now remembered one of the Chinese snapping them shut and locking them with an impressive-looking key.

He asked:
“Where
did that other one come from? I thought we'd checked out.”

“He must have been lying low in one of the cabins.”

“And that gun . . . I know the Chinese invented gunpowder, but I thought they only used it for fireworks.”

“No. The Chinese armies that fought Genghiz Khan in the thirteenth century had quite
advanced weapons—grenades, bombs, rocket-powered arrows, even flamethrowers. And what they called the fire-spurting lance. In other words, guns.”

Simon was not too interested in Genghiz Khan. “What happens now?”

“Well, they could have chopped us on the spot and tossed us overboard. I think they may be curious about us.”

“Would you say that's good?”

“Better than the ocean.”

“I suppose so,” Simon said. “You know what? I'm hungry again. Very hungry.”

“Too bad,” Brad said. “That's the trouble with Chinese food.”

•  •  •

Day was well advanced when the cabin door was unbolted and thrown open. A Chinese with a dagger gestured towards Brad. Simon got up, too, but was waved back.

Brad said: “Looks like I have the call for first breakfast.”

“Don't eat all the ham and eggs.”

“I don't guarantee that. But I'll save you a coffee.”

The door was slammed and bolted behind him,
and footsteps shuffled away. Simon's wisecracking mood was replaced by an emptiness unrelated to hunger. He was fettered, on a junk in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, at the mercy of a bunch of Chinese about whom he knew nothing except that they were engaged in the slave trade. Even Brad's notion that they had been spared death because their captors were curious took on a less cheering aspect as he considered it. Curiosity could involve a determination to find things out, by any necessary means. He recalled tales of Chinese torture. Comic book stuff, he told himself—but what was a situation in which you were chained and on a Chinese junk
except
comic book stuff?

It was a long time before the cabin door opened again. The same Chinese indicated he should come out, and then pushed him in the direction he was to go. He had to climb stairs to the upper deck—not easy in leg irons. When he faltered, the Chinese pricked him sharply with the dagger.