The Devil—With Wings by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

caretaker for these huts which appeared so abandoned but which were, in reality, an outpost and fueling station and hangar.
    â€œLin,” said Forsythe, “do you think you could cook me up some ham and eggs? I’ll need them before the day is out.”
    Lin almost smiled but not quite. He was flattered by the request and went swiftly to work with the Primus and a frying pan. Forsythe walked through a curtained doorway and Patricia, looking after him at the swaying cloth, heard water splashing as Forsythe washed up.
    She turned slowly to Ching and saw him still fondling the doll. In a small, wondering voice, she whispered, “Bob’s alive!” The dawning realization had taken minutes to drive away the chill certainty of her brother’s death.
    Abruptly, she shouted, “He’s alive!” She grabbed the startled Ching and hugged him. She danced around the table and gave Lin a giddy spin across the floor. And then she left them both and stood outside the curtain looking at it with glowing, excited eyes. In every flowing curve of her graceful body she showed thankfulness and admiration.
    But Forsythe did not come out and Patricia danced back to the table and began to set his place for him.
    While she was doing this, a small cloud drifted over the brightness of her face. She laid the plates more slowly and then stopped with one held in midair, looking oddly back at the curtained door. No thought could be dark enough to hide her jubilance, but still she was troubled.
    Had Akuma-no-Hané gone to this trouble for her alone?
    No. Everything she had ever heard about him belied the fact that he had.
    The Confucius was valuable.
    Yes, very valuable.
    Suddenly it came coldly over her that she and Bob Weston were less than pawns in a struggle much greater than their own small triumphs and fears. And Akuma-no-Hané, obviously, had only availed himself of an opportunity to strike at Shinohari.
    She sat down slowly and watched Lin frying ham and eggs.
    Forsythe came out. Perhaps if he had returned in his shirt sleeves without his helmet, her reaction would have been different. But he evidently could not chance her seeing his face and though he smiled, the oval lenses, glinting at her above the smile, sent lances of misgivings through her.
    Forsythe slid into a chair across from her, regarding her curiously. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you hear me? Bob Weston is alive and you’ll see him before night.”
    She managed a faint “Thank you,” and then averted her glance to her plate.
    Forsythe shrugged and turned to Lin who was ladling out the food.
    Ching, in the meanwhile, had been rolling the Confucius around and around in his hands, studying it with lowered brows and pursed mouth. He began a systematic tapping and, when that failed to bring anything important to view, carried the image over to Lin’s larder. Ching took some flour and rubbed it on the ancient wood. Suddenly a white line appeared around the base where the detachable portion had made the smallest imaginable crack.
    Excitedly he unscrewed the base and produced a small, tight roll of paper. He started to open it when he glanced at Forsythe.
    â€œI believe,” said Forsythe, “that the letter is addressed to the young lady—if you don’t mind, Ching.”
    She took it from Ching’s reluctant fingers. Forsythe gave his whole attention to his eating, quite as though the matter was of very small importance.
    Patricia read it once to herself and then glanced sideways at Forsythe. She knew he would take it from her in any case despite his original politeness in the matter.
    She looked back and read it aloud.
    Dear Sis:
    I think we’ve got a bonanza! I’ve gotten out something like eighty thousand dollars in two weeks’ work and there’s chances to get more. I found an old dredge which came from god-knows-where and a crew of Japanese colonists are working it for me under my