Full Moon by Talbot Mundy Page A

the glow from the tent lamp, a
man stood smiling. Blair, sweating, trying to control his muscles that wanted
to tremble, covered the man with the revolver and held it fairly steady. It
was several seconds before he could force himself to speak.
    “Come here,” he commanded then. “ Idherao .”
    Then he recognized the man from the Salween country, Taron Ling, who took
service with the police commissioner in Bombay on the strength of a forged
testimonial.
    “You?” he said, getting command of his voice. “What are you doing
here?”
    Taron Ling strode forward with quiet insolence, making no salaam or any
gesture of respect. Two of Blair’s servants, looking scared, with their
turbans awry, approached the man from either side, and there were other
servants peering around the tent, but he ignored them all.
    “Doing?” he answered. “Doing nothing. Am come seeking service.”
    “What as?”
    “Guide. Without me, you not finding Henrietta.”
    “Damn your impudence! Is that the way you speak of her? Where are your
manners? Where’s your chit from the commissioner?”
    “Not have any.”
    “Ran, eh?”
    “No, not running. Seeing you shoot tiger—good shot—shooting
me, no—bad shot. You like what you just now see?” The man’s smile was
that of a blackmailer; there was threat behind it.
    Blair’s servants, observing the revolver, drew their own deductions and
surrounded the man from behind. Nothing increases a man’s panic like a weapon
ready to be used. Blair uncocked the revolver and laid it on the table to
calm his own nerves. He beckoned to the man to come closer and sat studying
him in the lamp glow. He was dressed in a khaki tunic suit and a nondescript
turban that offered no clue to his classification. His slightly Mongolian
eyes were as bright as a snake’s and alive with amused intelligence.
    “So you followed me, eh?”
    The man nodded.
    “How did you know where I went?”
    “Knowing also where Sahiba Henrietta went. Why not? Knowing Wu Tu. Knowing
Zaman Ali. Knowing where to look for Frennisham Bahadur. Knowing too
much.”
    “Do you know Chetusingh?”
    The man nodded again. Somehow or other his nod suggested tragedy, but
Blair was not quite trusting his imagination at the moment. He decided that
he would follow that suspicion later.
    “What do you mean by saying you will guide me to the Sahiba Henrietta? Do
you mean to her tent?”
    “You knowing soon enough,” he answered, insolent—confident.
    Blair decided to reduce that confidence. He needed time, too, to replenish
his own. He gave orders to a Rajput retainer, whose mission in life was to
clothe obedience with the cloak of courage and to adorn both with
dignity:
    “Keep this man under close observation until I send for him again. Give
him a tent to himself and don’t let him speak to anyone.”
    “Shall I tie him, sahib?”
    “Only if he makes trouble. Tell the cook I’ll take chota hazri now.”
    “ Hookum hai .” (It is an order.)
    Taron Ling offered no resistance.
    Tea came twenty minutes later. Blair drank it hot, grateful that it
scalded his throat and made life real again, while he watched the false dawn
glimmer on the broken fanged summit of Gaglajung.
----
     

CHAPTER SIX
    It is useless to try to descend into knowledge or to seek it
except we ascend toward it. They who are reputed to know most and who demand
to be honored accordingly, are gatherers of shadows. They who truly know,
know this: the known is but the shadow of the Unknown. It is therefore
nothing.
    —From the Eighth of the Nine Books of Noor
Ali.
     
    THE Rangar came at dawn, his old eyes looking as if they
lacked sleep. Beneath his formal courtesy there lurked a hint of foreboding.
He nervously avoided Blair’s gaze. He turned his back on Gaglajung. He sat on
a camp-stool in the delicious cool light of early morning and watched Blair
but pretended not to, croakily criticizing the camp servants.
    “By God, when I