Free The Adventures Of Indiana Jones by Campbell & Kahn Black Page A

about the roads to Patan.”
    “Bad. However, with any luck you will avoid the snows. Follow the route I have marked in the map. You should be safe.”
    “I can’t thank you enough,” Indy said.
    “You will not stay the night?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    Lin-Su smiled. “You have . . . what is that word? Ah, yes. A deadline?”
    “Right. I have a deadline.”
    “Americans,” he said. “They always have deadlines. And they always have ulcers.”
    “No ulcers yet,” Indy said, and opened the car door. It creaked badly on its hinges.
    “The clutch is stiff,” Lin-Su said. “The steering is poor. But it will take you to your destination and bring you back again.”
    Indy threw his bag onto the passenger seat. “What more could a man ask from a car, huh?”
    “Good luck, In-di-an-a.” It was like a Chinese name, the way Lin-Su pronounced it.
    They shook hands, then Indy pulled the car door shut. He turned the key in the ignition, listened to the engine whine, and then the car was going. He waved to the small Chinese, who was already moving down the street, beaming as if he were proud to have loaned his car to an American. Indy glanced at the map and hoped it was accurate because he sure couldn’t expect highway signs in a place like this.
    He drove for hours along the rutted roads Lin-Su had marked on the map, aware as darkness fell of the mountains looming like great spooks all around him. He was glad he couldn’t see the various passes that swept down beneath him. Here and there where snow blocked the road he had to edge the car through slowly, sometimes getting out and scraping as much snow from his path as he could. A desolate place. Bleak beyond belief. Indy wondered about living here in what must seem an endless winter. The roof of the world, they said. And he could believe it, except it was a mighty lonesome roof. Lin-Su apparently could stand it, but then it was probably a good place for the Chinaman to have his business, the importing and exporting of lines of merchandise that were sometimes of a dubious nature. Nepal—it was where all the world’s contraband came through, whether stolen objects of art, antiquities or narcotics. It was where the authorities turned eyes that were officially blind and forever had their palms held out to be slyly greased.
    Through the margins of sleep Indy drove, yawning, wishing he had some coffee to keep him going. Mile after dreary mile he listened to the springs of the mongrel car creak and squeal, to the squelch of tires on the snow. And then unexpectedly, before he could check his destination on the map, he found himself on the outskirts of a town, a town that had no designation, no sign, no name. He pulled the car to the side of the road and opened the map. He switched on the interior light and realized he must have reached Patan because there wasn’t any other sizable community marked on Lin-Su’s map. He drove slowly through the straggling outskirts of the place, dismal huts, constructions of windowless clay shacks. And then he reached what looked like the main thoroughfare, a narrow street—little more than an alley—of tiny stores, passageways that led off at sinister angles into shadows. He stopped the car and looked around him. A strange street—too silent in some way.
    Indy was suddenly conscious of another car cruising behind him. It passed, swerved as if to avoid him, picked up speed as it moved. When it disappeared he realized it was the only other car he’d seen all the way. What a godforsaken hole, he thought, trying to imagine Abner Ravenwood living here. How could anybody stand this?
    Somebody moved along the street, coming toward him. A man, a large man in a fur jacket, who swayed from side to side like a drunk. Indy got out of the car and waited until the man in the fur jacket had come close to him before speaking. The man’s breath smelled of booze, a smell so strong that Indy had to turn his face to the side.
    The man, like somebody