Indiana Jones and the Interior World Read online

  Indiana Jones

  and the

  Interior World

  Discover the ADVENTURES

  of INDIANA JONES

  In 1981 a new hero like no other burst upon the scene. Over the next ten years and three films we grew to know and love the legend that is Indiana Jones: bold adventurer, swashbuckling explorer, he lives forever in our imaginations, unraveling the mysteries of the past in a time when the world was at war and dreams could still come true. Now, in an all-new series of novels officially licensed from Lucasfilm, we will learn what shaped Indiana Jones into the hero he is today!

  Don't miss any of Indy's exciting adventures in

  INDIANA JONES AND THE

  PERIL AT DELPHI

  INDIANA JONES AND THE

  DANCE OF THE GIANTS

  INDIANA JONES AND THE

  SEVEN VEILS

  INDIANA JONES AND THE

  GENESIS DELUGE

  INDIANA JONES AND THE

  UNICORN'S LEGACY

  BEAST OF THE INTERIOR WORLD

  "Get down!" Vicard barked, and Indy dropped face-first into the muck. An earsplitting cry from overhead sent an icy shiver down his spine. He forced himself to raise his head.

  The sky was filled with a black form, and at first Indy couldn't imagine what it was. Then he saw massive, leathery wings and a prehistoric head that was all teeth and cold, dark eyes. The body of the creature was thick and snakelike, but with a pair of legs equipped with huge claws.

  At first Indy couldn't make out what the creature was carrying. Then he looked on in horror as he realized the claws gripped the limp body of one of the guards.

  "Was that the flying snake?" Indy managed to ask Salandra.

  "Yes, a dragon," she answered. "And it's probably got a mate around here, too."

  Bantam Books by Rob MacGregor

  Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed

  INDIANA JONES AND THE PERIL AT DELPHI

  INDIANA JONES AND THE DANCE OF THE GIANTS

  INDIANA JONES AND THE SEVEN VEILS

  INDIANA JONES AND THE GENESIS DELUGE

  INDIANA JONES AND THE UNICORN'S LEGACY

  INDIANA JONES AND THE INTERIOR WORLD

  INDIANA JONES AND THE INTERIOR WORLD

  A Bantam Falcon Book / December 1992

  FALCON and the portrayal of a boxed "f" are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1992 by Lucasfilm, Ltd.

  Cover art by Drew Struzan.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  * * *

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  * * *

  ISBN 0-553-29966-2

  Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  * * *

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10103.

  * * *

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  RAD 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  An S522 eBook conversion

  To the folks on GEnie

  who followed the adventure in the making.

  The exterior world must inevitably be lined at every point with an interior one.

  —Teilhard de Chardin

  Whether it happened so or not I do not know; but if you think about it you can see that it is true.

  —Black Elk

  Prologue

  September 21, 1928

  Channels of Paradise

  Maleiwa and his two lieutenants moved rapidly through the channels. They were close to the passageway to the exterior and they knew it. But Maleiwa feared they would be late. The solar portal opened twice a year and only for a few minutes each time. They were anxious and paid no heed to anything behind them.

  That was fine with Salandra. Maleiwa's intense concentration on finding the portal worked to her advantage. It allowed her to hurry after them with little concern about discovery. She was prepared to follow them wherever they went. It was up to her to keep track of Maleiwa's incursions into the exterior.

  The Channels of Paradise, as this region was known, was only vaguely mapped and seldom used because of the time limitations. But that made it ideal for the tall, muscular, bald-headed leader of the Wayua. He didn't want anyone to know about his secretive efforts to form an alliance on the exterior.

  But he hadn't fooled Salandra. She'd been watching Maleiwa from a distance for a long time. She knew he wanted nothing more than to expand his base of power, and that attempt had to be stopped. The people of the exterior were not prepared to deal with him and what he represented. The lack of belief, more than anything, was their worst enemy. How could they confront what they did not believe?

  There was a time when the ancient sorcerers from the outer world mixed freely with the denizens of the underworld. But those times were long past and lived only in the minds of a very few, and in the hearts of many legends. Now the younger brothers, as those on the outside were sometimes called, were particularly vulnerable. They had progressed in a way that led them to worship mechanical things. Machines had become their gods, and they had divorced themselves from the ancient knowledge. Maleiwa understood the vulnerability, and wanted to use it to his own advantage.

  Salandra paused and hugged the wall as the men entered a round chamber. The room was dark and there was no sign of a passageway to the outside. Maybe they were too late, and had missed their chance. How satisfying it would be to report back to the king that Maleiwa had failed.

  Suddenly, a harmonic ringing of chimes filled the chamber. The sound had no specific source but seemed to come from everywhere. The channels were inhabited by elemental beings, and their mellifluous music was their signature. It grew louder and louder and literally swirled around her. It momentarily disoriented her, but it didn't take long for her to understand what it meant.

  Light flooded the chamber, pouring through a triangular-shaped portal that had appeared in the wall. Dawn had arrived in the outer world on the day known as the equinox.

  She shaded her eyes, as did Maleiwa and his lieutenants. Even though they had prepared for the changes, the first exposure of intense light and the thickness of the outer air was nevertheless a shock. But there was little time to adjust. The portal was a temporary, fleeting opening. She had to prepare to rush out after Maleiwa, and still avoid detection.

  She squinted against the brightness and saw Maleiwa climbing through the opening. His lieutenants had already gone ahead of him. Salandra rushed across the chamber as soon as Maleiwa was out of sight. The chimes resonating through her, the richness of sound filling her like water in a vessel. She didn't want to leave, but she knew she must. She had no choice; it was her duty, her mission.

  She no sooner stretched a leg through the triangular opening in the rock wall when she saw movement in front of her and heard a jumble of voices. She quickly pulled back her leg, and pressed against the wall. Did Maleiwa suspect he was being followed? If so, she was caught. There was no time t
o escape. She would die right here, and no one would ever know what happened to her.

  Maleiwa crawled back into the chamber. He was carrying something that looked like a sword or a staff. It was milky white and the hilt was silver, shaped like a twin-headed bird, an eagle. What was it? What was he doing?

  As Maleiwa raised the staff, the ground suddenly shuddered and a moment later, a deafening explosion tore through the chamber. Salandra was knocked to the ground. Maleiwa stumbled and fell to his knees, still clutching the staff. Dust and bits of rock filled the air. The portal closed; the light vanished. Maleiwa yelled for his lieutenants, but there was no answer. Salandra was confused, frightened. It wasn't supposed to happen that way.

  Suddenly, the Wayua leader fled down the channel with the staff under his arm. She waited a moment, then raced after him at a safe distance. One thought was on her mind. She not only had to continue watching Maleiwa, but she had to find out everything she could about the staff.

  1

  Rongo-Rongo Tablets

  Spring 1929

  Easter Island

  The hand pick flashed in the waning light and stabbed the earth again and again. Finally, the soil was loosened, and Indy scooped it out with his trowel. Then he went to work with the hand pick once more. Over and over the same process repeated itself, as though it had nothing to do with him. This was the fifth house in the long-abandoned ceremonial village of Orongo, and the fifth time, it seemed, that he was coming up empty-handed. Tomorrow, he'd return and replace the dirt, and cover the floor with the same stones in the exact arrangement he'd found them, and move on to the next house.

  The stone houses were situated precariously on the rim of Rano Kau. Most of them were still in good condition, even though seventy-five years had elapsed since the islanders had last climbed the volcano to praise the gods Makemake and Haua.

  He raised the hand pick and struck again. He hit something solid. He dropped the pick, and carefully scraped the dirt aside with the trowel. A long, rounded wooden surface was emerging. At last. It looked like the edge of a Rongo-rongo tablet, the object of his search.

  Although Easter Island was best known for its moais, the massive, solemn heads carved from stone, Indy's interest here was the wooden tablets, which were inscribed with a mysterious script. He'd been studying the tablets for weeks, but had gotten nowhere in his attempts to decipher the glyphs, which resembled stylized plants and animals. Supposedly, the islanders had forgotten how to read Rongo-rongo, and with only a few tablets in existence Indy had found the task of deciphering the system nearly impossible. So for the past couple of weeks he'd been digging in Orongo, hoping to uncover tablets that might provide the key to comprehending the script.

  He set the trowel aside, picked up a brush with stiff bristles, and continued removing dirt. He'd been concentrating on the script so intensely that every night in his dreams the tiny creatures danced across his vision in sets of parallel lines. They motioned to him with their fins and fronds, arms and legs, stems and bills. They were telling him the key. Over and over again. It was so obvious. But only while he was asleep. Once he awoke, the images vanished and nothing was obvious.

  Indy paused a moment and glanced over his shoulder toward the setting sun. He should stop now, and continue the work tomorrow. The sun would sink into the lapis waters in a matter of minutes, and he didn't like the idea of riding his horse down the slope of the volcano in the inky darkness. But it was no time to be practical, not after so many days of frustration. He needed to discover something for his own peace of mind. He couldn't go back to the States having accomplished nothing. Not that he hadn't been warned. Rongo-rongo script had been studied by linguists for decades and no one had cracked it.

  He set the brush aside and began working with his fingers. He rubbed the dirt from the wood and leaned close. It was in good condition and wasn't about to crumble. Then he touched metal, and felt an acute sense of disappointment. It wasn't a tablet. But maybe it was a spear from the days of Captain Cook. He quickly worked his way along the metal. To his surprise it didn't taper to a point; it grew wider. He scraped furiously at the dirt, then abruptly stopped.

  "Oh, no!"

  He grabbed the wooden handle and jerked it free. Ah, for crying out loud. The only thing worse than finding nothing was digging up a blasted shovel.

  He threw it to the ground in disgust. Another day of disappointment. He brushed the dirt off his hands, then gathered his tools in his pack. He slung it over his shoulder, and headed toward the far end of the village where his horse was tethered.

  "Time to go, fella." Indy patted the horse's rear and was about to mount the steed when he glimpsed something moving in the rocks above his head. "Wait right here, Champ."

  He climbed a narrow crevice between two boulders. Cautiously, he raised his head and looked around, then smiled as several terns darted out from a rocky recess. "What are you guys doing up here?"

  Birds were special, even sacred, in Orongo, or at least they had been at one time. In fact, the rocks on which he stood were inscribed with drawings of creatures that were half men, half birds with long beaks, each of them clutching an egg. The petroglyphs had been carved by the followers of the birdman cult, which had thrived for several centuries on the island. Supposedly, the cult had died in 1862 when the island's king and many of his priests were kidnapped and taken to Peru as slaves, thus ending the populace's knowledge of its ancient past.

  Indy peered over the rocks and down into the lake, which filled the crater of the dead volcano. A steamlike fog was forming over the water, and the round depression reminded him of a huge witch's cauldron, or the home of a god. He raised his gaze and looked out over the island. It was hilly and roughly triangular-shaped with a volcano at each corner. Much of the land consisted of rough lava fields, which looked nearly black now in the dying light. In contrast, the slopes of the volcanos were gentle and grassy, and still bathed in sunlight.

  Indy climbed back down the rocks and walked over to the horse. The south face of Rano Kau dropped sharply, and beyond the cliffs were three tiny islands. The largest, Motu Nui, was the nesting ground for thousands of sea birds, and along with Orongo had been the focal point of the birdman cult. Indy had asked if any survivors of the cult still remained, figuring they might know something about the Rongo-rongo script. But so far he'd gotten only blank stares and a few laughs from the islanders.

  "Let's go, boy." He swung his leg over the horse's back. But he never reached the saddle. A figure dashed from the rocks, grabbed his pack, and jerked him to the ground.

  A knife glinted in a ray of sunlight, and Indy rolled over just as the blade stabbed the dirt next to his throat. The man pulled it loose and stabbed again. This time, Indy grabbed his forearm, and they twisted and turned like dancers, edging closer and closer to the cliff.

  Indy glimpsed the man's face and saw fear. He was just a kid, sixteen or so. He was slighter than Indy and no match for his strength. The knife dropped to the ground, and the kid tottered near the brink. A slight shove and he'd fall to his death, but Indy pulled him away. He grasped the boy's shoulders and lifted him up so his toes just touched the ground.

  "All right, what's this about? Who are you?"

  The kid shook his head, and gasped for breath. His eyes darted back and forth as if he were looking for a way to escape. Indy lowered him to the ground and loosened his grip. A mistake. With a powerful thrust, the lad kneed Indy between the legs, slipped out of Indy's grasp, and raced over to the archaeologist's horse.

  "Oh, no, you don't!" Indy was doubled over in pain, but he managed to reach into his pack and jerk out his whip. He'd brought it along for diversion. It was good luck, part of his gear, and a weapon in a pinch.

  He snapped it toward the kid just as the horse and rider galloped off. The whip fell harmlessly to the ground amid a cloud of dust. "I must be getting rusty."

  As he reeled in the whip, he spotted the knife. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. "Well, well. What do
you know?"

  The handle was wooden, and carved on it was a half-man, half-bird figure grasping an egg. Maybe the birdman cult was still alive, after all.

  2

  Fallen Moai

  "Indy, where have you been? You almost missed supper.

  "Evening, Marcus." Indy ambled across the restaurant and sat at the table where Marcus Brody and a few of the others on the expedition were eating. "I got delayed on the volcano."

  A lad approached Indy, and for a moment he thought it was the same one who'd attacked him. He held a wooden figure up in front of Indy. It had a human face with a large, hooked nose, sharp cheekbones, and hollow cheeks. Its earlobes were long and complemented by a goatee. Its ribs and spine protruded and its hands and penis hung down to its knees.

  "You want to buy, mister?"

  Indy looked past the hand-carved demon, known as a moai kavakava, and saw it wasn't the same kid. "No, thanks. I've already got one."

  "Just go on. Let us eat in peace," said an archaeologist named Howard Maxwell. "Obnoxious lads."

  "They can be that way," Indy commented.

  "So any luck up there, Jones?" asked Maxwell, a chunky, pug-nosed man with slicked-down hair that was always neatly parted in the middle. "We're leaving next week, you know."

  "You don't have to tell him that, Howard," Brody said. "You can be as annoying as those young salesmen."

  "It's all right, Marcus," Indy said. Brody was an Englishman who had lived in the States for years and was an old family friend and virtually a substitute father for Indy. "In fact, I did find something this afternoon."