It was not the mere fact of the voices that was so weird. The brain heard strange things in dreams. It was the
alien, somehow husky quality of that first voice that still shook him.
Nelson lit a clay oil−lamp. Its flickering rays and the growing light of dawn showed nothing unusual in the
bare, squalid little room. He put on his uniform−jacket and went through a door into the common−room of the
deserted inn. Three of his four fellow−officers were in the room.
Two of them, the big Dutchman, Piet Van Voss, and Lefty Wister, the spidery little Cockney, were snoring in
their bunks.
Nick Sloan, the third, stood shaving in front of a tiny steel mirror, his big body easily balanced on firm−set
feet, his flat, hard brown face looking coolly over his shoulder at Nelson.
“I heard you yell in there,” Sloan said. “Bad dream?”
Eric Nelson hesitated. “I don't know. There was something in the room. A shadow—”
“I'm not surprised,” Sloan drawled unsympathetically. “You were pretty stiff last night.”
Nelson was suddenly resentfully aware of the contrast of his disheveled figure and tumbled blond hair with
Sloan's competent neatness.
“Yes, I was drunk last night,” he said harshly. “And I'll be drunk again tonight and tomorrow night also.”
A patient voice sighed from the doorway. “Not tomorrow night, Captain Nelson. No.”
Nelson turned. It was Li Kin who stood in the doorway. He made an absurd figure, his scrawny little body
swathed in a major's uniform far too big for him. His gentle, fine−planed face was sagging with weariness and
behind his thick−lensed spectacles his black eyes held sadness.
“A full column of the Chinese Red Army is on its way here from Nun−Yan,” he said. “It will be here by
tomorrow noon.”
Nick Sloan's tawny eyes narrowed slightly. “That's pretty fast action. But it's only what we expected.”
Yes, Eric Nelson thought heavily. It was only what they had expected.
They five had been staff officers for Yu Chi, a onetime minor warlord in the old China who had fled the
country when the Communists took over. For years, Yu Chi had made his base in the no−man's−land of wild
mountains that thrust up like a fist between China, Burma and Tibet, a region where boundaries and
sovereignties were shadowy things. Every so often the old warlord, posing as a liberator, had made a foray
which pretended to be a guerrilla action against the Reds but which was really a looting raid.
Of the five of them, Li Kin was the only one with any patriotic motives. The others were frankly mercenaries,
picking up whatever they could in the troubles of southeast Asia. Nelson had been such a mercenary for ten
years, ever since the Korean War ended and he decided that he liked adventure too much to go home. Nick
Sloan had been in Asia nearly as long. Van Voss and the little Cockney were fugitive criminals, but tough
fighting−men.
But now the five were at the end of their rope. Yu Chi had gone on one “liberation” raid too many, and had
walked into a tiger−trap of Red troops here. They had won the battle, and the town. But Yu Chi was dead, his
The Valley Of Creation
The Valley Of Creation 3