DOC SAVAGE: THE INFERNAL BUDDHA (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray Page A

Pompman said with injured dignity, “Merely that I am a student of personality. I have been observing you. I would wager that you were born in the month of April, if not May.”
    “What makes you say that?” Monk demanded.
    “The way you carry yourself. Your bullheaded attitude. You are a man who charges into things. You seize opportunity by the throat. Obviously you—”
    “I might seize you by the throat if I took a mind to,” growled the hairy chemist.
    “Spoken like a true Taurus.”
    “A—what did you say?” muttered Monk.
    “You are undoubtedly born under the sun of Taurus. It is written all over your bovine face.”
    “My face ain’t none of your business,” Monk retorted. “So mind yours before I pop you one.”
    Monk rushed forward to the cockpit.
    “This guy’s an astrologer!” he bellowed over the engine vibration.
    Doc Savage said nothing.
    Ham offered, “It is a superstition I take no store in. Hence, my invitation to you to keep the bounder company.”
    Monk barked, “Out of that seat, shyster. I’m reclaimin’ my due.”
    “Nothing doing!”
    They began arguing, but Doc Savage cut them off.
    “Monk, get in touch with the authorities in Singapore. See if any late word of Renny has been learned.”
    “Gotcha, Doc.” Monk repaired to the radio station, got busy at the dials.
    “I do not like that Pompman person,” Ham muttered. He lapsed into silence. The mention of Renny Renwick had reminded him that the hulking engineer’s fate was entirely unknown. Ham addressed this concern.
    “Doc, do you think that mummy we left back in New York is—”
    “The evidence is so far contradictory. But Renny’s fate remains uncertain.”
    A worried frown troubled the dapper lawyer’s eagle-like profile. “But it does not guarantee that Renny remains among the living. He has been out of communication for a deuced long interval.”
    “It might be best,” replied the bronze man gravely, “to be prepared for any eventuality, come what may.”
    Several minutes later, Monk spoke up from the radio set.
    “Singapore police say they’re still lookin’ for Renny. But so far they admit that they ain’t got a clue. ”
    Gloom descended upon the spacious cabin. No one spoke.
    Reluctantly, Monk returned to the empty seat near Startell Pompman. He had something on his mind.
    “Astrology,” he said flatly, “is a bunch of hooey.”
    Pompman eyed him aridly. “I beg your pardon?”
    “You heard me. Hooey. Hokum. Otherwise known as the bunk. The stars are far away. They don’t affect people. And that’s that.”
    “I am curious,” said Pompman. “What is your leader’s birthday?”
    “What’s it to you?”
    “Idle curiosity,” replied the other suavely. “I confess that the tell-tale indicators pointing to his composite solar personality so far elude me. It is as if the big fellow partakes of all twelve signs of the Zodiac.” Pompman made a harrumphing sound deep in his being. “Patently impossible, as we all know.”
    “Ask Doc, if you’re so durned interested,” mumbled Monk.
    “I shall—in due time.” Startell Pompman lapsed into silence.
    Monk Mayfair stared out into the night. He was a practical soul, and began wishing that he had brought along his pet pig, Habeas Corpus. But there had been no time to collect the remarkable shoat from the apish chemist’s penthouse digs. Doc Savage had also cautioned against it, which meant that the bronze man had already divined that they were all flying into a peril too terrible to risk bringing the pet.
    THEY stopped over in Manila, in the Philippines, just long enough to take on aviation fuel, after which they resumed the arduous hop to Singapore, which is a substantial island at the tip of the Malay Peninsula.
    Dawn found them dropping out of the Malayan sky. Doc Savage slanted the thundering transport plane in for a landing on Singapore harbor. He dragged the bay twice to warn the covered tambangs, bumboats, and assorted fishing craft to