Stunned, Remo walked quickly to the boy and took him by the shoulders. “Po, I want you to ask that priest where we are,” he said. “And when.”

  Po spoke to the priest. After a haughty silence, the tall man answered.

  “The name of the place is Yaxbenhaltun,” the boy reported.

  “And the date?”

  “He says it is nine tun, eighteen uinal.”

  “What?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “The time measurement the ancient Mayans used,” Lizzie said. “A tun is a year. A uinal is a period of twenty days. This present moment is roughly ten years after the event of 3114 B.C.,” she said, her voice hushed with excitement.

  “Are you crazy?” Remo shouted, appalled. “You’re saying that we’ve gone back in time. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? How impossible?”

  Chiun, who had kept silent since their confrontation with the priest, spoke. “Nothing is impossible,” he said softly.

  For a moment, all four of them stood staring at the sparkling new temple in the middle of a thriving city.

  A city that had been dead since the time of the Pharaohs.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THEY WERE LED TO a huge low building near the great wall separating the city from the farmland outside on the outskirts of the endless jungle. Like the temple, the wall was constructed of stones cemented by mortar and rubble and coated with bright white stucco. Orange tiles covered the vast roof, and a lush garden of tropical flowers outlined the fanciful walkways leading into the building’s canopied entrances.

  In the stone foyer was a statue like the one in the temple, depicting the figure of a man topped by a blank sphere in place of a head. The priest led them silently past the bronze-colored guards dressed in white loincloths, their heads and spears festooned with ornamental quetzal feathers, up an elegant curving staircase of stone. They walked through a long hallway whose walls were brightly painted with scenes of men playing ball. Finally they entered a large airy room filled with priceless pottery encrusted with gems. Its high ceiling was decorated with painted moldings and rounded archways leading to adjacent rooms.

  In the center of the main room where they stood were three statues. Two smaller plaster figures, around six feet tall, flanked a larger central statue. The central figure was, again, the ever-present man whose head was a blank sphere.

  “I recognize the two smaller ones,” Lizzie said. “The one on the left is Ah Kin, the Mayan God of Light, and that’s Ah Chac, the Rain God, on the right. But I still can’t figure out the one in the middle. That statue seems to be everywhere, and yet I’ve never seen one unearthed.”

  “I guess he’s some kind of local big deal,” Remo said distractedly. He couldn’t care less about some bubble-headed statue. He walked over to Chiun, who was looking serenely out one of the room’s big windows.

  Outside, past the city’s walls, were small thatched-roof houses made of poles and stucco. Women crouched in the dirt courtyards around the rough dwellings, weaving on hip looms and carrying loaves of bread to big stone ovens. Beyond them were the farms, the earth terraced and stepped to preserve the soil from erosion. Tall corn waved gently in the breeze, and red dots of tomatoes and peppers brightened the peaceful landscape in front of the jungle.

  “This is a good time,” Chiun said.

  “How can you say that?” Remo snapped. “We’re trapped sometime in prehistory. There isn’t even a phone here.”

  The old Oriental shrugged. “A man is trapped only by the limitations of his mind,” he said.

  “Great. I’ll remember that while I’m inventing the wheel.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Remo. This is a civilized place. Look at it. There is agriculture here, and art, and peace. There are no guns or cars or radios growing out of the necks of knife-wielding dolts.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Remo said. “You don’t care. You really don’t care whether we get home or not, do you?”

  “Be patient, my son. I do care. But I do not worry needlessly.”

  “Needlessly? We get thrown back in time by some fluke—”

  Chiun held up a restraining finger. “No, not a fluke. We are here because it is somewhere decreed that we must be here. When it is no longer necessary for us to be here, we will leave. When it is time. Not before.”

  Remo realized that it was useless to talk to the old man. Chiun was off on one of his metaphysical tirades, and nothing was going to change his mind until he decided it was time. Wonderful. He would have to figure out how to get out of this mess by himself.

  “Po,” he shouted to the boy who was touring the other rooms. “What’s supposed to happen now?”

  The boy limped into the doorway. “The priest said we are to meet the king here.”

  “I’ve got it,” Lizzie said, running up to him.

  “What?”

  She pulled him in front of the three statues. “The only god more important to the Mayans than Ah Kin and Ah Chac was Kukulcan, the white god.”

  Remo rolled his eyes. “Terrific, Lizzie. I’m glad to hear it. Chalk one up for Whitey.”

  “You know, it’s always been a mystery why the Mayans would worship a white god. Kukulcan’s name is found in inscriptions long before the first Spanish invasion in the fifteen hundreds. The prevailing theory is that the Mayans borrowed the god from the Mexican deity Quezalcoatl, but those connections were never really proven, either.” She chewed at her fingernails, her eyes glazed. “Only it can’t be Kukulcan. At least not the Kukulcan I’ve seen.”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?” Remo said, annoyed. He pried her fingers off his arm.

  “The statue. Kukulcan is always shown as a stylized man covered with snakes and feathers.”

  “Oh, so what?” Remo snapped. “Who gives a crap what he’s wearing?”

  “But he’s wearing a bubble,” Lizzie persisted.

  Remo flushed. “I don’t care if he’s wearing a goddamned G-string. Will you lay off? For your information, we’ve got other problems. Like how the hell to get out of this time warp.”

  “For your information, I’m telling you,” Lizzie said hotly.

  “How to get out of here?”

  “How we got in here. That’s a start.”

  “I know how we got here. It was something in that pod we were in. I hit something when the earthquake started. There was a reaction.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. The statue’s wearing a bubble. A spacesuit. What we’re looking at is some kind of interplanetary spaceman who could travel through time.”

  Remo looked at her, dumbfounded. “You’re getting worse by the minute,” he said at last.

  “It’s the only possibility. The great leap of the Mayans. A spaceman. The spaceman theory was right. I suspected it as soon as I saw the pod.”

  A low, ringing, melodious note sounded outside the doorway leading into the hall.

  “What was that?” Lizzie said, shocked out of her thoughts.

  “Sounded like a gong,” Remo said. He went forward to check. As he reached the doorway, a stony-faced man in a loincloth entered, blocking his way. Behind the man came another, followed by four more, walking to the accompaniment of beating drums and flutes.

  Chiun turned from the window. The men fell into two rows on either side of the doorway and knelt. Chiun smiled beatifically.

  “Really, there is no need for such ceremony,” he said indulgently.

  “I don’t think it’s for us,” Remo said.

  The music stopped. A second gong sounded. The tall priest who had guided them into the building walked in. He stared straight ahead, except for a brief, cold glance at the boy. He spoke something, then turned toward the doorway and bowed.

  “The king,” the boy whispered.

  Six more dark men—slaves, Remo guessed—shuffled in, eyes lowered, carrying a covered sedan chair on their shoulders. The cloth of the litter was of gold studded with large turquoises. When the slaves set the chair down, they fell immediately to their knees facing the priest. Two of them reached out their arms and pulled back the shimmering curtains.

  A hand, old and withered and trembling, reached out from the litter. The priest took it in his own and, still kneeling, helped the old man from his seat.

  The king, his white hair pulled back into a knot on top of his head, was clearly a sick man. The flesh of his face sagged, and his sunken chest shook with the force of deep, hacking coughs. He spoke to the priest, the words barely audible.

  The priest stood, stepping away deferentially from the old man, who spread his frail arms wide.

  He gestured as he spoke, nodding to Remo and Chiun, and pointed to the statue of the bubble-headed man.

  “He says welcome, children of Kukulcan,” the boy said.

  The priest glared at Po, but the king stepped forward and cupped the boy’s face in his trembling hands. He asked a question, and the boy answered. The king looked over to Remo and Chiun in wonder, said something else, softly, and then was seized by an attack of coughing.

  The priest spoke sharply to the boy before leading the old king back to the sedan chair. Before he sat, however, the king spoke again to the bewildered group. His expression was stricken. Then he let himself be covered in the litter and carried out.

  “What was that about?” Remo said when the four strangers were alone again.

  “It was confusing,” the boy said. “He said that the prophecy has come to pass, and that he is prepared to keep his bargain.”

  “Bargain? What bargain?”

  “I don’t know. He called me the voice of the gods.”

  “That’s us, I suppose,” Remo said drily.

  “There is to be a ceremony for you tomorrow morning at the volcano of Bocatan.”

  “Well, I suppose we can talk to him then,” Remo said.

  The priest again appeared in the doorway, fixing them all with his stony stare. Slowly he lifted his arms and clapped his hands. Then he backed away and was gone.

  “Cheerful little scamp,” Remo said, looking down the hall after him. “Hold on, troops. I think the USO is here.”

  Wooden flutes and tambourines sounded, filling the hall with strange music. Remo came back into the room, shaking his head. Behind him pranced musicians and servants bearing huge trays heaped with food. There were chilies, tomatoes, corn, squash, pumpkins, papaya, avocado, and loaves of breadnut, as well as the boiled carcasses of rabbit, iguana, and armadillo. One tray was heaped to overflowing with large rolled leaves, and on another were laid a dozen fish, which the servant identified as Xoc. There were silver pitchers of brown liquid giving off potent alcoholic fumes, and gold ones holding a murky white drink.

  “This is balché,” Po said, sniffing the brown drink. “It is a traditional drink made of fermented honey and tree bark. Very strong.”

  “I’ll pass,” Remo said. “What about this?” He leaned over the gold pitcher filled with white liquid. Instantly his vision blurred. Chiun pushed him aside and, using stern gestures, ordered every gold pitcher removed from the room.

  “What was that stuff?” Remo asked.

  “Did you not recognize the scent?” Chiun said. “It is an extract made from the white flowers we found in the fields. The sleeping flowers.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Remo said. “Count Dracula’s bedtime potion. Hey, what’s that priest got against us, anyway?”

  “He frightens me,” the boy said.

  Chiun came to them, pointing toward the doorway. “Look, Remo. Just what you like. Bare-breasted women.”

  Indeed, a line of slithering girls draped from the hip down in flowing fabric jingled into the room, bells dangling from their fluttering fingers.

  “Now, this is more like it,” Remo said.

  The girls wove through the room, waving their long, unbound hair, their legs moving sinuously, eyes smiling. During their dance, they gathered up cushions into a luxurious banquette and led Remo and Chiun to them, seating them carefully.

  “Did I not tell you it was a better time than the one we left?” Chiun said.

  “It has its good points,” Remo agreed, accepting a grape. “Who’s that? The featured stripper?”

  He pointed toward the doorway, where a quartet of burly slaves carried an obsidian disc on their shoulders. On top of the disc stood a very young girl, a child of no more than twelve. Wrapped from the neck down with shimmering white gauze and bedecked with heavy jewels, she stood like a statue as the slaves set her down in the center of the room. She remained there, motionless, her wide gray eyes frightened and transfixed.

  “Hey, she’s just a kid,” Remo said. He called to Po, who was standing a few feet away, his mouth hanging open at the sight of her.

  The boy didn’t respond. Remo went over to him. “You all right?”

  “She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” Po said.

  Remo smiled. “There’ll be others.”

  “No others,” the boy said. “Ever.”

  It’s all right, Remo thought. Let the kid have his dream girl. By the time they figured out how to leave this place, Po would be as happy as the rest of them to get out.

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Nata-Ah. I heard one of the servants talking about her. She is the king’s granddaughter.”

  “Why’s she just standing there? She shy or something?”

  “She is not permitted to speak. She is here so that we may look on her beauty.”

  “Oh. Kind of like a painting, only living, right?”

  The boy didn’t hear him. His thoughts were on the girl standing in the middle of the room, a white angel surrounded by shapes without form, sound without sense. She was, the boy knew, the reason he had not died with the rest of his family, the reason he had survived the massacres of the Lost Tribes. She was what had awaited him at his journey’s end.

  The girl, Nata-Ah, granddaughter of the king, child of the forgotten centuries, was his destiny.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE WATER WAS STEAMING and fragrant with infusions of herbs. Remo, naked, allowed the beautiful bath girls to dry and oil him on one of the long benches of the tiled palace bathhouse. Chiun, draped in a white toga, occupied a small corner of the Olympic-sized pool, slapping away the hands that came to tend to him.

  “Get away. Can the Master of Sinanju not expect even a modicum of privacy in this place?”

  “I thought you liked it here.”

  “I like motel bathrooms better. Make them go away.”

  Remo sighed. “Okay, ladies, it’s a wrap,” he said, gesturing them out. They left, giggling.

  “When is this dumb ceremony, anyway?” Remo asked.

  “Soon. Dress yourself. You have no shame.”

  Remo slipped into his trousers. “Can’t you go without me? I want to check out that—whatever it was that we came here in.”

  “You will attend,” Chiun said. “While we are here, we follow the custom of our hosts. Who knows? Perhaps the king has need of the Master of Sinanju’s skills. Think diplomatically, Remo.”

  “I’m trying to get us out of here,” Remo protested.

  “Try after the ceremony.”

  There was a solemn knock at the bamboo bathhouse door, sending echoes reverberating. It creaked open and Po walked in. He was covered by a magnificent robe, and carried two others. “These are for you,” he said. “For the ceremony. The king sent them. Dr. Lizzie is already dressed.”

  “Will you look at these?” Remo said, running his hand over the jeweled garments.

  Chiun stepped out of the water and passed an overly casual glance over the robes. “Not as good as those made in Sinanju,” he said.

  “Yours has lumps of gold stuck on the front,” Remo said, holding up the small robe encrusted with glittering metal.

  “Gold? Real gold?”

  “See for yourself.”

  “Ah,” he said, snatching it away from Remo. “Mine is much finer than yours. I told you these were civilized people.” He compared the two robes. “But then, yours has emeralds in it.” A frown crossed his face.

  “Use it for a turban,” Remo said. “I’m going the way I am.”

  “You cannot. This is high ceremony.”

  “I don’t care if it’s Halloween. I plan to get out of here, and I’m not going back dressed as the Grand Poobah.”

  · · ·

  Remo stood in chinos and a black T-shirt atop the smoldering rim of the sacred volcano Bocatan while the nobles assembled. Clad in a lovely robe, Lizzie was curiously silent, taking in the scene around her. Chiun, beaming, glittered like a gem beside Remo. “Very wise choice, wearing your own clothes,” he whispered. “Where is the king? Do you think he will be perturbed that I have formed your robe into a cape?”

  “He was in such bad shape, I don’t think he’ll have much on his mind except living for the next twenty minutes. I think I see the litter down there.”

  Slowly, with awesome precision, the slaves made their careful way up the mountain with the covered sedan chair. Behind the king’s litter was another, of purest white, for the girl, Nata-Ah. Behind them both, at the end of the procession, walked the priest.

  He first helped the king from his chair, then returned for Nata-Ah. The girl was pale and apprehensive, her eyes glassy. She stepped to the rim of the volcano with faltering steps and took her place between her grandfather and the priest, opposite Remo and the others. Her head was high, the long unbound black hair shining with youth.

  The priest began to speak. His voice was low, his words clear and carrying. As he spoke, the girl’s chin quivered. The king bowed his head.

  “What’s going on?” Remo whispered to the boy, who frowned uncomprehendingly.

  “It is—it cannot be,” Po said, listening to the priest. Then his eyes widened. “He is going to sacrifice the girl!” he shouted. “The evil one is going to give Nata-Ah to the volcano.”

  He ran, limping, to the other side of the rim. “You will not do this thing!” he screamed, thrusting both of his small fists into the priest’s chest.

  The priest staggered backward. The king and the other nobles murmured in shocked dismay. Nata-Ah herself stood rigid, her eyes ablaze and fixed on the small lame boy who had dared to object to her death.