The Image and the Likeness

The initial bitterness which followed the debacle of 1955 had passed, we were glad to see. Porters no longer spat in the faces of white men. They were polite, but we had not been in the city a half hour before we sensed something else. There was an edge to that politeness. It was as Major Reid had written before we left San Francisco—a subtle change had come over Asia in the previous few years. They smiled—they waited on us—they bent over backwards to atone for the excesses of the first years of freedom from foreign rule; but through it all was an air of aloofness, of superior knowledge.

Baker put it in his typically blunt British way.

"The blighters have something up their sleeves, all right. The whole crew of them. Did you notice that rickshaw boy? When I said to take us to the hotel, he answered 'Yes, today I take you'. The Major was right—there's something in the wind, and it's damned serious."

We were sitting, surrounded by our luggage, in our suite at the New China Hotel. There were four of us: Llewelyn Baker, Walter Chamberlin, Robert Martin, and myself, William Cady. Baker and Martin were anthropologists, and old China hands as well. Chamberlin was a geologist, and I claimed knowledge of zoology. We were here ostensibly as a scientific expedition, and had permission from the Republic of East Asia to do some work on Celebese man, following up the discoveries by Rance of bones and artifacts on that East Indian island in 1961.

We had another reason for coming at this particular time, although this was not mentioned to the authorities. Our real objective was to find out certain things about New Buddhism, the violently nationalistic religion which was sweeping Pan-Asia.

New Buddhism was more than a religion. It was a motivating force of such power that men like Major Reid at the American Embassy were frankly worried, and had communicated their fears to their home governments. The Pan-Asia movement had, at first, been understandable. At first it had been nationalism, pure and simple. The Asiatics were tired of exploitation and western bungling, and wanted to rule themselves. During the communist honeymoon in the early fifties, it was partly underground and partly taken over by the Reds for their own purposes. But through everything it retained a character of its own, and after '55 it reappeared as a growing force which was purely oriental. Or at least so it seemed. Our job was, among other things, to find out if Russian control was really destroyed.

We had already made several observations. The most obvious was the number of priests. Yellow robed Buddhist priests had always been common, begging rice and coppers in the streets, but in 1955 a new kind appeared. He was younger than his predecessors, and was usually an ex-soldier. And his technique was different. He was a salesman. "Rice—rice for Buddha," he would say. "Rice for the Living Buddha, to give him strength. Rice for the Great One, that he may grow mighty. Rice for the strength to cast off our bonds."

And they had organization. This wasn't any hit or miss revival, started by a crackpot, or by some schemer for his own enrichment. There was direction back of it, and very good direction too. We sensed that it had been Japanese, at least at the start, but with the end of the occupation, we could no longer barge in and investigate officially. Now there were treaties to respect, and diplomatic procedure and all that sort of thing.

Instead, we were here to spy. Unofficially, of course. The ambassador was very explicit on that point. We were strictly on our own. If we were caught, there could be no protection. So here we were. Four scientists investigating Celebese man, and trying to find out, on the side, just what was back of New Buddhism.

We washed up, had dinner, and presently, as we had expected, Major Reid called. After a few jocular references to anthropology, for the benefit of the waiter, he got down to business.

"I'll have to be brief," he said, "because I can't spend too much time with you without stirring up suspicion. You all know the background. They claim that this business is simply a new religion, a revival of Buddhism modeled to fit new conditions. President Tung claims that there is no connection between it and the state. We think differently. We have reason to believe that the direction back of this movement is communism, and that its ultimate object is military attack on the western world. What we don't know is the nature of the proposed attack. Some of us suspect that they are making H-bombs, and have covered up so that we cannot spot them. That's what we must find out.

"The headquarters of New Buddhism is on a small volcanic island called Yat, off the east coast of Celebes. Your job is to reach that island and find out what's going on, and then bring the information back. Clear?"

We nodded. We had received a similar briefing in Washington, and from a far more distinguished personage than Major Reid, but we felt no need of mentioning this. In such a business, gratuitous information, even to friends, serves no useful end.

OUR INFORMANT in Washington had told us a good many other things, too. In the name of New Buddhism, the priests had been collecting immense quantities of supplies, and on an increasing scale. Tons of foodstuffs had been gathered and then shipped off to an unknown destination. Machinery, lumber, structural steel, canvas by the thousands of yards had been purchased, loaded onto ships and barges, and spirited away. It appeared that the New Buddhists were maintaining a standing army, or perhaps a labor force somewhere east of Borneo, but the picture was very incomplete.

Part of the failure of ordinary methods of intelligence may have been due to the supersecrecy of the New Buddhists themselves. It was not difficult to corrupt priests on the lower levels, but all they knew was that certain quotas of food and materials were set for their territory, which were then shipped away to Borneo.

The big break had come only a few months ago. One of the OSS men got through to a barge captain, who had been to the headquarters itself. He identified the location as an island a few miles off the northeast coast of Celebes. It was, he said, highly mountainous—in fact he believed it to be an extinct volcano, with a water filled crater reached only by a narrow passage from the sea. Boats, he said, could go in and out, but his barge was not among those permitted. He delivered his cargo, three thousand tons of rice and five thousand raw hides, and was then sent on his way. Under questioning, he said that there were many people living on the island—thousands at least. Most of them lived in barracks among the trees fronting the ocean, but some had special privileges and were allowed to go to the top of the crater rim.

Of the activities within the crater our informant knew nothing. At night the clouds were often lit by reflections from there, and once he had heard noises, accompanied by a distinct shaking of the earth, as though blasting were being done at a great depth.

This was the extent of our knowledge. We knew the location, but it was up to us to find out the rest.

Our departure from Shanghai for the great island of Celebes involved the usual exasperation of delay and red tape. The American Embassy did everything possible to expedite matters, and brought a little pressure to bear, I think, on the strength of the then impending American Sixth Loan to China. In any case we were at last cleared, and boarded the plane for Celebes.

We took one of the six place compartments on the upper deck, and presently had company in the form of two yellow-clad New Buddhist priests. Baker, who had the best command of Chinese, engaged them in conversation.

As we had expected, they were very willing to talk, and displayed a lively interest in Celebes man. That they were here to watch us was obvious. Baker bided his time, and then switched the conversation to New Buddhism. On this subject too the priests were anything but reticent. They described with enthusiasm the great spiritual renaissance that was sweeping all Asia "like a wind, the breath of life from the Living Buddha." Baker asked a few questions about the Buddha, since to show no curiosity about such a life subject might excite suspicion. The priests were ready for them, and gave what was evidently the stock answer: the Living Buddha was the very incarnation of Gautama himself, a spiritual leader who was being groomed to take over the guidance of all mankind, in east and west alike.

"Where does the Great One live?" asked Baker, alert for a trap.

"In Celebes, where you are going," was the reply.

"Oh," said Baker innocently, "Then perhaps it could be arranged for us to meet him?"

This, explained the priest, was quite impossible. In due time Buddha would display himself for the world to see and marvel over; meanwhile, while his preparation was yet incomplete, he must remain in seclusion.

By now convinced that the presence of the priests was no accident, Baker settled down to the sort of verbal sparring match that he enjoyed. He had been speaking in the Cantonese dialect, but now he abruptly switched to English.

"You know," he remarked, "you fellows are using an amazing amount of material at your headquarters. Enough food to keep a good sized standing army."

The two priests, who had professed ignorance of English at the start of the conversation, stiffened visibly. Baker returned to Chinese.

The priests recovered their composure with some effort. The older replied suavely, "Gossip is a creative art. There is a large monastery at our central temple, and much is needed to maintain its activities."

"Truth," said Baker pontifically, "is usually disappointing. The imagination changes a mud hut to a palace, and a sickly priest to a demigod."

The two priests inclined their heads slightly at this. We watched their expressions. If Baker's purposely provoking language brought a reaction, it was not visible. But we had learned one thing: they spoke English but preferred that we did not know it.

OUR ARRIVAL at New Macassar, the Indonesian capital of Celebes, was attended by the usual confusion and delay. Our Buddhist friends vanished with a speed which suggested special consideration, while the man from the American Consulate was still getting our equipment through customs.

This business at length completed, we were escorted to a taxi by the attache and whisked up one of the wide avenues of the city without a question as to where we were to stay. Baker and Martin stared out the window with studied ease—they knew that something was up, but were content to await further developments. Now I noticed something else. The driver of our cab was a European, not a native. I started to frame a question, when, without warning, the car ducked into a side street, swung around two corners and abruptly entered an open doorway in a tall stucco building. Both Walt and I were half out of our seats in alarm, when our guide spoke.

"The American Consulate, gentlemen," he said, with the slightest trace of a diplomatic smile.

The cab had stopped in the ground floor garage of the consulate, and opening the door was the consul himself.

"Good morning, I'm Stimson. Hope Avery didn't give you too wild a ride, but I thought it best not to advertise my interest in you at the front door. Things have changed a bit in the last few days. Well, Avery will show you to your rooms. I'll be in the upstairs study when you're freshened up."

There was little to speculate on as we shaved and changed to less rumpled clothes, but we worked over the available data for what it was worth.

"Consul takes us in tow," remarked Chamberlin. "That isn't in line with the unofficial status so strongly impressed on us at Washington."

"And sneaking us in through the back door isn't according to best diplomatic form, either. Stimson wants to protect us from something, but obviously doesn't want the local constabulary to know." This from Martin.

"It seems to me," I ventured, "that they could check the hotels. It shouldn't take them long to put two and two together when we don't show. I'm blessed if I can see what Stimson has to gain from this maneuver."

Baker turned from the mirror where he had been adjusting his tie. "Suppose we ask him," he commented.

The consul was waiting for us in his study. After the briefest greeting which his official position permitted, he got down to business.

"Gentlemen, I've had to pull a diplomatic boner of the first magnitude. I refer to the cloak and dagger method of getting you here. But believe me, it was the only way. They're onto your scheme. If you went to a hotel in New Macassar, you wouldn't be alive tomorrow morning."

"But, the taxi—" began Martin.

"It gave us a few hours. If I had sent the consulate car, they'd have us sealed off tight right now. I could keep you safe here, or get you on the Shanghai plane, but you couldn't make another move. As it is, we have perhaps two hours—with luck."

The consul settled back in his chair, evidently gathering his thoughts. We waited, more mystified than before, if that were possible. At length Stimson started again.

"You're well briefed on the general situation. Reid gave me the gist of his conversation. But there are some other things that even Reid doesn't know." He opened a folding blotter on his desk and drew out an eight by ten photographic print.

"You're aware of the efforts that have been made to look into the crater on Yat. To date we have not succeeded in getting an eye witness to the rim. We have flown over Yat, of course, and have taken pictures from every altitude from 5,000 to 70,000 feet, but so far they have outsmarted us. They have smoke generators all around the rim, which they fire up night and day whenever the natural clouds lift. We've used every color, including infra red. We've taken stereo pairs, and flash shots at night, but, with one exception, all we've ever gotten are beautiful pictures of clouds and smoke. The exception I have here. It was taken two weeks ago, during a brief break in a heavy storm. Before I say anything more, I'd like to have you look at it and form your own opinions."

He placed the print on the desk, facing us, and leaned back while we four crowded around. My first glimpse was disappointing. Fully two thirds of the picture was occupied by clouds. But gradually I made out the details. There seemed to be several buildings of uncertain size in the lower part, and a fringe of brush extending up to the left. Half visible through the mist were several structures which seemed to me, in comparison to the larger buildings, like chicken houses or perhaps rabbit hutches. No humans were in sight, evidently because of the storm. But in the center of the picture was the thing which fixed our attention from the first, leaving the other details for later scrutiny. This was an immense human figure, lying on its side with the head pillowed on its hands in the attitude of the colossal figures of the reclining Buddha found in the mountains of China. The body was partly covered by a robe, but whether this was part of the figure or a canvas protection against the rain, was difficult to tell. Only the head, hands and feet showed. The face was partly in shadow, but enough could be seen to identify the typical Buddha countenance: closed eyes and lips curled in an enigmatic smile.

WE STARED at this peculiar picture for a good minute, taking in the details, while Stimson watched us. Then Baker looked up.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Before I tell you our guesses," replied the consul, "I'd like to hear your reactions."

"It would appear that the New Buddhists are doing the obvious—setting up a Buddhist temple. Although, except for the statue, you'd never guess it." This from Chamberlin.

Martin squinted closely at the print. "Yes, the buildings look more like airship hangars than a temple."

Stimson raised his eyebrows slightly. "That's an interesting observation," he commented.

"Wish there were some humans, or something else to give a scale," said Baker. "For all we can tell, it could be anything from doll houses and a life sized statue, all the way up to an air base, and a reclining Buddha to end all reclining Buddhas."

There was an expectant pause. Stimson, seeing that we had nothing more to add, cleared his throat, glanced briefly out of the window behind his chair, and hunched forward.

"This picture was made from an F-180A, modified for photo reconnaissance. The plane was on a routine flight from Singapore to Mindanao, over a solid deck of clouds. The pilot swung south over Yat just out of curiosity. He approached the island at 50,000 feet, using radar, and was about to pass over when he spotted a hole in the overcast. Time was 1800—just sunset—but the edge of the crater was well lighted, although the bottom was in deep shadow. More important, the smoke generators had been turned off. Obviously the clouds had just parted, and would close in again in a minute. The presence of the F-180A at this particular instant was just one of those one in a million lucky breaks. The pilot realized this. He put the ship into a dive and ordered his photographer to ready the cameras.

"The plane approached Yat at a speed above Mach 1.2, so there was no audible warning, and evidently the island's radar was off, for the surprise was complete. Within 90 seconds the F-180A closed level just over the crater and shot past with only a thin stratus layer between it and ground. Time over the crater was hardly 10 seconds, and neither pilot nor observer saw anything, but the synchronous vertical camera was operating and four flashes were made during the middle four seconds. Then the plane was in the clouds again at a 45 degree climb and a dozen miles towards the Philippines before anyone on Yat could even get outdoors.

"As might be expected there was a considerable protest over this violation of Celebese territory, although oddly, it was based on moral grounds rather than national integrity. The protest was signed by the Lama of Macassar, and demanded neither indemnity nor punishment of the pilot, but asked merely that incense be burned in Washington to appease Buddha. Now of course the Lama isn't that naive, or devout. As you may know, Phobat Rau was educated at Harvard and CIT, and is a thoroughly trained and tough statesman who knows his way around anywhere, and doesn't believe the theological hogwash in Pan-Buddhism any more than I do. So it was a question of getting behind his motives. Of course, it could be a cover, but our final guess was that the protest was really made for the benefit of the faithful in Asia. This opinion was strengthened, at least as far as I am concerned, about a fortnight ago when Rau attended the British Embassy reception for Lord Hayes. He didn't avoid me, but actually seemed to single me out as a foil for some of his witty small talk. Asked if I was much of a student of Buddhist architecture and carvings, and if I had seen the Kyoto Buddha, or the reclining Buddha on the Yangtze. He was fishing, of course, but I played it dumb, and presently he gave up.

"Well, there you have it, at least as far as the picture is concerned. The Buddhists were considerably upset, for they tightened up security all over the islands. And then you came into the scene. Naturally nobody believed that you were just after Celebese man, but the governor granted permission—so easily, in fact, that we got suspicious. Americans are no match for oriental subtlety, but we do have a few tricks, one of whom is a code clerk in the Macassar foreign office, and from her we learned that you were set for the preferred treatment: to be let in easily, and then knocked off in some painless way. Hence the taxi, and the sneak ride here."

He paused. "That's the situation to date, gentlemen. Any questions?"

Martin had been studying the photograph. "At what altitude was this taken?"

The consul shook his head. "The autorecorder was off. The observer forgot to set it, in the rush."

"Well, couldn't they estimate?"

"They did, but it's obviously way off. The pilot swears that he levelled at 9,000, but that would make these buildings a quarter of a mile long, and the Buddha at least five hundred feet. Unless you want to believe that they have another Willow Run on Yat, you can't take that figure."

Another pause. Finally Baker spoke. "You said you had a guess."

"Yes, I have." Stimson seemed reluctant to speak. "But it sounds so damned fantastic I hate to tell it to you—well, to be short, I don't think that this Buddha is a statue."

We all sat up. "Then what is it?" This from Martin.

"I mean, not a statue of stone or masonry in the usual sense of the term. I think that it is a portable image of Buddha—an inflated gas bag like they use in the Easter parade. I think they intend to float it in the air—perhaps tow it—to impress the faithful. If the thing's really 500 feet long, it may be a blimp or a rigid airship with its own motors. But, whatever the details, I think our mystery is just a piece of propaganda for Neo-Buddhism, although a damned good one, from the native standpoint."

We all relaxed. This was an anticlimax. Stimson had built us up to something—just what, we were not sure—and then had pricked the bubble.

"Well, it sounds reasonable," Baker finally remarked, returning the print to Stimson, "although not particularly dangerous, and certainly not worth risking our necks to spy on. However, I don't think it's good enough to explain all of the supplies that have gone into Yat."

The consul nodded. "Yes, that's the rub. If they hadn't taken such pains to conceal the thing, I'd be inclined to call it just a cover for something else."

"Maybe it still is," said Baker.

Stimson looked at us carefully, as though making up his mind.

"That is where you gentlemen come in," he said finally. "I have reason to believe that our picture has tipped their hand, that they are going ahead with whatever they have planned in the next few days. Someone's got to get to Yat first—someone who can observe intelligently, and speak the language. My staff is all clerical, and there is no chance to get any CIA men now. You're the only ones available."

He paused. We looked at each other, and then at Baker. He cleared his throat a couple of times, took another squint at the photo, and then spoke.

"Speaking for myself, Stimson, when do we leave?"

"That goes for me too," said Martin. Chamberlin and I nodded.

Stimson seemed relieved. "I'd hoped to hear that. In fact, I'd have been considerably embarrassed if you gentlemen hadn't come through, because I have a seaplane waiting right now to take you to Yat."

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