ed even to talk.

Rick saw countless yellow robes on the various balconies. There must be
thousands of monks, he thought. And there were an equal number of
Tibetans, many of them already busy at cooking fires near the base of
the gray stone buildings. He smelled mutton cooking, and the acrid,
unpleasant odor he had learned to identify with yak butter. Hot buttered
tea was a Tibetan staple. He had tried it on the trail, because he was
interested in everything, even yak butter. But he didn't think it would
ever take the place of ice cream in his affections.

One of the bearers came back and motioned to them. They followed as he
led the pack mules to a place in the shelter of a great rock. The other
bearers were foraging for wood. In a few moments a fire was going and
camp was being set up.

Sing returned. "No one may see the High Lama," he reported. "He is in
the middle of some kind of ceremony that takes a month. But I talked
with an important priest. He was friendly. He said he would send one of
the lamas to be our guide and to help us find your friend."

"Good," Zircon said. "Now, let's have some dinner. I'm famished."

The boys echoed his sentiments.

It was fully dark before they ended their meal. They were squatting
around the fire, sipping coffee and listening to Zircon's description of
the Buddhist ritual when one of the bearers suddenly called out. The
three Americans and Sing reached for their weapons as a yellow-robed
lama shuffled out of the darkness.

This, evidently, was their guide. He was of less than medium height, but
that was all Rick could tell about him. His loose robe draped around his
body and his cowl was pulled up, hiding his face.

"Welcome," Zircon boomed. "Sing, speak to him and tell him we are
grateful for his coming."

Sing spoke to the monk in Chinese.

The robed lama stood immobile, just within range of the firelight. The
yellow flames made shadows across his cowled figure. Rick felt a little
shudder run through him. The quiet figure was somehow weird.

Sing shifted to another language, but the lama made no reply. Then,
slowly, he brought his hands up level, outstretched toward them. He
chanted slowly, his voice muffled under the cowl. Then the chant died
and his hands were lowered once more.

Sing turned to the group. "I don't know what he said. It's not in a
language I understand." He spoke to the apparition. The monk stood
motionless.

"Wish they'd sent us someone we coul