The Worlds of Leroy Yerxa
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short fiction
Description: A baker's dozen SF, fantasy and crime short fiction from the 1940s, by Leroy Yerxa, 1915-1946. He wrote under his own name and several of pseudonyms; all these stories were published under his own name. This is the first time they have been collected into a volume. They appeared in magazines such as Amazing Stories, Fantastic Adventures, and Mammoth Detective. 1: Death Rides at Night 2: Oliver Performs a Miracle 3: Corporal Webber's Last Stand 4: Louie's Cat Eye 5: One-Way Ticket to Nowhere 6: Queen of the Flaming Diamond 7: Bridge Of Banishment 8: Freddie Funk's Madcap Mermaid 9: O'Sheen Goes

THE WORLDS OF

LEROY YERXA

1942-5

Contents

Introduction

1: Death Rides at Night

2: Oliver Performs a Miracle

3: Corporal Webber's Last Stand

4: Louie's Cat Eye

5: One-Way Ticket to Nowhere

6: Queen of the Flaming Diamond

7: Bridge Of Banishment

8: Freddie Funk's Madcap Mermaid

9: O'Sheen Goes to the Dogs

10: Valley of the Black Sun

11: These Shoes Are Killing Me

12: The Garden of Hell

13: All Kinds Of People

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Introduction

Leroy Yerxa (1915-1946)  was an author for US pulp magazines such as Amazing Stories, Fantastic Adventures, Mammoth Detective, and many others, both under his own name and several pseudonyms.  He died at the age of 31.

The short stories in this collection are fantasy, sf, humour, and crime; were all published under his own name; and are arranged in chronological order.

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1: Death Rides at Night

Amazing Stories, August 1942

"ARROW" LAWSON, folded uncomfortably into the tiny "Air Bug," clutched the side of the cockpit tightly and watched the great translucent highway reel backward beneath them. From their perch three thousand feet above the great truck lane, the glowing stretch of Trans-World Highway was visible for a hundred miles in either direction. Ken Barnes had the Bug floating silently. Suddenly he pointed a finger horizonward toward the lighted towers of East Station. From the flashing minor metropolis a tiny beetle crawled along the surface of the highway. Arrow Lawson nodded grimly, his worried eyes following Ken Barnes' finger.

The beetle was under them now, a mammoth Diesel truck thundering along at two hundred miles an hour. Abruptly it staggered as though a giant hand had grappled with it. A rosebud of flame mushroomed from under its hood.

The "Air Bug" jolted into a mean air pocket and Lawson lunged wildly, clutching at his companion's shoulder for support. Releasing his grasp, he peered down again, his face red. Damn, he could never get used to air travel....

Below them the truck had plunged wildly from the highway. The tractor was bathed in fire; the trailer a twisted, crushed mass of aluminumite. For ten miles to the rear of the accident the translucent lane had changed from its normal glowing green to the angry red of the danger warning. Traffic screamed to a halt and tiny figures swarmed around the blaze. Lawson was sick.

"Take her down," he ordered.

The twin rockets in the Bug's tail exploded behind them, and they shot from the sky. Other patrol scouts were roaring down from all directions. A mob had clustered around the wreck by the time Ken could land.

They fought their way through the crowd, Lawson conscious only of his two buddies who were frying in that cab. A pitiful, charred leg hung at a crazy angle from the crushed metal. The burned boot still clinging to the crushed bone. A rescue attempt was useless. Arrow looked away, his stomach turned by the sight.

The men behind him were talking.

"That's him." The voice wasn't friendly. "Lawson; supposed to be Trans-America's ace driver―"

"Yeah, what about the driving he ain't doing, while these other guys are cracking up?"

Lawson turned quickly, but the owners of the voices were hidden. His face reddened, as he realized that these men had been his buddies. Now they thought he was a coward. If he couldn't get a line on this thing pretty soon, there would be a lot more talk. He turned again to the wreck.

HIGHWAY scouts had snuffed out the fire with their small gas guns and one body had been removed and carefully covered. With torches they were at work cutting the other driver free.

Lawson dropped on his haunches and watched them work, a puzzled frown on his face. Eight trucks gone, and he still couldn't find that one little clue. Fifteen drivers, burned and broken corpses and Arrow knew he'd have to get action soon or go nuts. His gray eyes wandered over the mess once more. He studied the hulking death trap carefully, searchingly— The metalode antenna... on his feet in a flash, the long legs carried him like pistons to the side of the upturned cab.

"Ken," he shouted, "I've got it."

A murmur went through the watching crowd. Some of the drivers pushed forward. Ken came on the double.

"What?" he dropped on his knees beside Lawson.

"The antenna," Arrow's voice was hushed in utter disbelief. "The damned thing's straight."

For a minute Ken understood, then he shook his head.

"It's no good, fella'," he stood up and stretched wearily, "You're getting to the point where a straw isn't too small to grab at."

Lawson didn't hear him. He was running the tips of his fingers along the straightened rod, mumbling under his breath.

"The cab turned on its right side," he said. "Something straightened that antenna like a match stick from the left side."

"Then the same vague thing was responsible for the others. We didn't notice the antenna on them." Ken's voice was tinged with good natured sarcasm.

"Because the other trucks piled up and destroyed the metalode." Arrow was still on his knees, eyeing the slim metal strand with a puzzled expression. "It's the last thing we'd suspect after all the safety lectures they pound into us about this thing."[*]

[* The metalode antenna was developed during the latter part of the twenty-third century. A fuller understanding of its use will be made clear by the history of Translucent Trans-World Highways. Plastic highways were in use as early as 2144. With the puny efforts of twentieth century scientists exhausted, more advanced students of plastic attempted to study its practical uses. Professor James T. Flannigan of East Station Metal-Lab, caused the first slabs of plastic to be laid over the route of the ancient Pennsylvania turnpike. The run made a splendid proving ground.

Plastica (trade name for highway plastic) could be applied in semi-fluid form at the rate of two hundred miles a day. After solidifying, Plastica became adaptable to heavy, fast truck traffic with no further worries about upkeep.

Plastica, however, like the plastic comb when drawn through your hair, generated dangerous amounts of static electricity. Before the high speeds of two and three hundred miles per hour could be reached safely, this problem had to be conquered. During the early days many trucks were destroyed by this invisible agent of death.

In 2385, John Williamson, traffic expert had solved the problem with a simple metalode antenna. This antenna, its metal a thousand times stronger than steel, projected from the left side of the tractor for three feet and turned a ninety degree angle to contact the highway edge. With the end of this "Columbus and the Egg" mystery, no further accidents were reported.

Translucent highways were undermined by a series of almost human electric switches. Electri-glow lamps caused the surface to glow a dull green color when traffic was moving. If any disturbance occurred (stalled truck, entering traffic, etc.), the highway's color would change, like the wily chameleon, to a bright, warning red for a distance of ten miles to the rear of the disturbance. All country rules forced drivers in this zone to halt at once until the emerald go-ahead signal re-appeared.

Translucent highways at first connected the two great cities of East Station on the Atlantic Coast and West Station on the opposite side of America. Its only stop in this long run was Halfway Point, situated for the comfort of highway drivers in the center of the country, a half-day journey from either starting point.

With world peace as its objective, the highway was later stretched on aluminumite, gyroscopically stabilized pontoons across the oceans. Translucent Trans-World carried billions of tons of freight to all corners of All Country Union.]

ARROW eased the dual-controlled tractor of Transport Six down the long ramp to Trans-American's loading dock. The night spent with Barnes cramped into the tiny Sky Bug's cockpit hadn't been helpful to his frame of mind. Unfolding painfully, his long legs touched the ground and almost failed under him. He winced, and a scowl crossed his dark face. Being the longest cuss in the outfit had its drawbacks. The boys had laughed at him that first morning eight years ago. But after the gawky kid, Lawson, had put a few Diesels through their paces, the laughing had been replaced by glances of respect.

He walked toward the main office, thinking about the grab he'd made at Ken the night before, when the plane had dropped sickeningly.

Lawson's father told him it was the fall he'd taken from a crib as a kid that made him fear the air. That was as good as anything. He knew that any place his feet couldn't stretch out and touch solid earth wasn't the place for him, and he thanked Ken silently for shutting up like a clam about the incident. Anyone but the understanding patrol scout would have had the story spread far and wide by daybreak.

Without knocking, Lawson opened the monosteel door to Riley Black-son's glittering office. He folded up slowly in the leather chair beside the desk. Blackson's head was bowed. The owner of Trans-American was a small man, with a large, snow-white head. The stature of his body did not matter beside the keen, eager methods of a clever brain. Forty years of nursing this truck business into the front line had given the man character that more than made up for weak muscles. Without looking up, he spoke.

"I was talking with Barnes on the teloscreen..."

Lawson nodded, understanding the man's anguish. Their eyes met, Blackson's tired— caged.

"He says you found something?"

"Perhaps I'm wrong..." Lawson stood up and strode across the room. Down through the polarized walls he could see the long row of Diesels standing at the freight shed.

"Something has been fooling with those fool proof antennas. Every truck is checked before it pulls out. I say something because there isn't a living person who could touch a truck while its moving at two-hundred per..."

Riley shook his head dejectedly, the muscles of his mouth twitching.

"Only tremendous force would straighten out those rods. I'm sorry, boy. There just isn't any such force."

ARROW'S eyes were glued to the desk top. Riley had reached unconsciously toward a small metal dog. Drawing it slowly across the glass top, he watched its twin jump to its side, drawn by the magnet in the base. They clung as one under his finger.

"Such a force could be made, if the motives were strong enough."

"That's what sticks me," Blackson pushed the metal pups away in a gesture of despair. "How did it get our number?"

"That's what I've got to figure out," Lawson answered slowly. "The motive could be simple. It might even be you... Insurance, perhaps?"

Blackson was on his feet, his chin white with anger.

"Arrow," he spoke evenly, "if you meant to be funny, I fail to see the joke."

Then he slumped down again.

"I— I'm sorry, I know you're kidding. Guess I'm kind of up in the air about this mess."

Arrow didn't answer. He was sorry now that he'd said it. Every man in the outfit was a suspect. Every man was straining his nerves to a raw edge to keep going.

The door opened quietly and Eve Blackson stood just outside. Riley's daughter was startlingly lovely with the anger that had spread across her pink cheeks.

"It takes a star driver to sit in the office and accuse Dad of murder, while the other boys are out fighting..."

Her voice broke the silence like a bomb shell. In spite of himself, Lawson jumped. He turned toward the girl, his throat dry and shame slicing any answer short. Every muscle of the girl's smooth body shook with temper. Her eyes burned into his own, full red lips quivering in anger.

"Lawson," Eve said, using his last name with cutting emphasis, "you failed the air exams. If it hadn't been for that yellow streak, you'd be flying with Ken Barnes and the Patrol instead of being a cheap freight pusher. Now you're even worse than that."

She walked to the desk, tossing her white driver's gloves angrily on the glass top. Her step was as graceful as an aroused tigress. The crash helmet dropped back, releasing waves of smooth auburn hair. He watched her, fascinated by the taut, throbbing neck. Her spotless white uniform contrasted sharply against the browned skin.

Over Eve he had no control. For eight years she had taken every opportunity to mentally slap his face. This time the tirade left him without a word to say. Like any normal man, he had loved the girl from the first day he saw her. She handled the great fourteen wheel Diesels like sulky children, an object lesson in itself.

There wasn't a driver in the Trans-American string who hadn't at one time or another returned from a long haul with Eve at the duals, their cheeks and ears smarting. This angel of the transports was admired and coveted by every freight pusher from one end of the highway to the other.

Every attempt on her part to make what she considered a man of Lawson, had failed. He couldn't even with her own love for the road, convince the girl that something fine existed between a man and the throb of mighty Diesels at his finger tips. His place wasn't in the air.

He walked slowly past her, toward the door.

"Riley," his voice was almost gentle, "I'm going through on the night run. I'll take it alone, now that I know what to fight."

"The hell you will," Blackson shot back. "There isn't a truck that will move out of here until the Patrol cleans up this mess. I'm all through losing drivers."

Lawson looked at Eve. Her lips had shut in a hard, white line. No help there. He left quickly, closing the door with the feeling that something wonderful was hopelessly lost to him on the other side of it.

IT was late afternoon. The pounding on the door was faint and far away. Then it drummed louder against his ears. He sat up in bed.

"Huh...?"

"Lawson, you in there?"

It was Erlich, Trans-American's chief dispatcher.

Lawson tossed the covers aside and reached the door in a jump. Erlich was excited.

"Blackson says you're to report at once," he shot out. "Oil fire on the coast— got to haul explosive..." He was gone, down the stairs as though the devil was at his heels.

Lawson dressed hurriedly, grabbed his crash helmet from the chair by the door. In the hall, he took three steps at a time, almost knocked the paper boy over as the kid came up the stairs. The newsboy turned about twice, found a quarter in his palm and a copy of the News missing.

Arrow, driving the platicoupe with one hand, gulped down the headlines.

METEOR OIL FIELD ABLAZE

Now he knew Riley's reason for calling him. Explosives to be hauled. Trans-American still held its exclusive franchise for trucking all government-controlled dyno-glyc. He whipped the plasticoupe into the T-A garage and bounded upstairs to Blackson's office. Riley was pacing up the room's length, under a black cloud of despair. He turned as Lawson entered.

"Three hours ago the Patrol reported that the Meteor wells are burning," his voice was mechanical, measured like the beat of water. "Someone forgot to oil a pump— friction— and hell broke wide open on one of the derricks. In twenty-four hours the whole field will be gone."

"I saw the paper."

Arrow waited.

"Twenty contracts canceled today," Blackson came to his side, one arm on the younger man's shoulder. "The All-Country council was on the teloscreen just before you came. I pleaded with them," his eyes faltered, went to the carpeted floor. "We either haul the dyno-glyc, or else."

Lawson was thinking of the boys who had washed up on the road. With a load of the highest test give obtainable, the smallest accident might... Riley was talking to him.

"We got ourselves into this mess, boy," he pleaded. "I can't tell you to make the trip. I'm not young any more, and this outfit means all I have."

"I've been asking for it," Lawson said. "Is she ready to roll?"

TRANSPORT SIX, motors idling, stood at the edge of the main platform. A crew of men was hastily daubing the trailer with luminous red paint. Across the tail gate, stenciled three feet high, was the warning DANGER— DEATH ON WHEELS.

At the parts bench he stopped, searching for something. An extra metalode antenna stood in the corner. He picked it up, also slipped a small wrench into his pocket. Walking around the Diesel he kicked the tires carefully, looking for weak spots. Then he climbed quickly into the left seat. With the triple motors roaring he felt movement at his side. Shorty, dual man for "Six" would go through hell as long as Arrow sat at the controls. Without looking, he gunned the heavy power unit. Twisting the neck cord of the helmet, he adjusted it carefully. With all three speed buttons pressed in, "Six" roared up the incline like a bull elephant, charging toward the Trans-World highway.

The Diesel was hitting the necessary two-hundred per as it approached Translucent Highway. Eyes focused on the main line of traffic, he jerked the vibrator cord sharply. The current broke under the highway, and Trans-World turned a warning red.[*]

[* Because of intense speeds maintained on Translucent Trans-World Highway, the warning signal must be used when entering and leaving the traffic lane. Naturally there is a chance of collisions occurring if the traffic flow is interrupted in any way. This traffic warning is controlled by a vibrator cord hung from the roof of each cab. When pulled, this cord makes electrical contact through vibration against an exposed cable on the surface of the highway at all entering points. The cable leads to the master switch, throwing off the green lights and causing the highway to turn red for a distance of ten miles to the rear.— Ed.]

TRAFFIC slowed as they zoomed into position on the left lane. Motioning Shorty to take the controls, Lawson locked his own. He bent over to study the route schedule. His eye caught the flash of white breeches, and roved upward, widening with surprise. Eve Blackson...

"What in—?"

"I know," her face was a mixture of hatred and pride at the little victory. "I'm not the dual man you expected, am I?"

"And why," he asked icily, "am I honored with this unexpected pleasure?"

"It happens, Mr. Lawson, that this trip means everything to Dad. I'm going through to the Meteor. I'm not so sure that if I didn't the truck might get frightened and jump the road."

Her lip curled, and she sat very straight, looking ahead again as though the subject were closed. Arrow's mouth snapped shut. Riley Blackson allowed his only offspring to have her own way with everything. Right now. Lawson hoped they would get blown sky high. She had it coming to her.

THE plastic was stretching before them, passing speedily, smoothly under the singing wheels of the gigantic truck. Miles climbed on the speed indicator, eating up space between them and Half-way Station. With the cool green of the highway killing the burning heat in his eyes and calming his mind, Arrow admitted secretly that Eve would turn in a better accounting for herself than any other driver he could have chosen. If only the girl wouldn't be so darn hard to get along with.

He saw the flashing signal of a patrol plane cutting in from the north. Bending over, his fingers switched on the teloscreen. It was Ken Barnes.

"Calling Six— Calling Transport Six," came the droning voice of the crack patrol scout.

"Six answering," Eve broke the silence . "What's new, Ken?"

"You know what's new, you little hell-cat," his voice like an admonishing father's. "You get off the highway and back to the kitchen where you belong."

"Make me," Eve laughed, her voice tinkling teasingly. "I'm going through to West Station, Ken." She was serious again. "There aren't any rules to prevent it, so go peddle your papers, my boy."

"Arrow—"

"It's no use, Barnes," Lawson had long since given up. "If she wants to go, I can't stop her."

"But—"

Eve switched the screen off, abruptly.

"Ken's a sweet kid," she said dreamily, "but why can't you boys realize that I'm a big girl now, and know how to take care of myself?"

There was no doubt in Lawson's mind that she had grown up. He could have kicked himself for loving the rounded face, the cool sweep of her youthful body. Reaching down angrily, he switched the teloscreen on once more, in time to catch Ken sputtering something unfit for listening purposes. He cut the scout short.

"Ken," Arrow's voice had become brittle and curt. "I think that hunch of mine was right. If I'm on the beam, the thing that yanks out those antennas will tear the devil out of your static indicator if it hits it. Get out front and fly low. Cut your lights. Send us a warning if static starts acting up. I'll try and do the rest..."

"Right," the highway scout's shot back like a whip. "But don't blame me if it makes mincemeat out of that little spitfire, after I warned her."

Lawson locked his controls and sat hunched forward, watching Ken's plane. Already the scout was a long distance ahead, tearing along beneath the low clouds.

TRANSPORT SIX nosed ahead past the thousand-mile point. On through the dense blackness of night; up ramps that carried it smoothly over small towns nestled under the glassy surface; into open country once more...

Barnes was always ahead, and Arrow's eyes never left the shadow of plane. He tried to relax a little, his eyes aching from the all-night vigil. Beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead, and he wanted to sleep, for a minute, for hours. Then— against a curtain of black, a tiny red flare burned like a pin-prick of blood, faded.

The signal!

"Lock your wheel," his voice came mechanically. "Lock it and sit tight."

Eve hesitated. He turned on her savagely.

"Do you understand English, or do you want to burn in this tin furnace?" She complied.

Slowly, then with increasing power, they became aware of a humming, an angry drumming on the outside of the cab. Alone at the controls he clung to them grimly, the knuckles of his hands drained of blood. His foot lifted from the fuel feeder and they lost speed slowly. One hundred and ninety, eighty, seventy— At fifty miles they were creeping along. The highway went red. The pounding, sparking sound had become terrific, drowning out the engine. Dry, burning currents of electrified air filled the cab. Their scalps tingled and burned, throats parched. He was riding the brakes with all his strength now, cutting the speed as rapidly as he could. It was stifling hot. In another minute something had to break.

He twisted the wheel gently, bouncing the dyno-glyc laden truck off the highway and onto the smooth shoulder of gravel. At once the heat drained away through the huge wire-woven tires and the engine breathed normally. He looked at the girl. Her face was icy, two small hands clutched tightly in her lap.

"It's all over, kid," he said it kindly. "Switch on and let's get out of here."

DRIVING cautiously with the tractor swaying each foot of the way, Lawson put five miles between them and the scene of the unhuman fight. Then as they stopped, Ken's voice cut over the teloscreen.

"Still with me?" He was jubilant. "I was watching you. For a while I didn't do much breathing. Guess you licked 'em that time, fella'!"

The tiny plane was a scant ten feet overhead, hovering like a humming bird. Ken's head came over the side.

"Good God, Arrow," he gasped, "look at the antenna!"

Eve rose up, looking over Lawson's shoulder. The antenna was gone, jerked clear out of the cab body.

"You knew," she whispered. "You knew when it happened, and still you kept your speed up until we hit the center of that magnetic field."

"It was the only way I had of finding out for sure," he answered slowly. "I had a lead on the other boys, with some idea of what to expect."

The Diesel stopped, and he crawled out stiffly. Under the seat he found the extra metalode antenna and swiftly installed it in the empty socket.

"Rotten job," he straightened up, "but it'll have to do for tonight."

Looking up, he saw Ken's sky bug darting away toward the rainbow of light that was Half-way Station. No stop tonight, even for coffee. The fire fighters at Meteor would be waiting.

Hunching over the wheel he gunned the triple motors and snapped the speed buttons into high. The Diesel took the sudden weight without a murmur of protest, lifting the giant load from the shoulder of the road and down the main traffic lane once more.

"Get some sleep, Eve," he said it without looking around. "You'll be needing it before morning."

Without answering, she curled up on the broad leather cushion and closed her eyes.

IT must have been three in the morning when Arrow finally gave the wheel back to the girl. Exhausted with the strain, he hunched forward against the controls, his head nodding. It dropped to his chest, and Eve thoroughly awakened again, listened to him snore softly, then concentrated on the highway ahead.

At six Lawson still slept and snored peacefully. Suddenly, without warning, the girl jerked with all her weight on the traffic warning vibrator and climbed with both tiny feet on the brakes. The powerful suction of the wheels under pressure screeched the truck to a stop, throwing them both forward in the cab. On the highway a scant ten feet ahead of the halted transport stood a private plasticoupe. Arrow, rudely awakened, was out of the tractor striding toward the car. Eve was at his side, slapping her gloves angrily against her leg as she walked. To park a private car on the Translucent was a capital offense. A woman leaned against the side of the coupe, her face frightened. She was frail, mud-covered, and the coarse, dirty hair that nailed about in the wind gave her a scarecrow appearance.

"I— I know I don't belong here," she was anticipating their thoughts, "but— but please help me. I was following the public roads, and became lost." She gestured hopelessly. "I found the Trans-World, and it was the only way. Now my car has stalled and I don't know what to do."

Other drivers were clustering around, muttering angrily. One of them, a Three-country freight driver, stepped forward.

"Let's get the lady's wheelbarrow off the road, boys," he shouted. A half dozen huskys gave him a hand. Lawson helped them.

"We'll tell someone to come back and give you a hand," he told her, not unkindly.

Transport Six nosed ahead again, swiftly. The warning signal released, a caravan of trucks followed at a safe distance from the load of dyno-glyc.

"Funny," Arrow said, "that woman getting on the highway like that."

"You're wonderful," Eve's voice cut like a knife. "When I first saw that car, the woman was crouching in the ditch. She saw I would stop in time, so she ran across the open space and made up a nice little story to tell us. I think she realized she'd never be able to get away before we found her, so she took a chance. That explains the phoney story and all the dirt on her clothes."

"It could be your imagination," he said.

"Not with what I know about women," Eve answered. "If they get lost in the middle of the night, they don't get out of the car and go wandering around in the underbrush tearing their clothing and slopping mud all over themselves."

"Guess you're right," he admitted.

"That," Eve grinned at him defiantly, "Is why I wanted to be along tonight. You don't seem to think very straight at times, and I'm glad I'm here to help you out."

Lips tight in anger, he turned to the business of guiding the transport and was silent.

THE Meteor Oil Field was a flaming holocaust. Mushrooming out over West Station, black smoke covered the entire country side. The roaring flames could be heard for miles. Viewed from the cab of Transport Six the fire was awe-inspiring.

In spite of himself, Arrow felt a surge of pride as he realized the trailer behind them carried the agent that would conquer this burning hell of oil.

They were both at the controls now, tired out with the events of the long night. The first traffic zones appeared. Lights were flashing on all sides. The sky patrol was out in full force, patrolling the traffic lane under the leadership of Ken Barnes. All cross traffic had been halted to let Transport Six pass. The atmosphere within the cab was strained to the breaking point. Eve, her body and mind exhausted, was still ready to fight. She refused to speak with Lawson, and he had no choice but to ignore her.

Suddenly Barnes flashed down from the main body of patrol ships and hovered over them.

Arrow switched on the teloscreen. Ken's voice was droning on, endlessly giving instructions.

"Transport Six proceed to Five Mile Point. Cycles will take your load. All traffic entering highway has stopped. You have clear road. No entrance switches open until further notice..."

He trailed off, darting ahead in the sky bug like a swift water beetle. Then he was back again.

"Change instructions— heat growing more intense. Stop at Six Mile Point. That is all..."

Even as he finished, a squad of cycles cut in behind them with a roar and spread out on either side of the speeding transport.

Fifteen Mile Point—

Eve locked her wheel and watched the curious strained faces of the drivers who were waiting for the dangerous load to pass. Every diesel driver in the country knew about Lawson's run with the dyno-glyc. They were holding their breath as the great truck careened by them on the last lap of the long journey against time.

Ten Mile Point—

Arrow started to press gently on the brakes, gradually increasing the pressure as the transport slowed. Nine-eight-seven... A gang of workmen was waiting as the truck halted. Handling the explosive as though in a nursery, they packed it into the cycles, which sped away toward the fire. They were carefully spaced, so that one accident would not destroy the entire load of precious glyc.

The foreman, a scarred-faced, middle-aged man, bronzed with the hard, outdoor life, came forward and took Arrow's hand. His other arm went affectionately around Eve's shoulder.

"Guess I'll be going in, now," he said. "Just thought I'd thank you both for a swell job. You know," his eyes softened for a moment, "This is the toughest blaze I've ever come up against. When I go in this morning, I'll be thinking a lot about the two drivers who made my fight possible."

He turned quickly, and walked away toward the last cycle.

ARROW spoke without looking away from his retreating figure.

"A swell fellow. He wouldn't be so proud of us, if he knew how well we work together, would he, sweetheart?"

Eve turned away toward the truck.

"Are you going in to the terminal?" she asked tightly.

"Go ahead," he called after her. "Ken will drop me off."

The truck roared into high, and swished past him so close that he stepped back to avoid its wheels. Ken had landed and was standing at his side.

"What's burning her up?" the scout asked.

"I'm not half as worried about her," Lawson answered, "As I am about the next driver who tries to bring a truck through on the Trans-world."

"Right now," Ken said, "you need rest. Let me drop you off at the Transport Club. Sleep for twenty-four hours, then you can tackle the other problem."

Arrow nodded.

"And in twenty-four hours, I'll be right back where I started from. I'll still be fighting something I know nothing about."

He felt better when Ken had landed the Sky Bug on top of the roof of the Transport Club. The hands of a kindly attendant had already removed his grimy driving suit.

"Give this guy a bed, and tie him to it for a while," Barnes told the attendant. "He needs rest."

The man chuckled.

"Guess he's earned it," he said. He shook Lawson's hand warmly. "The boys have heard about the fine run you and Miss Blackson made, sir. We're mighty proud of you both."

Lawson followed him down the long flight of steps to the club lobby.

EVE was feeling much better. Slipping out of the bath, she drew the semi-transparent folds of the electric heat-coat about her freshly perfumed body. The soothing current penetrated her skin, relaxing all the tiny, exhausted muscles of her silken back and arms. For the millionth time she thanked Daddy Blackson silently for building this little hideaway atop the terminal at West Station. The apartment was her one retreat from the careening transports and their sweaty, masculine drivers. She whirled swiftly before the big three-dimensional mirror and was quite satisfied with the image of herself.

Somewhere a door clicked loudly. It was the private entrance her father had built to the apartment. She stood stiff with alarm. A footstep sounded in the small back room. She walked smoothly, silently, like a tigress toward the sound. In the doorway she collided with a stout gentleman who was making a bold entrance to her little haven.

"Who...?" she managed to stammer.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Blackson," the stout one said, adjusting his clothing after the accident. "You are Eve Blackson, are you not?"

"It's none of your business who I am. Whoever you are, get out before I ring the alarm."

By now the over-weighted, bald-headed one had regained his composure.

"Don't be hasty," he dipped his shoulders in a courtly bow, looking very foolish in his attempt to appear humble. "I have a message from Mr. Lawson."

"I might know it would be him," she said. "What is it and then get out."

"One at a time, in their proper sequence." He drew a card from the pocket of the badly creased gray trousers and held it for her to read. "A very nasty dispatcher you have downstairs," he said.

She glanced at the card. JOHN CHESTERTON, TRANSPORT CLUB. A little more at ease now, she smiled at his ruddy, excited face. Dispatch had evidently questioned his entrance a bit roughly.

"What does Lawson want?"

"Mr. Lawson send his regards, and asks that you drive back to East Station alone. He plans to stay until the fire is under control."

A loud pounding sounded on the outer door.

"Eve, are you all right?"

Dispatch sounded very out of sorts.

She pushed the door open and Dispatch stood there, anger written in hard lines on his browned face. With one hand he nursed a bulging head as he glared at Chesterton with murder in his eye.

"You'd better go now," she turned to the bearer of the message. "I won't vouch for your safety here much longer."

"I did hit him a rather nasty crack on the head," Chesterton admitted, making a hurried exit. Outside Dispatch evidently went into action. Eve slipped out of the robe. Why did Lawson always have to let her down? Ken didn't seem the type to pull a dirty trick like this on any girl, much less on her. She decided to waste no time in putting miles between herself and the man who loved fires so much he was willing to let her take a chance alone on the highway.

AT seven thirty, Arrow emerged from his room at the Transport Club, dressed in a fresh driver's outfit. He ate at the counter in the small lunch room, then entered the teloscreen booth. The closing door established contact with the operator.

"Station Please."

"Trans-American office, zone one," he directed.

Parts of screen pictures flashed before him. Then Dispatch appeared, a sour grin on his face.

"Hello, my pretty one," he greeted Lawson. "So you ain't fightin' fires after all?"

"Let me speak to Eve." Arrow wondered what had come over Dispatch.

The man studied him carefully for a minute.

"You'll have a tough time doing that, after sending her back to East Station alone."

"Sending her?" Arrow's face turned white. "Get this straight. I haven't sent Eve anywhere. If she's headed for home, you'd better have a transport ready to roll when I get there, or I'll scuttle you."

He slammed the door of the booth and rushed from the lobby.

Lawson was there before Dispatch could finish refueling. With the last of the oil draining in to the tank, he heard the whole story of Chesterton from Dispatch's willing lips. Eve was somewhere between West Station and Half-way, thinking that Lawson had willingly sent her out to death and even worse. He yanked the hose from the truck and sprang behind the controls.

For the second time that night a huge empty transport leaped from the yard of Trans-American's West Terminal and gained speed like a cumbersome hippo up the long ramp to Translucent Highway. With the truck out of sight, Dispatch went to the teloscreen and established contact with Riley Blackson at East Station.

HOPING the girl hadn't gained too much of a start, Arrow fed the transport all the fuel it could gulp down. Topping a rise on the prairie he spotted another truck just ahead. Could it be Eve? With the tail gate in sight, he could make out the words splashed across it. THREE-COUNTRY FREIGHT. This was the outfit at whose feet Riley Blackson was laying the blame for all his troubles. Why should Three-Country be pushing a dead head across country tonight, with every dock on the west coast overflowing with merchandise? He could tell from the sway of the truck it was empty. Follow the fellow for a few hundred miles and see what's up? That was the idea. He stepped hard on the fuel control and caught up.

After a few minutes the truck ahead started to act queerly. With each burst of speed, he could see the other driver increase his own as though to pull away. Racing on Trans-world was bad business. He sped on, keeping just behind Three-Country. It was speedily becoming a situation entirely unfunny to Arrow's latent sense of humor. The diesel roared wildly as he looked at the dial. Two hundred and seventy; seventy-five; two hundred eighty m.p.h. Well over the speed limit on normal runs, and yet he had to go faster to keep those vanishing tail lights in sight. At three hundred he had given the transport all it would take. The wheels sang like maddened hornets and every fiber of the big trailer groaned and twisted behind him. Something was bound to snap at this speed. He kept his foot tight to the floor and clung to the controls. Sweat beaded on his chin and dripped from the end of his nose. Then, with his eyes stuck to the lights ahead he realized the other driver had cracked.

The truck, barely visible through the heated, fogged glass seemed to double up like a jack rabbit and jump from the highway. The driver was making a desperate attempt to right it, as the red warning flash of the road bed spelled disaster. Three-Country, whoever he might be, had jerked too hard on the pressure brakes. Hitting the road shoulder, the truck staggered, jumped high in the air and toppled end over end into a field. Flames burst from it, and Lawson, working with his own brakes, saw the mass fall like a slaughtered animal in the open farm land.

The transport under control, he stopped far down the road, and backed to where Three-Country had left the traffic lane. The body of the driver had been thrown clear of the wreckage. Crushed to a pulpy mess, it lay twisted completely around a big fence post. He walked toward it, knowing there was no hurry. The head of the corpse, large and bald, had been flattened and crushed by the impact. Turning away, Lawson saw a slip of paper projecting from the coat pocket. Steeling himself against the sight he bent over and drew the blood-soaked note from the coat. A card fell from his fingers and floated to the earth. He picked it up and read, John Chesterton, Transport Club.

SINCE Eve had left the freight yard at West Station, the strange feeling of impending disaster had clung over her. Something had been strangely familiar about the face of the man, John Chesterton; a face that she had seen somewhere before. Perhaps another, but like it in a manner that gave her the creeps. With Transport Six well out of the last protection zone she began to watch the Trans-World closely.

It was funny about Lawson. He wasn't usually that much of a heel. Perhaps she'd have better Waited to hear from Lawson himself. Then high above her, Eve saw for the first time, the speck of a patrol ship that dogged her speeding truck. She switched on the teloscreen.

"That you, Ken?"

"Hello Jinx," Barnes answered promptly. "I had a hunch you'd be trying something smart. Reported back to Half-way, got bored with the wine and women, and what not, so here I am again."

"Arrow didn't like my company," Eve pouted a little. "So I'm just going home alone. Brave, aren't I?"

"Like the sweet dope you are," Ken shot back. "You'd better go back and wait for your boy friend."

"No can do," her voice hardened. "I'm heading for Dad Blackson, and fast, too."

She switched the screen off as Ken started to lecture. It would be no use to go limping back to Lawson with a thorn in her heart. He'd laugh at her, coming west again like a whipped puppy dog.

Once, a long time after she talked with Ken, she saw the bug again, winging along ahead of her. If it could only be Arrow up there watching out for her safety. She decided the lanky truck cow-boy was the most good for nothing man she'd ever bothered to fight with.

Half-way station loomed ahead with its magnificent luminous towers reaching upward from the flat countryside. Shaft upon shaft of multi-colored glassine buildings reaching toward the heavens. The haven of rest and amusement broke in two the long night drive from West to East Station. She cut the fuel and switched off all three motors.

DRIFTING as through a cloud, Transport Six silently coasted on the smooth highway into the heart of the rainbow city. Turning from the traffic lane she let it follow the mechanically controlled line of flashing "spot signals" down a maze of parking ramps and into its stall. Robot brakes eased Six to a halt and locked the wheel securely.

Easing her bone-tired body into a comfortable counter chair Eve watched the assortment of foods pass her on the conveyor. Coffee and sinkers, the old standby. She inserted the proper coins into the counter slot and released the steaming Java. With hot food inside, she felt better. Resting, she brooded over the strange Mr. Chesterton once more. More and more it seemed odd that Arrow would send a messenger, and not come to her himself. Half rising, she decided to call him on the telo. Then she slumped down again, picturing him grinning at her fears. Once before they had safely driven through that crazy magnetic field of death. She could do it again. The road ahead seemed to draw her. If there was to be a fight, get it over with.

Shrugging her shoulders decisively she arose. The odor of hot food followed her into the night air. Then, away from the warmth and security of the building her old fears multiplied. Tossing her head almost savagely, Eve strode straight to Transport Six.

LAWSON hadn't thought about Eve stopping at Half-way. Realizing the girl would be wild with anger, he felt that she would roll straight on to East Station, and home, without a stop.

Now, just east of the throbbing color of Half-way Station he was giving the truck all it could handle. Eve, pulling onto the highway a scant fifteen minutes behind him, gripped the wheel and settled down for the test, should it come.

The blood-soaked note on Chesterton 'h body told Lawson a lot of things he'd been wanting to know. If he couldn't overtake the girl very soon now, he might live to regret the day he'd ever see her face again.

He knew it was Ken before he switched the screen on. The way that little bug came flashing down from the eastern sky told him that no one but Barnes would be at the controls. Ken seemed surprised to find Lawson in this truck.

"Hi, Cowboy," the scout greeted him. "Thought you were sleeping it off back at West Station. I had a lead on Eve. Guess she must have stopped off at Half-way. Came back to pick her up."

Arrow sighed in relief.

"That's the best news I've heard tonight," he said.

Ken grinned.

"Don't worry about that little girl, at least not as long as I'm around."

Lawson had slowed the diesel down, idling along under Ken's plane.

"Think I should drop back and find her?" he questioned.

"Might have a tough time getting near her the way she feels right now."

"Guess you're right," Arrow gunned the transport again. "I'll keep my eyes open, and you help Eve along, will you?"

"Right."

The telo went dark, and Lawson watched the bug turn off and slip behind.

The Trans-world, pleasant at any other time, held a horror tonight that he'd have to face alone. The fact that he knew what might happen didn't make death seem any more pleasant.

There's a way of rolling a truck into the ditch, his mind pounded out. A way of tipping it over so the tractor will ride clear of the crushing weight behind. Perhaps a cool head and strong arms will do it. Perhaps—

WHEN the hell crashed in upon him, his mind worked like a smoothly licking watch. With nerves turned to ice he carefully nursed the small dyno-glyc bomb on the cushion at his side. Pull out the firing pin and compressed hell will bust wide open.

At first the electro current hit the tractor gently like the sound of two live wires sputtering against each other. Increasing steadily the thing, whatever it was, seemed to come closer within range. Slowing down as much as he dared, Lawson drove steadily ahead, resisting the urge to leave the highway. To escape. That would save him once more, and leave the others to go on dying in vain. He clung grimly to the controls, rolling straight down the highway. The prickly, burning heat filled the cab and pulled at his hair. His head began to buzz wildly under the pressure. From the corner of his eye he watched the metalode antenna as it straightened out toward the edge of the highway. Hold on. He kept whispering it over and over, brushing the sweat from his eyes. Hold on for a minute, two minutes more.

The center of disturbance must be very close. His breath jerked out of him with difficulty, arms turned to lead against the wheel.

NOW!

His right arm pulled gently against the wheel, and the truck bounced from the highway. A red flash of the highway signal and he was tearing down a long, sharp incline toward the deep ditch. Pushing the door with his foot, he stepped to the running board, holding the glyc bomb in his right hand, the wheel with his left. Hanging there for seconds, he knew the time was near. He gripped the firing pin in his teeth and pulled savagely, at the same time twisting the wheel quickly under his hand.

With all the strength he could muster Lawson leaped headlong into the darkness. His legs like long pistons carried him clear of the cab as it skidded side-wise on the hard gravel. Panting and half dead with pain, he felt rather than saw, the big trailer roll by, missing his body by inches. Hugging the dirt, his arm and legs shredded painfully by the sharp stones, he saw the truck hit the bottom of the incline. Then a great flare of orange light lashed over him, the explosion deadening his ears.

The transport seemed to lift up, parts of it flying high in the air, then settle down again. A sigh escaped his lips as the darkness settled in. Somewhere on the ridge behind him a twig snapped. The highway was deserted, and laying stretched on the side of the hard bank he wondered dully if the scene had been convincing.

THREE people saw the explosion against the night sky. Eve Blackson, hurtling east, shuddered as the flash of light covered the highway ahead. Ken, above her, knew who was in the wrecked truck. His face didn't betray him as he switched on the teloscreen.

"Turn that crate around," he shouted at the girl. "Get back to Half-way, and wait. I'm going up and find out what happened."

"You know darn well what happened," Eve's lips were white. "I'm going along for the ride."

Ken swore loudly.

"Eve," he pleaded, "I can't be responsible any longer. I'm doing my best to keep you out of a jam. Now, turn back."

He was talking to a dead screen. Eve was already far ahead.

ON the little oak ridge, just above the spot where Lawson had cracked up, stood the third interested party. The woman looked just as bedraggled as she had the night before when Trans-World drivers had pushed her plasticoupe from the highway. The coat, covered with dried mud flapped around her gaunt frame with a scarecrow attitude of disinterest. Her face was chalky with determination as she studied the road toward the west.

Bony hands clutched a queer, boxlike contraption close to her breast. Not unlike a huge aerial camera, it had a large glassine lens pointing away from her body, crossed hair lines etched across its surface. She held the box to her body with two large handles, a trigger release buried under her right finger.

She looked down for an instant at the smouldering ruins of the wrecked truck, then studied the highway once more. Her ears had picked up the hum of Transport Six coming over the divide a few miles away. Over the oncoming truck, hanging high in air, a tiny flare, red as a drop of blood, flickered then died.

She lifted the box higher and inside it, tiny motors began to hum softly. Six had dipped down a slope in the Trans-world and roared onward toward her hiding place. She aimed down the length of the machine and sighted the crossed hairs on the barrel sight.

The metalode antenna on the truck cab was plainly visible in the sight.

Something crushed down on her head, and a blinding stab of light raced through her brain. The box dropped to the ground and the woman sagged slowly and went limp among the damp leaves. Transport Six flashed past.

Lawson stepped back and tossed the huge cudgel from him in disgust. With his foot he rolled the woman over on her back. There was something unclean about her, like a rattlesnake crushed under a farmer's boot.

Six was slowing. Evidently Eve had seen the still burning truck, and stopped as soon as she could apply the full force of the brakes. He stood on the ridge, listening as the truck went into reverse and rolled back along the side of the road. It was the sky bug that demanded his attention, He watched another flare drop from it, and smiled softly as still another dripped red against the low clouds.

Eve had stopped now, and he heard her plainly as she cried out. The Trans-American insignia was still visible on its crushed side. Her feet slid down the gravel bank. The woman on the ground stirred and sat up feebly. A string of soft oaths escaped her lips.

"You dirty skunk," she muttered, glaring at him. "Hitting a lady with a club."

The footsteps below them stopped abruptly. Eve must have heard the sound.

"I wouldn't use anything but a club on a snake." He almost whispered it, in his hatred for her. "Get up." The words cut from his lips like the raw edge of a saw.

He bent over and grasped the magnetizing machine with one hand.

"Start walking," Lawson motioned toward the road.

"Eve," he shouted, his voice rocketing back and forth across the quiet woodland. "It's me, Arrow. Get back to the truck and wait. Ken's coming down."

The sky bug had nosed toward them swiftly. Ken would meet them on the highway.

Eve's voice floated back, all the fear and horror gone from it.

"Arrow," she called, "are you all right?"

It seemed the most natural thing in the world, after the terrors of the all night run, to find him here and to be glad he was safe.

THEY made a strange party, huddled ill at ease beside the great cross-nation truck. Lawson was still covered with the blood and dirt from his terrific fall from the truck. The woman of the plasticoupe stood to one side, her head hanging dejectedly, like a sulky child. Now and then her eyes darted from one side to the other, seeking an avenue of escape. Ken was having trouble trying to contact East Station on the truck's teloscreen.

"East Station— Calling East Station," he repeated over and over to the dead screen. Traffic had stopped on the highway. Many drivers on the run east had seen the explosion from Halfway station. They weren't anxious to follow. Ken's hands searched the controls of the telo.

"Try the screen in the sky bug," Arrow suggested.

"No good," Ken answered laconically. "It runs on the engine fuel. Tanks went dry as I landed."

The woman had waited patiently, sliding inch by inch toward the outer circle of the group. Suddenly a tiny nitro pistol flashed into her hand. She waved it hysterically.

"Run for it, Barnes," she shouted. "It's been a good show, but you'll never get through it."

Ken turned with an odd look of surprise. Then, with Arrow staring at him, he smiled. His features slightly reddened, he relaxed once more against the cushions of the seat.

"She's not only crazy," he said, "but she's got us in a hellish spot."

Lawson ignored him, turning with pin point eyes to the woman. He moved toward her slowly, his body stretching smoothly, stealthily, as though approaching a cobra.

"Stand back," the pistol poked at him savagely. "I'll blow that frame of yours to the moon."

Eve dashed between them, throwing herself against Arrow chest. Pressing her body close to his she looked up into Lawson's determined eyes.

"Leave her alone, darling," she pleaded. "She'll kill us all if you don't."

His gaze dropped to hers, and his heart skipped a beat at what he saw there. Then he looked away.

"You told Ken Barnes to run for it," he asked the woman. "What did you mean?"

EVE stepped back. The new hardness in his voice puzzled her. She was searching for something— anything to cling to.

The gun wavered a bit.

"Nothin'," the woman stammered. "Nothin', only I—"

Lawson forced her hand.

"Are you trying to get him out of this mess, now that your brother's failed to show up?"

Ken stood up abruptly. He walked away from the truck and behind the protection of the wavering nitro gun.

"Give up the ghost, Lawson," his voice had gone harsh, bitter. "What do you know about her brother."

A look of fright had crept over his handsome face.

Eve, wide-eyed at this turn of events, pressed her body against the smooth protection of the truck's side.

"Nothing much," Arrow said. "I found his body wrapped around a fence post back on the west run. There was a paper in his pocket that set me straight on a lot of things." The words came slowly, as he sought the effect of them on the faces of the pair before him.

The gun dropped with a thud by the roadside, and the woman started to cry softly. Arrow sprang for it, but too late. Ken beat him to the weapon, kicking Arrow a wicked blow on the shoulder with his heavy boot. Lawson fell back. The gun, steady this time, trained on his chest. Eve cried out, straining back as though to hide from these two facing each other with bursting hatred.

"Now, stay there," Ken snarled, "or I'll blast you, and quick."

He turned toward Eve.

"Why sweetheart," the words dripped sarcasm, "you're not disappointed with your hero of the sky patrol?"

She stared straight at him, disgust welling into her eyes.

"Lawson," Barnes spoke evenly, "you weren't so dense after all. So you found John Sargent and the devil's contract I signed with him!"

"John Sargent— or Chesterton." Arrow answered. "One and the same to me."

"Chesterton," Eve's astonished voice broke in. "Why, he's the man—"

"Yes," Arrow walked to her, putting an arm about her slim waist. "The man who sent you out to die. Sargent, owner of Three-Country Freight, and part owner of Ken Barnes' life."

FOR a minute Barnes seemed to soften as he watched them. "You're right," his voice was tired. "Sargent and this no-good sister of his had me on the spot. Years ago I bought stock in the outfit. They were going broke. I was going to lose every cent I had. They made me a part of this scheme to get Trans-American's business. My part was easy. This miserable excuse for a human being," he looked at Sargent's sister, weeping miserably with the news of her brother's death, "did the dirty work. Sargent developed the magnetic gun, and spotted your trucks as they left East Station. I picked them up on the highway and dropped a warning flare when they approached her hiding place. She did the rest of it."

He paused, making sure the gun was still trained on Lawson's body, then continued. "After the first time, I realized I was a murderer. After that it was too late to back out. They had me hooked."

"Which makes good talking," Lawson cut in, "but what are we going to do about it?"

"That's the hard part to decide." Ken relaxed a bit with the story off his mind, and grinned at his old friend. "I've always liked you two. As for Eve, if things had been different— "

"Leave Eve out of this."

"Okay," Ken agreed. "But I do like you. I hate like the devil to kill you unless it's necessary. The sky bug is dry. Give me fifteen minutes start in the transport, and you don't have much choice, and I'll cut off into strange country where you'll never see me again. Agreed?"

Arrow looked down at the girl clinging to him.

"We haven't a thing to say about it," she said, quietly.

"So, that's that."

Ken climbed quickly into the cab of Six, then saw the woman, her eyes pleading with him for escape.

"Come on," he said, disgustedly. "I might as well take my misery with me."

Transport Six caught the fuel eagerly, lunging forward on the highway. Standing close together they watched it carry from them what had been the ideal man. Eve's lips parted slightly, her mind seemingly undergoing a terrific strain.

"I'm afraid," she said, clutching his big hand.

"Of what?" He took her in his arms, pushing her small chin up with a firm finger. "Somehow, I guess Ken will get the pay-off when the time catches up with him."

A shudder coursed through her small body. They listened to the roar of the diesel as it topped a distant hill.

THE sound floated back to them through the clear air, louder and louder as Six gathered momentum. Transport Six had reached its maximum speed when the explosion came. A great flash of orange light swept high in the air. The top of the world flew off. All that remained of the big truck shuddered apart and blundered its way into the ditch. Ripped apart by the blast, it toppled into a pitiful heap at the side of Trans-world.

Eve buried her head in the smoothness of Lawson's tunic and sobbed. For an instant his eyes widened with amazement. Hadn't they, after all, found the thing that had wrecked Trans-American's trucks? Then he looked at her face, and realized. Pushing her away at an arm's length he stared admiringly.

She brushed the tears from her face.

"It was terrible," she said. "But last night I made up my mind to help you somehow. When Ken was talking with you I backed against the antenna."

From her pocket she drew the small wrench he had used on the west bound trip.

"It wasn't much of a trick to bend the antenna away from ground contact with this," she said simply. "I hope it makes up for some of the terrible things I've said to you."

Lawson didn't answer at once. His lips were busy finding something that had troubled him from the first. Yes! Eve could be a firebrand of affection when she wanted to be.

Under their feet the highway had once more flashed its warning. He wondered vaguely if the red plastic was glowing because of the accident ahead, or did Eve's torrid lips have something to do with the blushing scarlet of Translucent Trans-World.

________________

2: Oliver Performs a Miracle

Amazing Stories, October 1942

FERRIS hesitated as though he couldn't have heard correctly. Then all four of the chair legs dropped with a loud bang and he stood up slowly.

"There's them who can't do a thing for themselves." He groaned. "Well, if you can't— you can't."

He went out the door, letting the screen plop back in Oliver's face. The pump hose came off its hook and clattered against the fender.

"Hey!" Oliver said angrily. "Take it easy there. Can't be buying new fenders every week."

Curley chortled, belly shaking with mirth.

"Since when," he asked, "have you ever bought more than a can of wax for this death-trap?"

The smaller man's face turned livid.

He straightened a full five-foot-five, and his pale-blue eyes turned two shades darker.

"I'll thank you to be more careful how you describe my property. There ain't a better car been made than that twenty-nine Model A, and this one gets the best attention a fella can give it."

THIS was an old story to Curley Ferris. Brady chugged in every Monday morning on his way to town. He always tipped the small, dignified face at the same angle and launched a new battle in defense of the A. He and the old Ford went together in a manner that made Curley's big heart warm when he saw them roll into the drive. Wordlessly he hung the hose back on its hook, turned and wobbled back toward the small garage.

Hoisting his bulk once more into the chair, he grabbed the paper. It was too late. Oliver was at his side, sentences piling themselves on each other in one rush.

"You billy-goated old elephant!" His hands were shaking. "What do you expect of a car that's ten years old? Want me to buy one of them high fallutin' Cadeelacs? Poor man like me can only afford one car. There's a limit to what I can stand."

Curley studied him coolly over the specs.

"Talking about limits," he grunted, "when I see you driving in here winter, summer, and spring in that danged old rattle-trap, I just wonder if there is any limits. That car has sure passed 'em all. It'll take you straight to Heaven—or else to Hell, wherever they finally decide to put you."

"Why— why!" Oliver sputtered like a hot griddle. "The engine under that hood is as clean as the day they put it in."

"I'm clean too." Curley's eyes were twinkling, but his jaw had frozen in mock anger. "But on the road I can't do over three miles an hour."

"If you're saying my car ain't fast!" Oliver's neck was turning a lovely pink. "Well! Maybe not— but she ain't no darn road-hog either. She just gets me there and gets me back."

"And shakes you up like a butter-churn, doin' it," Curley added.

Oliver's ears twitched violently.

He tried to speak in a rich, deep voice but somehow his anger betrayed him, and a high falsetto resulted.

"I ain't a rich man. You can't get more out of a car than you put in, and that watered gas of yours... It is a well-recognized law of physics that no mechanical instrument will give up more power than is put into it. That's why perpetual motion machines and stuff like that don't work. It's a wonder to me that my A gets enough energy out of your gas to even shake like a butter-churn!"

Oliver was talking fast, airing his scientific knowledge.

"You've got to use energy to produce energy. For instance, if you burn gasoline in a motor, it changes its identity. It becomes energy, not matter. But it doesn't all change, because much of the matter is only changed into other matter— fumes, and so forth. Some of the energy is lost in friction, too.

"Some scientists have said that energy could be changed into matter, to reverse the process. But they haven't found out how to do it yet. Unless maybe you know the secret underneath that watered pump of yours..."

Curley was in high gear now.

"As far as getting more out than you put in, why don't you run the thing on water altogether? Three gallons of gas a week ain't making me rich."

The argument had progressed beyond Curley's original desire to heckle Oliver. He was relieved that the phone on the far wall started to ring. One long—two short—that was his signal.

"See who it is." He hated like tarnation to get up.

Oliver frowned a little and went across the greasy floor.

Picking up the receiver he said,

"Yep?"

Then his small face turned a shade lighter.

"Who? Thunderation! Yep— Yep! Well I'll be hanged!"

He hung up slowly, turning with a sickish yellow light on his face.

"Well?" Curley demanded. "Don't stand there like a horse with distemper. Who was it?"

"Convicts," Oliver said hollowly. "Two men escaped from state's prison. They are headed this way."

FOR the first time this morning Curley acted with some pretense of speed. With shirt-tail flying from the creaseless pants, he was into the backroom like a shot and out again with the shotgun.

"Let 'em come" His puffy face had tightened and grown fierce. "We'll blow 'em to kingdom-come!"

Oliver stood listening. The prison alarm sounded faintly across the farmland. Sirens were already screaming faintly far down the road. He sidled behind Curley's bulk, feeling a little more concealed. He shivered.

"Suppose they might go the other way?" It was an expression of hope.

"Nope— not a chance." The hand around the shotgun tightened. "This is the only good road. They'll try to lose the police in that mess of county roads south of here."

The sirens were closer now, and Curley's gun wavered a little. He'd shot a rabbit once, and had almost cried.

"Look!" His hand clutched Oliver's shoulder. Two men jumped out of the bushes and ran toward Oliver's car.

Oliver started to jump up and down.

"Shoot!" he ordered. "Shoot 'em before they get my car."

The heavy gun came up, hesitated, then dropped again. Perspiration stood out on the fat man's face.

"I can't do it."

They were across the drive already, and climbing into the flivver.

"Don't be scared," Oliver howled. "Let 'em have it."

The Ford coughed, started to idle spasmodically.

"I ain't scared. Just remembered— the shells are all up in the bedroom. It ain't loaded."

Something in Oliver's timid heart snapped. Like a hen protecting its young, he shot toward the door. The screen cowered before the onslaught. With the full power his thin legs could muster he was after the retreating car. Sirens closed in from all directions.

In a low, flat dive he pitched forward into the rear seat. He hit the floor with an unhealthy groan of pain.

"Well— well!" The stoutest one of the pair of convicts turned and looked down at him. "I think it's a man."

There was a painful lump rising on Oliver's thinning scalp and another on the bony left knee. Now that he was in the car, he wondered why he'd ever left Curley. They were on the highway going ahead at a noisy, but fairly fast clip.

The driver looked over his shoulder at the frightened little man in the back seat. He was tall and had a thin, tight lower lip. There was a livid scar across his neck. Stout had pulled a gun from somewhere and held its short barrel aimed at Oliver's head.

"Say Grampa!" Scar Neck asked, "why don't you feed this trap a good tonic?"

OLIVER realized that for the time being he was safe. They were going about forty miles an hour and that was the best the A could do. It was a matter of minutes before the police would be upon them. He became quite brave.

"If you're so darned smart," he suggested," find a tonic yourself. This is as fast as I have to drive, not being a law-fearing man."

Instantly he wished he'd remained silent. He gulped and felt very ill as the gun poked forward against his stomach.

"How in Hell can we get some speed out of this Kiddy-Kar?" he grated.

Oliver had climbed painfully up onto the seat cushion now.

"You might try putting in a supercharger," he quavered. Then— "No-no— you ain't hardly got the time."

Stout turned on him, the tenseness of his yellow face silencing any further outbreaks. Heavy lips curled up, leaving a row of broken teeth leering at Oliver.

"Shut up, wise guy!" he ordered. "If we go out, you'll be right with us."

Oliver looked at the wavering tommy-gun. Stout's thick finger was rippling over the trigger, shaking with fear. The little man realized that Stout meant what he was saying. Oliver wished sincerely that he had taken Reverend Beecher's advice and attended church other than on Easter Sunday— he wished he could erase his past sins— that time twenty years ago when—

One of the police cars was close behind now. He could hear its wheels howl in protest at the curve they had just come around. Stout would shoot him before they would have a chance—

You can't get more out of a thing than you put in, he had assured Curley. Now he wished that by some miracle he could. If only something could happen to save his neck.

The gun came forward, Stout's eye leering at him from its further end.

"Do something!" Stout commanded, "or I'm letting 'er tear."

OLIVER'S right eye focused on the dashboard. The gas gauge was bouncing up and down wildly. The eye traveled toward the speedometer, the key— THE KEY— THAT WAS IT. If they turned off the key now, the Ford would backfire like all get out. Perhaps in the excitement—! But they wouldn't be foolish enough to do that. Maybe if he told them to turn it to the left...He'd never tried that himself, but—

"The car's got two motors!" Oliver howled. His voice held a desperate eagerness. If they would only believe him. "Turn the key way to the left and the other motor will come on."

Scar Neck looked at Stout. His lips were quivering strangely. The police car was almost up with them now. Men were visible at the windows, rifles poking toward them.

"He's nuts," Stout said in a strained whisper.

Scar Neck shrugged his shoulders.

"Maybe not," he said.

He felt for the key with one hand and gave it a violent twist.

Oliver felt his body slam back against the cushion as the flivver took a sudden gulp of gas, shivered from bumper to trunk and leaped forward like a racing car.

Scar Neck's foot fell from the gas pedal, but the car only went faster. Oliver saw the controls whip into reverse.

"Cripes," Scar Neck howled gleefully, "we got a bird on our hands."

Oliver was thunderstruck. He had prescribed the impossible and it was happening. He was getting more out than he had put in, and he didn't think he liked it. Now they had the road to themselves. The last police siren had faded out, and the sounds of the chase were criss-crossing among themselves far behind.

The A flew through Fayetville with everything but wings to push it faster. They collected a stray cat and a chicken en route, and dove like fury into the open country beyond. Oliver wondered dazedly what the citizens of Fayetville would think now. Who said the A wasn't a Super Car?

WITH the police lost far behind, Scar Neck felt safer. "Better stop and collect ourselves," he announced finally.

He pressed the brake pedal and released his foot from the gas. Nothing happened. Nothing, that is, except a marked increase in their speed. He pushed the brake harder. There was a strong burning odor and the brake lining went up in a puff of smoke. The speedometer had long since hit its limit and blown out its own heart. They must be doing over ninety. Oliver wished mightily that he could be back at the Gas Palace.

"We gotta stop this chariot," Scar Neck shouted. They hit a curve on two wheels, straightening out again. His face held a look of horror. The front left fender got tired of holding on and fell behind with a loud rattle of tin.

"Do something!" Stout considered Oliver the miracle man by now. "I got a wife and two kids."

Stout's face was even more yellow than before, but the teeth had retired between the tight, anxious lips. He waved the gun again, and Oliver wondered if it was worth all this trouble. He had no idea what to do next. Another fender left for parts unknown, followed by a very important-sounding gadget, somewhere below them.

"I— I can't stop it," he wailed. The wind shrieking into his face, cut short any further explanation. The top had ballooned up from the flivver and settled in a ditch fifty feet behind. Telephone poles were rushing past like an animated picket fence. A lone farmer, watching them from the roadside, almost twisted his neck loose in an attempt to follow the flying flivver's trail.

Stout had the gun aimed at Oliver's neck again, but the little man rather welcomed the idea of getting shot. Anything else would be welcome right now!

They were skimming the concrete now, and Scar Neck seemed to exercise all he had to keep them out of the air. The motor roared in protest. Wind howled over the open-topped car until it sounded like a diving Spitfire.

Stout lost his nerve. His tear-steeped eyes swept over Oliver pleadingly.

"We don't mean you no harm. Sure— we're from the pen, but we ain't really bad boys."

Oliver took courage. His brain turned over slowly. He had bought only three gallons of gas. It would run out in a minute and they would have to stop. Why not let them go on thinking he was the brains of the outfit?

"Shoot some holes in the gasoline tank."

He ordered Stout to do it, in as superior manner as he could, controlling the urge his voice had to break on the high notes.

STOUT bestowed a thankful, tear-stained glance upon him. He picked up the gun, aimed at the fuel tank up under the dashboard and cut loose.

"Rat-tat-tat-tat—"

Somewhere behind, the last fender hit the road and bounced away into the ditch. Gasoline trickled slowly out of the holes in the tank. Then something happened that added to the already perplexed trio's worries. Gas continued to spurt from the tank. It flowed freely, splashing out over the men in the front seat. Finally it came out like a streaming fire hose, gallons and gallons of it spouting over the car and flying into the road behind. The Model A had gone completely off the beam.

Three gallons of gas left a half hour ago. Now it was flooding them with more fuel than three tankers could carry. Oliver bowed his head, waiting for the end. And while he waited, he thought.

Somehow, the turning of that key to a position he'd never tried, simply because it had never occurred to him, had performed the scientific miracle he'd mentioned to Curley— had reversed the normal processes of energy and matter. Here was the A changing energy, perhaps free energy from the air, back into matter! The car was making gasoline by the gallon! And the net result was that the cylinders still churned furiously, from energy surging through them to become matter, driving the car as though the normal processes of physics were still going on.

Something wrenched out from under his feet, the floor boards dropped down and he was counting checker-board slabs of concrete flashing under him. He yearned to drop through the hole and disappear forever. Stout was on his knees, bending over the seat back in a position of prayer.

"Please save us," he begged. "We'll give you all the stuff we stole."

A car loomed up far ahead. It was cruising along in the same direction as they, at a sedate speed. The road narrowed in between two high rocky walls. It was getting dark. Everything had fallen out of the flivver but the motor.

Thoroughly cowed, Stout had curled into a miserable ball to escape the spurting gas that still belched from the bullet-torn tank. Scar Neck leaned against the wheel, eyes bugging at the car ahead. If he tried to swerve around at this speed, they'd roll over into the rocks and slice apart like soft butter.

AN idea turned over slowly in Oliver's mind. It hesitated—caught against a brain cell— and lodged firmly there. He mustered the remaining strength in his frail arms and pulled himself upright. The idea was so simple that he felt like crying. He shouted over the howl of the wind into Scar's ear.

"Turn off the key."

Scar's body snapped forward. One hand crept toward the dash, touched the key and turned it around. His face was shining with gratitude.

The flivver coughed like a dying dinosaur— leaned forward on its front wheels— and backfired like an eight-inch gun. But it started to lose speed.

The other car was too close to avoid a collision. The rear end of it seemed to push back. It sat down on them abruptly and refused to get up. Oliver saw Stout flying over the back of the seat...

CENTURIES later he regained consciousness. It was very dark. His head had popped through something that felt like a square of cardboard. The "something" was cutting his neck painfully.

He remembered the accident. Good Godfrey! He was still alive, and lying on his back in the deep ditch.

He jerked the horse-collar thing from his neck. It scraped his face, and came loose. He saw it was the inner side of a car door. There was a large, white circle painted on the surface and his head had gone straight through the bull's eye.

With bleary eyes, Oliver tried to read the white letters painted around the white circle. His face relaxed and the bewilderment vanished. Stout and Scar Face, if they were still alive, would be well taken care of, for a comforting message greeted his eye. STATE POLICE PATROL, it said. The car they'd crashed into had been a police car.

__________________

3: Corporal Webber's Last Stand

Fantastic Adventures, October 1942

LIEUTENANT SAM RICHARDS pushed the flimsy bamboo door open and strode in. The rain blew after him, drenching the tall trench-coated figure. He ripped the stub of cigar from heavy lips and shook like an angry dog.

"Holy smoke," Sam muttered, "It's raining solid outside."

Walt Hubberd, slim, mustached and very tired, looked up over the stack of batteries from the communication set. He smiled, eyes twinkling from under heavy brows, and wiped water from his face.

"Yeah," he looked up at the roof. "They sure left these shacks well ventilated."

Ducking down again, he slipped his headphones on. Richards took off his coat and tossed it in the corner.

"Webber's at it again," he announced.

Hubberd's eyes narrowed to angry green slits.

"Sam," he measured the words in a low, tense voice, "I know you're the superior officer, king bee of the platoon and all that, but sometimes I can't figure you out. Why do you keep sticking up for that guy?"

Richards looked stern, trying to hide his fatigue. With the whole army south of him now, Balanga to be held until Bataan could be cleared of armed men, it was up to him and the platoon to hold the gully and two ridges until hell cracked. He grinned crookedly. Nine men and two guns left against two, maybe three hundred Japs.

"Come here, Walt." He spread the badly folded map out before him. Hubberd took off the earphones slowly.

They bent over the map and for the hundredth time tried to find a loophole. Richards' finger traced the small gully from the north, indicating the two gun-pits at the south lip.

"They have to come through the hole," he said quietly. "As long as we can cover that spot with a cross-fire, they'll stay in their own little rat-trap. The question is, how long can we keep their big guns from finding our positions?"

Hubberd shook his head.

"Looks to me as though they'll go through that hole like water through the dike inside of twenty-four hours."

Over the hill the two Brownings cut loose, rattling lead across the gully edge. Richards stood up, his lips tight on his cigarette.

"Nine men left," he muttered. "And now Webber's trying to turn them against me."

"What?" Hubberd's eyes darkened with fury. "Why that dirty—!"

Richards lifted a hand commandingly.

"Stow it," he grunted. "I can't be sure what's making him tick yet. This morning he made his gunner hold fire until almost twenty Japs managed to sneak through. They're headed south right now to snipe at the main body."

"That scum," Hubberd stood up, hands clenched behind him. "I'd like to drag him in here and wring his neck."

"So would I," Richards folded the map quickly, stuffing it into the inside pocket. "But I can't be sure. Walt—I think the poor kid's going batty. He's been crying all day about hating to shoot human beings; that it isn't right."

"They aren't human," Hubberd ground out. "Remember what they did up north last week?"

Richards nodded.

"Sliced the ears of one of my men and staked him on top of an ant hill."

"Why can't Webber see that! We're in the right in this war. We gotta kill them dirty snakes!"

"Maybe he will see it, before long..."

"Hell, I doubt it! He's just plain yellow!"

SOMEONE was stumbling and sliding through the mud from the hill behind the shanty. Hubberd's head jerked forward, and the heavy service pistol came out. The door rattled under a heavy fist. "Come in."

It was Edwards, first gunner in Webber's pit. He came in half drowned and swaying a little as he walked. His face had every emotion washed out of it, as though he wanted to vomit.

"Webber!" he leaned on the table, gripping it tightly. "The damned fool has killed himself."

Richards slumped back, pushing the dented helmet from his rough, sandy hair. Hubberd stopped pacing and stood very still by the door.

"Nine men left and Webber commits suicide! I told you he was yellow!"

Richards stared at the gunner, lips drawn out straight and hard.

"How did it happen?"

Edwards sat down, rocking his head in his arms.

"I was on the gun," he said slowly. "Webber told me to hold my fire, like this morning. I knew number two pit was firing hell bent for election and expected me to alternate. The Yellow Bellies were going over the gully lip every time he stopped firing. I cut loose and Corporal Webber commanded me to cease firing. I kept right on giving them hell, and he started sobbing like a baby."

"'You can't kill those men,' he kept shouting. 'They got families like us.'

"I shut my mouth and kept on alternating every twenty rounds. After a while they stopped crawling out of the rat trap, and I let the gun cool down. I looked at Webber. He was sitting in the mud, tears streaming down his cheeks. Honest to God, Lieutenant Richards, sir, the Corporal was playing with empty cartridge shells. He played like a kid with blocks, making little piles of them and sobbing like hell all the while."

He stopped talking and brought out a filthy cloth. He blew his nose loudly.

Hubberd hadn't moved from his spot by the door. He was staring queerly at Richards.

"Go on," Sam said. "What then?"

Edwards gulped.

"When the Yellow Bellies went through again I started a cross-fire. This time Webber stood up with his arms over his head and howled like a sick dog. I didn't see him do it, but he must have scrambled out of the pit and around in front of the gun. Before I could hold fire he got a salvo in the knees and fell right in my face—" he almost broke down. "It was awful— awful."

The lieutenant stood up. He clutched the coat and pulled it on stiffly. Bending over Edwards, he gripped the gunner's shoulder.

"Come on," he said. "We're going back to the gun."

NUMBER ONE gun pit was boiling lead. They reached it through the shallow trench. Assistant gunner Brown and the platoon's skinny truck driver, Slim, fed the 30-caliber Browning all the lead it could gulp. Sure that both guns were still in action, Richards turned toward the bloody mess in the far side of the pit.

Corporal Webber had died hard. His knees were broken and shredded with a line of slugs straight up the belly and over his head when he pitched forward.

"Slim," Richards growled. The truck driver came forward.

"Yes, sir!"

"Take him back over the hill and cover him up."

He watched Edwards take his place again behind the heavy barrel of the Browning. Turning to leave, he kicked something in the center of the pit. Stacked neatly in little pyramids of ten, the small row of empty cartridges stared up at him. For a second, compassion softened Richards' muddy, scarred face. Then he kicked at them savagely, trampling them into the mud. What if Webber was right, and killing of any kind was wrong?

Edwards' finger tipped lightly against the trigger, sending a salvo of lead across the field. The gun across the ravine answered him.

With a strange gleam in his eye Richards went back along the trench to the safety of the hill. His face was blanked of emotion. The rain had stopped, leaving broad leaves to drip—and down across the hill a brightly-plumaged bird flashed against the wet green. Both guns ceased firing and a fiery lopsided sun came out for a while, sinking into the brush-land toward the west.

SOMETIME after midnight Lieutenant Sam Richards came up on one elbow off the hard floor. Guns were clattering to the north. Rattle— stop— rattle. Jap machine guns coming in close. Branches ripped off the trees atop the hill. He got into his coat and went outside.

The bamboo hut went white and clear against a dazzling light in the sky.

Crump. The sulky, earth-ripping trench mortars were tearing holes somewhere near his gun positions.

He ran, head down toward the lip of the gully and number two gun. Edwards and Slim would take care of themselves.

Crump. The way those mortars were raising hell, there would be plenty of Japs in the gully in a few minutes. He crossed the gully edge, and snaking across it studied the land to the north. No movement yet. On again, he pitched face down in a fox hole, the tree above him tearing itself apart under a shower of lead. Belly pressed into the mud he almost fell into number two pit.

Two men alive, two more faces up, lying against the side of the hole. Tanner, number one gunner, saw him, and crawled out from under the trigger. His face was twisted and filthy with grease and smoke.

"If you'll take over for a while, sir?"

Far to the north, big guns started to rumble. 105 mm howitzer shells ripped into the gully, shaking the ground as they dug in. They were cleaning up for the advance.

Sighting down the barrel, Richards felt the water jacket lovingly and lined the Browning over the stake driven outside the pit. His assistant jammed in a new cartridge-belt. Richards pulled the trigger back and felt them engage. Before he could see the Yellow Bellies, he opened up. The trigger came back almost gently and the front of the pit blued with smoke and dirt. Edwards heard the salvo from number two, and cut loose with his reply.

SOMEWHERE out front Richards thought he heard an outcry. The howitzers stopped and he felt rather than saw the long line of creeping Japs in the gully.

The first belt was empty. Another rammed into place and again the trigger tripped back. Behind him he heard the crump of a mortar shell. They were creeping up. Finding the range. On the other side he knew Edwards was in the same spot.

Crump. Richards jerked forward, felt the rough shower of flying mud and knew something hit his helmet with a jarring shock. He shook his head, felt the cartridge belt feed out again and turned. The pit was half filled with débris. His men were buried alive under it. Dropping the pistol grip he started to dig savagely with bare hands. They came out of the soft soil, dripping red.

The gun across the gully stopped abruptly. He grabbed like a crazy man for the half-buried ammunition box, and waited for Edwards to start firing again. There was another burst of fire from number one pit. Breathing easier he answered with his own gun.

A terrific explosion ripped at the sky across the ravine. For fifty feet on all sides of number one gun, the earth went up, heaving trees and mud in all directions. Sam groaned. He'd have to fight alone. He tried to drag the heavy Browning back. The mortars had almost got his range. He felt a twinge of pain in his knee and sank back swearing. The bastards had broken his knee cap.

The bloody hand went back to the pistol grip. His lips were dry and tasteless. He kicked the gun over. The night was suddenly very silent.

"What the hell's the use!" he thought out loud, trying to pull his game leg out more comfortably.

Voices sounded, smooth and oily in the gully. They were going through it by the dozen. Through to the south where they'd flank the whole damned army unmolested. But maybe their cause was right . . .

His knee hurt like hell.

Then the death-rattling of number one gun broke loose from across the ravine. Its sudden clatter brought him upright, and he pitched forward against the side of the hole. The knee was forgotten. This time he knew there were screams. Howling, slobbering Sons of Heaven were dying. Japs— yellow-bellied Japs were falling and dying out there on top of the ravine.

RICHARDS looked over the edge of the pit, eyes wide with amazement. The first gun was running wide open, spitting out compressed hell. The main Jap movement had already left the ravine and were concentrated in the open field to the south.

He had thought the howitzer shell had blasted number one pit from the map. Common sense told Lieutenant Richards that a Browning only fired two hundred-fifty rounds without reloading. Still the gun didn't hesitate. It was stacking Yellow Bellies up like red chips, rattling on and on like an angry hornet.

Forgetting his own safety, Richards went up on one elbow and lifted his helmet into the air. He waved it wildly, the powerful, seamed face lighting up.

"Give it to 'em, you tough hided son of a—!!!"

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the gun was silent again. Only the groaning of dying men disturbed the night. He listened carefully for a long time, as they who were left went back along the gully toward the north. Then he started crawling painfully toward the first gun. There was something here that Lieutenant Sam Richards couldn't figure out. Something that—!

He reached the gully, lowered his game leg over the edge and dropped silently down. Up the opposite bank, he crawled slowly, pulling most of his weight with his strong arms. Then he realized what the howitzer shell had done to the first gun pit.

It wasn't there. At first he looked for the gun. Where the pit had been there was nothing but a deep, ragged edged scar. A spewed up, broken tree leaned over it at a crazy angle. Edwards' body, blanketed with mud, lay face down on the lip of the shell hole.

Richards' knee was giving him trouble again.

The solitary tripod was all that remained of the Browning. Rolling over painfully he reached out and grasped one of its legs in his hand. As though waiting for the safety of silence, the moon slithered between heavy cloud banks and flashed broken streamers of quick-silver across the open pit. Something glinted in the dirt beside him. Richards' face turned stark white, frozen with holy fear.

His hand went out, reverence in the touch, as his fingers fell on a precisely stacked pyramid of empty cartridges. They were in a neat row, exactly like the ones Corporal Webber had played with before he went down under the Browning's ripping hell. Slowly his hand came away, and he slipped one of the shells into his pocket.

"I knew you weren't a coward, Webber," he whispered. "Where you are, things are plainer to see. Folks have a better idea of what's right and wrong. And I'll give the boys your message, Corporal. I'll show 'em this cartridge and tell 'em where I found it. And I'll tell 'em how you came back to do the right thing when you saw it. I'll tell 'em, because knowing you're doing the right thing makes it easier to do. And you oughta know, Corporal Webber!"

__________________

4: Louie's Cat Eye

Fantastic Adventures, December 1942

"LOUIE!" Sam Wallace's voice cracked out like a whip from the city desk. Louie approached slowly.

"Want me, Chief?" The question was unnecessary. He knew damned well what was coming. Louie's five feet of skin and bones were never cut out for a press photographer. He'd been waiting a long time for Wallace to find it out.

Sam looked up again from under the green eye-shade, squinted and growled.

"You're fired."

Louie gulped. He sidled around behind Wallace, forgetting the momentarily silenced typewriters and side-grins that greeted his downfall.

Sam was studying page one of the competitive City Journal. It carried a three column blowup of the Tony Rezzcheck funeral. It was a nice shot of a big-time gangster making his last trip to the cemetery. At Wallace's elbow a glossy photo spelled Louie's last stand. He had been on the Rezzcheck job—had one camera smashed by Tony's playboys, and finally come home with a nice print of a man's shoulder. It was a clear, well defined shoulder, perfect for reproduction purposes, but Sam didn't like it.

Louie gulped and departed.

The boys downstairs were very quiet when Louie came in. He stopped at the door, lips twisted into a wry grin.

"Exit one lousy photographer," he said.

Louie needed a beer. He took a few things from the locker. Pat Mullens stopped him at the outer door, looking sheepish.

"Heard you busted your box on that last job," he muttered. "Here's an old one I don't use much. Take it."

"Thanks, Pat. I can get along."

Louie choked and pushed past him. He couldn't see well in the sunlight outside. The light brought tears into his eyes. The Post gang were swell to a guy. Too darn swell. He fumbled in the baggy tweed coat and drew out the last ten-spot. Kissing it tenderly, Louie headed for Ray's Beer Hall.

"Whatever's on tap," he requested, and Ray slid a foamy one across the polished mahogany.

"What's the matter?" Ray looked him over carefully. "You look lower than a busted kite."

"I am," Louie answered, and slid down off the stool.

The telephone jangled loudly in the darkness at the other end of the bar.

"Yeah?" Ray answered it. "Hey, Brock," he said. "It's your girl. She says she expected you'd be here."

Louie came on the double, clutching the receiver to his ear.

"Kitty?" he questioned eagerly. 'Hello, Honey, where the devil are you?"

A pleasant tinkle of laughter came over the wire.

"Hello, Napoleon." It was Kitty Wallace, all right, fresh, and vibrant as a lake-shore breeze. "I'm in California. I've got such grand news, I had to call you at once—"

"California!" Louie's voice was incredulously startled, but he was singing inside at the sound of her voice. "When are you coming home?"

Kitty laughed again.

"Lonely?"

"I'm plenty low."

Louie told her about the job. Kitty was deeply concerned.

"But I'll be home tomorrow, cave man." She had a way of saying it that wasn't hard to take. "What I've got to tell you will make everything all right again."

"Yeah?" Louie was worried. "What do we furnish the bungalow with?"

"Love," Kitty answered. "And you know what else—"

"Your three minutes are up," the harsh, metallic voice of the long-distance operator cut in.

"Bye, bye," Kitty said. "Lots of kisses, and I'm taking the plane to night."

The receiver clicked. Louie stood very still for a minute, listening. Then he turned away toward State Street.

"California," he groaned. "A plane... What a girl!" And what was all this surprise business?

DOWN the street, he hesitated in front of Joe's pawn shop. Ten bucks, less one beer. He went in, feeling more comfortable in the half-lighted, shabby room. Joe came from the back room, hunched forward with a critical eye.

"Mr. Brock," he said with suspicion in his voice, "I ain't buying today."

"I am," Louie said shortly. He started to paw over the collection of battered cameras on the end of the counter. Joe leaned over, his stubble-covered chin close to Louie's.

"It's a camera you want?"

"You ain't got one in the joint," Louie was disgusted. "But I might take one of these boxes."

"I got good cameras." Joe was rising to the battle. He pushed the best of the lot forward. "A hundred-dollar Speed Graphic, this is, and in fine shape."

He turned it in his hairy fingers.

"Without a lens," Louie reminded him.

"So." Joe was unruffled. "I'm selling you a hundred-buck camera for ten ones, without lens."

"Ain't you got an old one I can use," Louie was beginning to get ideas. "That dead-eye won't help any."

Joe rummaged around in a grimy box. There was glass of all types in it. At last he drew something out and screwed it quickly into the camera.

"That's a good one." He held it up for Louie's approval.

The box was tight enough— no pin holes, but the lens stared at him like a cat's eye. It was pale green, with a deeper, pupil-like circle in the center.

"This is a glass eye," he sputtered, drawing back. "What in hell you trying to sell me?"

"Now listen, Mr. Brock," Joe clouded suddenly, "I'm selling you a hundred-buck camera, not the lens. Do you buy, or do I turn you around and throw you out?"

Brock hesitated.

"I'll take it," he said, "for five bucks."

Joe seemed about to disintegrate. Then realizing he still had the upper edge of the deal he held out his hand for the cash.

"Give."

Louie handed him the money and turned. His eye caught the twelve-inch figure of a cat sitting on a shelf above the door. It was of metal, and black with age. One green eye winked from the head as though begging for its mate.

"A very valuable number," Joe was on the trail of the other five, "A genuine Egyptian cat, dug from ancient ruins. Price, five bucks."

"What the hell would I do with a one-eyed cat?" Louie shot back. He left the shop and headed up State toward Madison. There was a plate left in the camera. An intriguing idea entered his mind. Why not take a shot and see how the world looked through a cat's eye? In front of the First National he spotted an old beggar. Lifting the camera, he aimed carelessly and released the shutter.

IN the dark-room under Mrs. Sherrigan's hall stairs, he went to work. With fresh chemicals mixed, Louie turned out the light and started making prints of his best work. Some of these were bound to sell to the syndicates. Cash was hash right now, and he needed food badly.

An hour later he stopped, then remembered the plate in Joe's bargain camera. Drawing it out, he doused it in the developer. To Louie's surprise dark spots began to appear on the face of the negative. The crazy lens had worked. Sweat oozed on his forehead and he bent over tensely. The blackness was spreading and figures stood out plainly. He nursed the plate into the hypo. Working carefully now he washed the negative and placed it on the drying-rack. It was too dark to make out the image.

Later, out in the brightness of the hall, he looked at what the cat-eye lens had captured. Louie almost passed out. There wasn't any beggar at all. This was a perfect shot of two coppers fighting a death battle with what seemed to be three bank robbers. He sat down on the stairs, wiping his face with a chemical-stained sleeve. It was an on-the-scene shot if he'd ever dreamed of one, and what staff photographer hadn't?

Dashing back to the dark room, Louie pulled down the enlarger and went to work. Common sense told him there hadn't been a robbery at the First National in ten years. He tried to convince himself as he stared at the finished prints, that he, Louie Brock, had seen this with his own eyes. It was no use. He'd seen one seedy-looking bum and that was all. Mumbling, he slipped the print into an envelope, put it carefully inside his coat and headed for Ray's.

"NOPE," Pat Mullens shook his head. "I haven't heard about it, and if the First National had been busted open, Sam woulda had me down there in twenty minutes."

"That's funny," Louie had to lie. "I heard a couple of guys talking. Must have been listening backward." He gulped another tall one and thumped the glass down with a note of finality.

"Next one's on the house," Ray offered.

"Thanks, fella," Louie climbed down. "Me— I need sleep, and very bad."

Pat looked after him as he went out the door. He turned to Ray.

"Funny what losing a job will do to a guy," he offered. "Louie's acting wilder than a tire-salesman."

WHEN Louie Brock woke up it was raining. The clock told him night was gone by five hours and Kitty would have long since arrived by the morning plane. His clogged nostrils smelled news. It whipped up through the smoky air of West Madison and brought his bare feet out on the damp floor. Then he realized what had called him from his dream of a thousand cat's eyes all staring at once.

A newsie was howling from the street.

"Hi-Ya. Read all about it. Cops fight gun battle at First National Bank. Three crooks killed. Hi-Ya. Read—"

Louie was half way down in his pajamas. Back up again, he flung the robe over his shoulders and almost fell down to the front door.

"Hey, Kid," he shouted. "Bring me a paper."

His heart was pounding. Safe in the room again, he read the first paragraph.

"The First National Bank was held up early today by three unidentified men who attempted to escape through the front entrance with ten thousand dollars. Only the speedy work of two officers on the beat prevented their"—He read on by jerks— "gun battle— two men killed—companion wounded badly."

This was it. This was the robbery he had a picture of— but how?

Louie's mind was whirling. He sat a moment on the bed, nursing a head that wouldn't stop pounding. Page one of the paper carried a single-column shot of the bank. Sam must have dug it from the morgue at the last minute. He got determinedly to his feet.

MADISON Street was a dirty spattering mess of mud and rain. Louie's slippers squished through it; his pajamas were wet to the knee. The topcoat might have been some protection if he'd remembered to button it.

In five minutes Louie was standing before Sam Wallace's desk. The precious envelope was clutched firmly in one hand. He passed it to Sam.

"Well, well," Wallace's grin was caricatured by an ink-stain. "If it isn't little Tom Thumb Brock back again. What can we do for you, sonny?"

"Nothing," Louie flared. "Just take a look at what you're missing."

Sam opened the envelope carelessly. The print flopped out on the desk top. He stared at it a second, then galvanized into life.

"How in—?" he started. "My God, man, do you realize what you've got here?"

"A gold mine," Louie grinned. "And all for the Journal."

Sam's expression softened.

"No employee of the Post will sell his stuff to that crackpot outfit. You're hired again with twenty-five a month as your first raise."

He turned in his chair and shouted like a bull moose.

"Ed, call the press room and tell them to hold everything. Junk page one and get the engraver up here. I want a cut of this print that will leave just room enough for the head and caption." He relaxed again. "Louie, a hundred bucks for the sole rights to this shot?"

"I oughta put in a clause where you'd have to take off your hat every time we meet," Louie said bitterly. "But maybe I won't."

"Thank you, Mr. Brock," Sam said, and left Louie twiddling his thumbs.

Louie sat down on the desk-top, listening to the pleasant humming of a city room in action. His stuff was opening their eyes, and promptly. In the back of Louie's head, that cat's eye glowed brightly. He blessed it. If the breaks held, Louie Brock would buy a house full of cats.

IT was a constant source of wonder to Pat Mullens how Louie ever managed to get Kitty Wallace from the grab-bag. She'd spent the better part of six months loving the half-pint Brock, and Pat was trying harder all the time to see with his thick rimmed glasses just what Kitty could see, and admire. Today, Pat was more worried than ever over the way Louie had called his shots on the First National job. He looked up, at least figuratively, to Louie, as some small image of a great man.

Kitty, trim, and with hair of warmest brown, came tripping into the beanery and sat down beside Louie.

"How— Great Chief." Her nose wrinkled a little at Louie's seedy appearance. ''You could stand a bath and some fresh linen, Laddie."

Louie groaned.

"Don't I know it." He tried to hide as much as possible under the edge of the table. "I— I've been a busy guy these last two days. Gee, Kitty, I'm sorry about this morning."

"It was lonely at the air field," she squeezed his arm. "But I guess you did pretty well, from what Dad tells me."

Her toe crept out and he felt its pressure against his. Everything was all right again.

"My midget does have trouble, doesn't he, Pat?"

Pat chuckled. "I'd like to hear one of the boys call him that!" He stood up. "This is where I came in."

Kitty grabbed his arm.

"So," she said sternly. "You'd walk out on us after I've been gone for two weeks."

Joe sat down again sheepishly.

"Me, I'm always in the way," he muttered.

"And a darned good place to be," Louie included. "When we get that 'want to be alone' feeling, we'll let you know."

Kitty's toe pressed a little tighter against his shoe. He blushed in spite of himself. Something about her complete disregard for his physical shortcomings made a big warm spot in Louie's heart.

"You won't even ask if I had a nice trip," she pouted a very little, her amazing light-green eyes twinkling with mystery. "Well, anyhow, I'm home, I have a big surprise for you in just a few days, and now let's have some spaghetti."

"Listen, Honey, don't you think I oughta know about this secret," Louie was wearing down. "It's been two weeks—"

"You will, cave man, when I get good and ready to tell you."

The spaghetti came, dripping with meat sauce, and the incident was closed. Kitty was like that.

SOME hours later, pleasantly smeared with lipstick and smelling pleasantly of Kitty's perfume, Louie Brock sat on a bench behind the Park Central Hotel. It had been a long time since his nose had met on even terms with Kitty Wallace's. The experience had been an old thrill renewed, with exciting promises for days to come. Louie felt fine. A swell girl, Kitty; and a swell job with a cat's eye camera. He had everything.

Louie thought about the camera. Something, and that was all he could call it, was making that camera register a scene just twenty-four hours before it actually happened. That something was making an actual prediction and backing it up in black and white. Something that had to do with Egypt, and history back at the time mummies were going around under their own power. Black magic, and right under Louie Brock's arm.

He'd have to be careful. If the gang found out he wasn't playing fair with them....

A new camera! That was the thing. Buy a new camera for everyday shots, and keep the cat's-eye model out of sight. No good taking a picture of a visiting celebrity, only to find he had a print of the empty railroad station twenty-four hours after said celeb had vanished.

MORNING, and with the sun in his face, Louie felt better. He drove the Chevrolet along slowly. The state highway passed under him, with the smooth click of tar strips against his tires. The cry of the newsboys still rang pleasantly in his ears. "Pic of the Century" they called his shot of the First National robbery. Life, Look, Black Star— all wanted him on the staff. Kitty was the one thing that held him on the Post staff. A mighty firm anchor, at that. Kitty, surprise or no, was about all one man could ask.

Louie enjoyed the assignment this morning.

"There's an old screwball about eight miles west of town, just off the main drag," Sam had told him. "He thinks the world is going to end this week. After that pic you brought in, I'm not so sure but what he's right. At least it will make good Sunday Supplement stuff. Go out and bring him back alive."

Louie turned off the highway at Stateville, and followed his nose down beyond the railroad tracks. Here, in a secluded gully, washed out by a muddy creek, the Prophet had built his ark. Noah had nothing on this boy, Louie thought as he climbed out of the car. The ark was made from what was left of an old life-boat. It had been decked over with old timber and sheet metal. Top-side, it groaned under a small, tarpaper shack. This was the Prophet's living quarters which he shared with an unholy assortment of goats, pigs, dogs and cats.

Louie stood on the bank for a minute, looked at the smooth, soft yellow clay below and wondered how he'd get down. The Prophet came but and Brock's camera mind saw some nice shots immediately. The old gent was good material any day in the week. He had a gunny-sack wrapped and tied around his center overlapped by about three feet of whiskers. That was all.

He propped one skinny shank against the side of the boat and surveyed Louie's slight form.

"Welcome, son," his washed out blue eyes kindled with interest, and the high quaver of a voice was friendly. "Welcome to salvation."

Louie unlimbered the new Speed Graphic he'd purchased that morning and gathering up the cat's-eye model, started down the bank. He slipped, and riding on his back, hit the bottom with a muddy thump. He came up sputtering. The Prophet was properly shocked.

"Tut, tut, my son," he admonished, "such language is in vain."

"It wasn't," Louie said. "It did me a lot of good. Say, I'm out here to get some pictures of you. How about it?"

The Prophet's chin slipped a notch and his eyes clouded.

"Verily," he muttered, "I had hoped some poor sinner had seen the light. I felt that you were sent to join my heavenly caravan."

Then he saw the press-card that Louie was presenting for impression's sake. His face brightened.

"If the world would have one more look at my humble body, before its peoples are plunged into the whirlpool, you may take your tin-types as my last gesture of love."

He hoisted himself upright and stood tense and dignified at the end of the ark Louie judged to be the prow. A couple of cats nosed about his legs and he picked one of them up. Louie scrambled back up the clay bank. He snapped two or three shots of the gulch and the ark. Then, with his precious cat-eye he took another of the entire scene. This time, twenty-four hours wouldn't bring any change, not even the end of the world. Louie was assured of that as he headed the Chevy toward town.

Still, that cat's-eye lens was too much to pass over lightly. Just a chance that something might happen. Louie Brock had a healthy respect for broken mirrors, black cats, and superstitions in general. The old world was anchored pretty firmly for a complete washout in one day. He thanked the old duck and promised to look him up in Heaven.

BACK at the Post he turned the plates over to the engraver and headed for the boarding house. No good trying to find Kitty. She'd said she'd be gone all day. That might mean weeks. With nothing better to do, Louie headed for the dark-room, and his "end-of-the-world" picture. Without looking at the drying negative, he made a double-deck sandwich in Mrs. Sherrigan's kitchen and sat on the metal table top to digest it.

The negative dry, he went after it, still chewing on the cold bacon and lettuce. Back in the kitchen he plopped it down on the table and started munching again. The sharp outline of the negative flashed up from the table top and his jaw dropped. Louie swallowed the last mouthful of sandwich and stared.

The Prophet had been right. Tomorrow was the end of the world.

Here under his twitching nose was a picture of a great raging torrent. People were being flung about under its force, small heads drifting above the mass of dirty water. Some of them had reached the very bank he'd stood on this afternoon, and were hanging to the roots and underbrush, mouths open in despair.

Feeling very weak in the knees, he dragged himself into the dark-room. Working feverishly, he made an eight by ten print of the thing and tried to make out more of the details in the dim light. No good. The ark was there, he was sure of that, and the bewhiskered figure at its prow was familiar. Out into the hall he ran, the print still dripping. The door was open, and he ran to it, letting the sun pour over his shoulder. Then Louie Brock saw something that ended his own private world at a glance.

Stretched full length on the slippery river bank was Kitty Wallace. He tried to convince himself that it was a dream. No, she was there, her slippers gone, hair soaked and clinging against white shoulders. The dress, or what was left of it, lingered against her smooth body, accenting every curve. There was a mole, too. A little brown spot that branded her clearly. The mole, Louie thought with a blush, was right where it should be, and where no one but he should ever know.

That wasn't the worst of it. A tall, dark fellow bent over Kitty, arms about her slim waist. Held in close embrace, Kitty's lips were pressed against his cheek.

The world turned a dirty collection of terrible pinks and mangy greens. He started to tear the print in his shaking hands, thought better of it, folding it carelessly. He started blindly for Ray's place, minus hat and coat.

LOUIE drank the clock around. He went into an uncomfortable stupor on the bar. At eight in the morning Ray brought him gently to his feet.

"Better go home, Laddy," he said kindly. "You've had enough to sink the Axis."

Louie emerged into the sunlight, hiding it from his eyes. His hat was four sizes too small.

"Wish there wasn't any sun," he muttered. "Who started the idea anyhow?"

The sidewalk lurched up under him. He dodged it, saving himself a treacherous blow in the face. Traffic on State was all moving backward. Horns blasted at his eardrums in a continual scream, trying to undermine his last bit of morale. A man, at least ten feet tall emerged from the Post building and came toward him. It was Pat Mullens. His height shocked Louie.

"H'lo Pat, ol' boy," he murmured. "My, how you've grown."

"From your looks," Pat suggested, "I'd say your head was the biggest part of you."

Louie sighed, looking very sad. The minute he closed his eyes a dozen Kitty's all with big green eyes danced around' him, teasing wickedly. His stomach twisted savagely. Louie was going to die.

"I'm going on the ark," he said. "When you and the rest of 'em are drowning, I'll sit with the Prophet and float away from it all."

Pat took him firmly by the arm.

"You're going home, pronto."

Louie was deeply hurt. Pat couldn't understand him. Besides, Pat was a traitor. Finding he couldn't fool him with the tall-man disguise, Pat was getting short again. Very short, and spreading out all over the sidewalk. He looked like something under a steam roller.

Louie chuckled.

"Pat," he said, "you get around, don't you?" He leaned on a fire hydrant to steady himself, and it lurched from under him. Pat steered him into the car.

"Jeebies," Pat muttered. "You are lit."

"Nope," Louie was growing insistent. "And I ain't going home. The world is gonna end. Kitty's two-timing me, and I'm gonna get saved."

There was some grain of sense behind all this, Pat decided. When a man gets this bad, humor him. "Okay," he agreed. "Where are we going?"

Louie told him— with gestures.

LOUIE BROCK'S magic lens had scored a direct shot. The little gully beyond Stateville was a bedlam. Water, rising by the minute had filled its banks to the brim. The ark had swung into midstream, with the Prophet and his horde of wild stock on board. It hesitated there, about to break loose from the mud bottom.

People struggled in the water, sinking, to rise again, their heads floating on the surface. Some of them had crawled free of the rising water and were clinging to debris along the bank.

Kitty Wallace and her lover were among them. Her clothes were nearly torn from her. The soaked green dress left more in sight than to the imagination. Her arms were about the man with her. Their lips were pressed tightly together. Kitty was putting everything into that kiss.

"Help me, darling," she whispered, "I'm so helpless, but now—"

"I'm glad I came," he answered simply. "Without you, life wasn't worth living."

A motor roared above them on the road, then stopped. There was the slam of a door and Kitty sat upright. Her companion was deeply concerned. A small projectile of hate plummeted down the bank, slipping and howling bloody murder. He landed smack against the man at Kitty's side, sending him into a backward spin toward the water.

"You slimy, lousy, woman-baiting son of a spinach-eater," Louie screamed. The spinach-eater's offspring sank out of sight in the mud and water, came up spitting.

"Oh! Mister Slinkvitch," he shouted in a high tenor. "S-save me."

"Coming," a high voice sang out from the bushes behind Louie. A stout figure emerged, and knickered legs bore it down upon Louie. With three gallons of Ray's beer in him, Louie let go again. Mr. Slinkvitch sank out of sight beside Louie's first victim. Louie started up the bank for more of them, slipped, fell flat on his face in the mud. Kitty was by his side, helping him up. Tears coursed down her dirt streaked face.

"Oh! Louie," she wailed mournfully. "Look what you've done. You've ruined everything!"

There were more of them now, one fellow carrying a box on a tripod. Blinded, Louie ignored Kitty's cry and tore into the fray. He had all the gusto of a landing Marine. Louie took the big boy first and went into the drink with him, box, tripod and all. He came up, shouting:

"Goodbye, Kitty. Always remember, I loved—" there was a horrible gurgle as Slinkvitch clutched at his shoulder and drew him under water again.

He swallowed a gallon of water mixed with three pounds of wet clay. Something solid clutched his wrist and Louie felt the bank slide under him. Pat was drawing him to safety. He stretched out very still and white beside Kitty. For a moment something akin to discouragement was in her eyes. Then she smiled tenderly down at him.

"You've made an awful mess of things, cave man."

Louie tried to speak, but no sound came.

"Leave him there to die" The voice shook with rage. It was Sam Wallace, standing well in the background in a spray of mist. Louie shook his head and rubbed the water from his eyes. The rest of them were there. The guy who had kissed Kitty, Slinkvitch, Pat, Sam, and some others who had murder in their eyes.

"I should kick him," Slinkvitch screamed . "Already he's ruined a camera and a hundred feet of film. Five hours lost and all because of this dummox."

"Listen, honey," Louie groaned. 'I was tight. I saw that guy making love to you and blotto." He sank back again, found her knees cushioned under his head. A cool hand stroked his face.

Pat hunched down beside him.

"Listen, sap," he said. "I didn't know this was where you were headed for. This is the surprise Kitty was saving for you."

Louie looked sad.

"It was a surprise all right," he answered. "The biggest one I've ever had."

"Not that kind," Kitty reassured him. "Mr. Slinkvitch is a movie director. I got permission in Hollywood for a short feature test. He was directing the picture." She hesitated, smiling oddly. "That— that jar of cold cream you saw me making love to is the lead man."

"Yeah," Sam Wallace offered. "She was doing a good job until you flashed on the scene."

Slinkvitch entered the conversation abruptly.

"It's all off. My camera ruined, that coffer dam built for nothing. Extras paid, and all because I want to make an actress out of this cheap little—"

Slinkvitch had said the wrong thing. Louie tottered upright, trying to break the hold Pat had on his shoulder.

"Let me go," he howled. "Did you hear—?"

"You've done enough," Mullens answered. "Stay put— He pushed Louie down again, and held him there.

"I'll sue," Slinkvitch shouted. "It's an attempted murder. It's sabotage, assault—" as he wound up with a dozen very fitting adjectives.

THE cameraman leaned over and picked up a bit of folded paper that had dropped from Louie's pocket. His eyes feasted on it for a second, then he ran toward the disappearing figure of Mr. Slinkvitch. Beside the truck they had all come in, he stopped. The director went into conference, waving his arms aloft bitterly. Then he took the paper and studied it closely. Waiting for more action Louie saw Slinkvitch turn and retrace his footsteps. A broad grin was on his face.

"That's mine," Louie shouted, recognizing the print. "Give it to me."

It was the print of the flood he'd taken the day before. Sam Wallace would see it, and then there'd be tall explaining to do.

Slinkvitch ignored him, going straight to Kitty Wallace.

"You are a natural," his thick lips working with pleasure. "This— this picture. I don't know where it came from, but it's got more on it than a thousand feet of film."

Kitty looked at it and blushed prettily.

"Who took this shot?" Sam asked, looking over Slinkvitch's shoulder.

No one spoke. Pat looked at Louie oddly. "You said it was yours."

"I'm saying a lot of screwy things." He wriggled uncomfortably. "Never saw it before."

"Such― such a― a― face," Slinkvitch was growing very red around the collar. "Such—"

Louie thought of the mole.

"Such a figure," he said. "Why don't you admit it?"

Slinkvitch ignored him. Turning to his men he said:

"Pack up what's left. I'm going down town and write that contract." He turned to Kitty. "Young lady, you got a job. Better yet, you got a position, with money— folding money."

The Prophet had climbed over his craft and waded toward them through the slowly sinking pond.

"When are you going to break the dam and let this water out?" His eyes were pleading. "It's awful wet around here."

He carried a big black cat under his arm, and it scrambled to safety, purring and rubbing on Louie's leg.

"Looks like you got a friend," Pat told him. "Guess he's got a lot of them."

Sam Wallace started after Slinkvitch. "You're a screwball, Brock, but with enough rope, you seem to hang on the right end every time."

Kitty put her arms around him.

"Are you going to kiss me, or would you rather have that cat?'

Louie picked it up, stroking its fur gently.

"Could I have both?" he asked mildly. "I'm— I'm very fond of cats."

"You're crazy," Kitty said, and stood on tiptoe, her bare feet buried in the mud. Puckering her lips she asked softly, "Now?"

Pat studied them quizzically, started to turn away then hesitated.

"Your love of cats is mighty strong, Mr. Brock," he said. "You must have developed it in a hurry."

Louie looked at him wondering how much he knew.

"You don't know the half of it," he grinned, turning his attention to the pleasant task at hand.

_______________________

5: One-Way Ticket to Nowhere

Amazing Stories, December 1942

"JEFF BLAKE!" Holly O'Toole's knotted hand reached out and grasped the right hand of the passenger descending from the rocket transport. "This is a hell of a night to come home, when a man's been away as long as you have."

Jeff Blake laughed, and swung down to his side to stand on the wind- and rain-swept dock. He towered above O'Toole, lanky and smooth skinned. His face was tanned a deep brown from space travel and little wrinkles curled out from the corners of his mouth. Wrinkles that indicated a willing smile. There was a cheerful warmth of sincerity in his voice.

"Weather doesn't seem to bother me much any more. I've been in and out of a lot of it. This rain isn't much compared to those space turn-overs we've had around moon the last few weeks."

They walked together toward the lighted office. Once inside, Holly O'Toole tossed his coat across the warm elector-rad heater and turned admiring eyes on Jeff Blake's tall frame.

"They sure made a man of you in space service," he said. "The last time you left Hope you were a half-baked kid with a yen for a ray gun."

O'Toole sat back comfortably as Blake removed his jacket and threw it over the heater. Blake was hard, and yet as Holly watched him, there seemed to be a touch of softness in his eyes that hadn't been there when Blake was a kid. A little more of Wade Blake, maybe. When two men were born identical twins, they were bound together in a lot of odd little ways.

The faintest suggestion of a bitter smile started across Jeff Blake's young face. Then he relaxed, sat down. Lighting a cigarette he sucked deeply and let the smoke drift from his lips.

"The last time I saw you, O'Toole, you were a little red-headed Irishman who stirred up more trouble than my brother and I could get out of in a month. What is it now?"

Holly O'Toole's dark face grew concerned. At once Blake knew his trip would be interesting. Knew that the trouble he had been expecting was close at hand.

"It's your brother, Wade," O'Toole went on. "Wade's in hot water again, and he's in over his head."

That same sardonic smile flitted across Blake's face, and faded immediately. O'Toole was under a terrific strain. The man was only forty-five, yet the once brilliant battle flag of red hair had grown thin in spots. His eyes, once clear and snapping, were a washed-out blue.

"Go on," Blake said kindly. "When I got your message it wasn't easy to drop everything and come. I expected something like this."

O'Toole stared at him, hating to say what he knew he had to.

"Wade is planning to marry Dauna Ferrell."

"Dauna?" Blake was plainly puzzled. "Why, Dauna was a tow-headed brat when I left Earth. But if Wade wants her, why not?"

O'Toole shook his head a little impatiently.

"It isn't that he wants her," he said. "I can't explain everything now. Let's just say that Wade is giving up every chance he'll ever have of owning the 'Hope to Horn' line. He's stirring up trouble between Dauna and her father and making a dangerous ass of himself in the bargain."

BLAKE flicked the long ash from his cigarette.

"He must be a busy man," he admitted. "But where do I fit into this puzzle?"

Holly O'Toole was plainly bewildered.

"I wish I knew," he admitted. "I can't handle every angle alone, and if some changes don't come in a hurry, Wade, Dauna and Walter Ferrell will lose everything they have, including their sanity. You're the only man who can pound any brains into Wade's head. I figured you might be willing to try it, before it's too late."

He stood up rather stiffly, drew his belt up over his rounded paunch. Blake watched him with narrowed, speculative eyes. O'Toole looked at his watch.

"Where is Wade now?" Blake asked.

"At South Station since last night," O'Toole said.

"Does he know I'm on Earth?"

O'Toole looked doubtful.

"I'm afraid he does," he admitted. "I sent your radio-wave last week and he was in the office at the time. I can't explain why, but I have the feeling he checked up after I left and found out who I had radioed."

Blake followed O'Toole to the door, drew on his heavy coat.

"Let's get it over with," he shrugged his shoulders. "I've had to take Wade in hand a couple of times. Once more won't do any harm. We'll go to South Station."

O'Toole hesitated. He had something else to get off his chest.

"Jeff," he spoke gravely. "It's only fair to tell you that being Wade's twin may get you into some pretty heavy trouble."

Jeff grinned queerly.

"Good!" he said. "I sort of like the stuff."

The door slammed behind them and the light from the single window faded against the dark field.

A SWIFT shadow of a man darted from between the empty space docks. The stranger's arm went high and jerked straight. A wicked knife flicked from the steeled fingers. It missed Blake's neck by inches; struck the heavy door behind him. Blake took two swift steps forward, realized the man was already lost in the night. He stopped and pivoted. O'Toole had already jerked the knife from the door, was staring at it with tight lips.

"Playful bunch of goons you've got around here," Blake said mirthlessly.

"I'm afraid that's some of the trouble I mentioned," O'Toole replied. "I told you Wade is stirring up a pack of trouble and I'm afraid you're dropping right into the middle of it."

He held the knife out toward Blake and the younger man took it.

"My brother must have changed a lot since I saw him last. Ten years ago he spent most of his time playing the violin and raising flowers."

"Still does," O'Toole answered in a far-off voice. "But he has a few other hobbies now. Games that he's learned to play too well for his own good."

Blake was studying the knife that had missed his head. He ran a thumb lightly over the razor edge of the weapon.

"Games that you play with knives?"

O'Toole nodded.

"Unless I'm greatly mistaken," he answered grimly. "That nice little fellow who tossed the bread knife at you is one of Grudge Harror's play boys."

"Now," Blake said, "we're getting some place. Who is Grudge Harror and what's he got against Wade?"

"I'll try to tell you what I know of Harror while we're on our way to make that next mono-train," O'Toole said. He took another quick glance at his watch. "She pulls out in half an hour, so keep away from lights and let's get to the station before we miss her."

THEY went out of the fenced space-field, bending double against the storm. For several minutes O'Toole led Jeff Blake through deserted streets. Reaching the lighted dome that was the Hope Mono-Terminal, he explained.

"Grudge Harror," he said, "is the leader of a gang of cut-throats who have been holding up and wrecking trains from here to the border. He's got Walter Ferrell on the verge of bankruptcy. If something doesn't happen soon to stop him, the Hope to Horn[*] line will fold up like a busted space-kite."

[* "Hope to Horn" was the nickname lovingly applied by its loyal employees to the mono railroad developed and owned by Walter Ferrell. These mono, or single-tracked trains were brought into service in 2100. The Hope to Horn line itself consisted of a north- and south-bound rail of heavy plastic extending from Hope, Alaska to Cape Horn, South America.

They were powered by standard sixteen engine diesels, capable of five hundred miles per hour. Built almost in the shape of long graceful fish, the trains were of highly colored plastic. They ran on a single rail of plastic-steel.

In a few short hours men and women tired of business could follow the entire Pacific coast line from one end to the other, the entire trip consuming twenty-two running hours between Hope and Cape Horn.

The plastic rail kept upkeep at a minimum and allowed the use of a simplified signal system in place of earlier complicated switches and signal signs. The track was divided into five-hundred-mile sections. Every two hours a train left one of these sections, or "blocks." In leaving, they allowed the plastic to turn green or "open," signaling the next train to depart. As long as the pilot could see green track ahead and red behind, he was safe to travel "on time."

Gyroscopic balancers, huge head and tail fins, and constantly maintained speeds allowed a mono to travel safely on a single row of centered wheels.—ED.]

"And Wade?" Blake questioned. "Where does he fit in the picture?"

"Ferrell depended on Wade to track Harror down and tear his gang apart. You mentioned that Wade liked to raise flowers. Well! Thus far, he's still at it. So for six months Harror has torn the business apart, train by train."

Blake looked through the great entrance into the warmly lighted Mono-Terminal. It was nearly deserted.

"It's a rotten shame that a cheap bunch of punks have spoiled a business as fine as Walter Ferrell's mono line," he said slowly. "It looks as though he has picked the wrong man for the job of getting Grudge Harror. Maybe we can do something about it."

Holly O'Toole whacked him heartily across the back.

"I knew you'd say that, Jeff." Something of the old fight was coming back into the Irishman's eyes. "I'll admit I'm stumped, but maybe with your help...."

THE mammoth dome of Hope's mono terminal was glowing warmly under a rainbow of fluorescent light, when Blake and O'Toole entered the rotunda. Crowds jostled toward the open gates that led to the V-Gaps that held the single-tracked mono train upright when they were at the station docks.

They followed down the long ramp to the dock and waited. A mono train scraped slowly around the V-Gap and stopped. On its blunt, plastic nose a single numeral was printed— 6. The train was decorated in a sleek contrast of silver and brown. Inside, porters rushed about making the train ready for its return trip south.

Once on board, Blake stretched out and relaxed into deep air cushions.

"It's a good feeling to have some luxury again," he admitted. He lighted a cigarette from his crushed package and O'Toole accepted another. They watched quietly as a few despondent looking passengers filed in and sat down. A tense undercurrent of feeling was at once evident to Blake's keen eye. These travelers were here because of necessity. Not for their own pleasure.

He was totally unprepared for what happened in the next ten minutes. A girl came in. Before Blake could register surprise, she had uttered a little cry of joy, plunked her smart little body down at his side and thrown her arms around his neck.

"Oh! Darling! This is a surprise." He felt rich, warm lips press tightly to his own, brown eyes staring lovingly into his.

Suddenly the eyes widened in surprised horror and she stiffened. Her fingers went limp against his neck. Her lips tightened. She jumped up and sank limply into the chair opposite him.

"Oh!" She blushed profusely. "Oh! Heavens, I thought...."

Blake's face burned. Blood rushed to his cheeks and emotions he hadn't felt for years came rushing back into his body.

"I— I didn't expect...." he started.

The girl had collected her wits.

"I'm— I'm sorry," she said. "You look so much like someone I know...."

Blake looked her over quickly, and decided she was the most attractive, clean cut young thing he had ever seen. She was dressed in sleek brown traveling clothes. A pert, tight-fitting hat allowed the wealth of shining brown hair to escape its edges and flow down the straight, smoothly-molded shoulders. Her lips were still slightly curved in that attractive oval of dismay.

"Do you always kiss strange men who look like people you know," he asked, and immediately realized he was being cruel. "Forgive me, it was unexpected."

A look of recognition flooded her face.

"You must be Jeff Blake!" She stood up and clasped his hand warmly. "If it weren't for that coat of space tan, I'd have sworn you were Wade."

"Dauna Ferrell," he said with a gasp. "Golly, but you've grown up since I saw you last."

Her face turned a lovely pink.

"You won't have a very nice opinion of me after what I did?"

"Forget it." He leaned forward. "I've heard you're in love with Wade. If I was fortunate enough for only that one kiss, to take Wade's place with so beautiful a young lady, my life is one kiss richer than I deserve."

"I do love Wade," she said. "But if his brother insists on throwing such compliments at me, I'm sure he's going to be fine for my spirit. Thank you, sir."

HER eyes traveled suddenly beyond him, toward the car entrance. Blake turned and his face lighted at the sight of the tall, elderly man coming toward them. Walter Ferrell had aged since he last saw him, but the snow-white head, slim waist and wiry legs were the same. Ferrell came forward, a look of cold hostility in his eyes. Then he recognized the easy figure slouched in the chair opposite his daughter. A keen smile lighted his features.

"Jeff Blake!" His hand shot out. "My God, boy, you're good to look at."

Blake was on his feet, one hand in Ferrell's, the other on the older man's shoulder.

"And you!" he said. "The man who went to riches while I was kicking around as a space tramp in every port of the universe."

Dauna moved gracefully, swiftly to her father's side.

"Tell Dad how I greeted you," she blushed prettily. "Dad, I think Jeff had better go back to the moon. He and Wade will be quarreling over me if I go on acting the same way I started out today."

Ferrell paid no attention to Dauna's outburst. Yet, the mention of Wade's name sent smouldering fires into his eyes. He changed the subject abruptly. Drawing Blake down to the chair beside him he said.

"Tell me boy, what's happened since you left? I want to hear the whole story."

Blake talked. As he related the story of his past ten years away from earth, he watched O'Toole and Dauna, seated together a few seats away. They were discussing Wade, he knew. Although he talked with Walter Ferrell, Blake's thoughts were with O'Toole, Wade and the girl, Dauna.

"Walter," he asked suddenly. "What's wrong with Wade? Has he been in trouble?"

Ferrell tipped a tired head back against the cushion of his chair.

"Nothing," he said slowly. "At least, nothing I can put my finger on."

"Then," Blake insisted, "from what O'Toole says, you've both been pretty tough on him. That is, if you're telling me the truth."

"Damn it, Blake," Ferrell exploded. "When I say nothing, I mean we haven't caught him violating any laws. It's— well, I just never had any admiration for Wade. He's what the younger generation would call a cream puff. Soft, flabby and a mind that refuses to grasp any problem fitted to a man of his age."

Blake stared out the window, waiting. The mono had pulled out of Hope. Outside nothing was visible in the night except an occasional jagged peak outlined against a cloudy sky. Troubled by Ferrell's continued silence, he turned again to his friend.

"YOU haven't told me much," he protested. "O'Toole called me home because he thought important things were going to take place. He thinks I ought to knock Wade around a little, but I've got to know why."

Ferrell swore softly.

"O'Toole is always sticking his neck out where it gets clipped every now and then. He's a swell Irishman, but his mountains are actually mole hills."

Blake nodded and said covertly, "Someone tried to heave a knife into me at the space-port. Was that one of O'Toole's mole hills?"

Ferrell's body jerked upright, and the muscles in his face stood out tautly.

"The hell you say!"

"Truth— ask O'Toole."

Blake's voice died. His eyes turned to slits. The coach door had opened quickly and a man had stepped inside. He was dressed from head to foot in skin-tight black leather. His eyes were covered with a flashing, silvery mask. Blake's gaze was on the small, ugly electro-gun in the bandit's hand.

"A visitor," Blake said laconically. At the same time he pushed his feet far back under the chair and braced them, like bent springs.

The masked man crouched at the waist and the gun whipped around, covering the few passengers in the car.

"Stand up—all of you." He spoke harshly and with deadly precision. "On your feet, and make it fast."

Blake waited. A low monotone of voices protested, died out to a whisper of fear, and the passengers, including Ferrell stood with arms raised.

The electro gun came around slowly toward Blake.

"Up on your corns," the bandit spat at him. His eyes were black, diamond slits in the silver mask.

Blake's gaze never wavered. Silver Mask came toward him slowly.

"You heard me."

A scorching flame seared Blake's cheek as the electro gun exploded and part of its force burned his skin. Blake's face whitened with rage and he dove desperately forward. Smashing a hard fist into Silver Mask's face, he watched the fellow's body go limp. Two swift reflex actions, one savage and murderously threatening, the other desperately defensive, had brought lightning developments.

Blake heard Dauna scream in terror and turned like a flash. But the heavy butt of a new electro gun swept down on his head. There was a sudden sickening jolt and bright flashes of light went tearing into his brain. He pitched forward across the first bandit's limp body, and the car, spinning before his eyes, went blank.

WHEN Blake came around, he was stretched out full length on the floor, a pillow under his head. He looked up into Dauna's eyes.

"If you're wondering about the silver masked man who struck you," she said, "There are dozens of them on the train. They have us all under guard."

He sat up a little weakly, felt his head clear. Ferrell and O'Toole sat across from his make shift bed.

"They won't let me make a dash for the door, Jeff," O'Toole said in an unhappy voice. "Once in the hall, I could clean up on a snag of those black devils."

"And get your head bashed in, like Jeff did," Ferrell added. "You're sitting right here with me, Mr. O'Toole until we find out what this is all about."

Ferrell turned to Blake.

"You asked for trouble, Jeff," he said tersely. "You've got it. These are the same Silver Masks that have practically ruined my business. Looks as though this might do it. Wade was told to clean out this tribe of black devils six months ago. I detailed fifty men to work with him. I'll bet you a ten spot that at this moment Wade Blake is at South Station watering his flower bed, or some equally insane occupation."

Dauna was on her feet, arms akimbo, cheeks blazing.

"That's not fair, Dad," she flared. "He just isn't the type of boy to handle this problem. You saw what happened to Jeff...."

"Wait a minute," Blake begged. "O'Toole is all for knocking Wade's head against his garden wall. Ferrell, you want him to keep us out of trouble when he's eight thousand miles away, and Dauna is protecting him when I'm not altogether sure he deserves it. For the time being let's worry about what is to become of us. Later, there'll be time to fight over Wade."

Ferrell looked abashed.

"You're right," he admitted more quietly. "But you're a better man than I am if you can make sense out of this. Why don't they take what they want, kill us and be on their way?"

Blake looked out of the window. The sky was clear now. The rain had stopped and the moon and stars were visible.

"I think I can answer that," he said. "From my following the stars, we are now heading directly east, into the heart of the mountain country. If I'm correct on directions, the monoline runs directly north and south. Right?"

O'Toole pushed past him and strained his face to the glass. He turned, face shining.

"By golly," he said. "Jeff's right. We must be flying or something. There isn't any track that's laid in this direction!"

FERRELL stood at O'Toole's shoulder, looking out into the blackness. He turned toward them, face stark with terror.

"It— can't— be!" he spoke slowly. "Vancouver is south of us, and yet...."

"And yet you're going east." The strange voice cut in on them harshly.

Blake wheeled about to face the third Silver Mask he had seen tonight. The man towered above them, a full seven feet tall. His thick lips, visible below the mask, were curved in a cruel, delighted smile.

"You've bought one way tickets," he said gruffly. "Tickets that will take you— nowhere."

Continuing, he turned to Ferrell.

"Walter Ferrell, and his daughter, Dauna Ferrell. Am I right? We are fortunate in picking our company tonight."

"As owner of this rail line," Ferrell demanded in an even voice. "I want to know what this is all about. Where are we going?"

Outside the sounds of the wheels had faded. The train wasn't moving. It seemed to tip at a slight angle, as though leaning on some support.

"My name is Harror," Silver Mask said. "You're not going anywhere for the time being, and while you are here I'll thank you to call me Mr. Harror. Don't try to leave this car. My men are stationed all around the train with orders to shoot and look afterward. Take a look outside in a few minutes. You may be surprised."

He turned and stooped to go through the door.

Blake turned to Ferrell and O'Toole.

"I haven't got the drift of all this yet," he admitted. "But we're in for trouble and plenty of it."

BLAKE was sitting quietly in the smoker, head reclining on the window ledge, eyes half closed in a cloud of smoke. The girl and her father were asleep. O'Toole pretended to be, but Blake wasn't sure of the Irishman. O'Toole slept with one eye open most of the time.

The deep silence and blackness outside of the window could indicate only one thing. They were in some sort of a cave. The giant Harror had said if they looked out, they might be surprised. Yet, hours had passed, and the place was quiet and black as a tomb.

The door opened and a newspaper flopped on the floor. Blake went forward and picked it up.

"Thought you'd like to see the big news." It was Harror's heavy voice rumbling from the doorway. "Flown in from South Station. We've been waiting to see what reaction the kidnaping of a train might have."

Blake listened quietly, and without a word turned on his heel and returned to his chair. The door closed on them again.

Blake glanced at the headline. Then the full significance of Silver Mask's latest move hit him between the eyes. The headline of the South Station Star was in letters six inches high:

MONO FLYER MISSING

Entire Train Lost Without Trace

Mono 6, crack flyer of the "Hope to Horn" mono line* disappeared from the face of the earth tonight. On board were Walter Ferrell, the company's owner, and Dauna, his daughter. At an emergency meeting of the board of directors, it was admitted that not the slightest clue to the train's whereabouts has been discovered.

Soon after midnight, Mono 6 of the west coast's crack Mono Line left Hope, Alaska. No further reports came after it passed the first five-hundred-mile zone. Reports of a wreck are unconfirmed. A complete search of the track failed to bring to light the slightest hint of the flyer's final resting place.

In the past few hours the company has faced the problem of handling thousands of tour cancellations. Officials of the line are attempting vainly to allay the fears of both would-be passengers and stockholders. Wade Blake, Vice President of the company had previously ordered an investigation in an attempt to track to earth the series of strange accidents that have followed the Hope to Horn mono line for some months, but cannot be located at present for a statement.

BLAKE threw the paper on the floor. There was more to the story. Much more. Here in a few columns he had read the final exit of a great railroad line and its owner. Unless Walter Ferrell and Mono 6 could arrive at South Station, unharmed and within a few hours, the world would refuse to accept further service from the Hope to Horn and Ferrell's business would be ruined.

The article said that Wade could not be located. Blake hoped that he had been close when the train failed to arrive at Vancouver. A momentary frown turned down the corners of his lips. Perhaps Wade wasn't as helpless as they seemed to think. Blake fervently hoped so.

SINCE Blake had finished reading the paper, two hours had passed, as nearly as he could guess. O'Toole came in from the car's smoking compartment, and sat down wearily across from Blake. He pushed his big feet up on the chair beside Blake.

"What do you make of it?" he asked.

Blake pointed to the paper silently and O'Toole picked it up. He read quickly, his eyes darting from side to side of the page. His face grew purple.

"They certainly pulled a fast one," he growled. "A whole train missing, with the owner of the line and his daughter on it. I never stopped to think what that might mean when the papers got hold of it."

"Nor I," Blake admitted. "But Harror did, and if I'm not mistaken, someone with a lot more brains than Harror had the same idea. This thing was carefully planned, O'Toole, but there are two points that the Silver Masks overlooked."

O'Toole looked at him questioningly.

"One was they didn't expect you and me to cause the trouble we're going to," Blake went on, "and the other is Wade. He's around somewhere. He may help us out at the right time."

O'Toole spat disgustedly.

"We can cause trouble if we ever get out of here," he admitted. "I'm not so sure of Wade."

A shaft of light cut in through the window suddenly, blinding them both.

They stared out with wide eyes. A murmur of voices from the car told them that the others were awake, and also impressed by what they saw.

Mono 6 was in a great cavern. Great black granite walls towered high above. The mono train had evidently entered the cave slowly and slipped between a long row of huge boulders that held it upright. The cave was a graveyard of mono cars. They lay across the full width of its floor, dismantled and torn apart for whatever value they had to offer.

For the first time Blake realized just how large operations had been; just how close the Silver Masks were to ruining the industry Ferrell had painstakingly built up.

Men appeared from a long row of doors worked into the cliff side. They all looked alike in the black suits and glittering silver masks. Tools of every description had made their appearance. Beyond the doors from whence they had come must be a complete set of living quarters with access to the outside world.

Common sense told Blake that the entrance through which Mono 6 had arrived was now carefully sealed. If he was to solve the mystery of Grudge Harror's plans and make escape possible, it would be necessary to go through those doors. Harror himself was there somewhere, and Blake's fists ached to meet the man alone.

"MY golly," O'Toole breathed. "They all look alike. What you suppose they'll do with us? Must be forty or fifty people on this set of cars." Blake turned away from the window.

"If the train were wrecked," he said in a matter of fact voice, "they'd take everything off it and leave it here. With passengers on board, they have to remove the baggage and movable parts. After that...."

"After that, we'll all go to hell the fastest way," O'Toole said with grim lips. "Let's get something started. I can't sit still until they decide what to do with us."

"If I'm not mistaken," Blake said grimly, "they have us all disposed of well in advance. You mentioned just one thing that may help us out."

"If I did," O'Toole admitted, "It was just crazy luck."

"They all look alike." Blake stood up, studied O'Toole carefully, and said. "We're going to join the gang of the Silver Masks."

O'Toole grinned.

"Just like that," he said dryly. "And this guy Harror is going to shake our hands and say, 'Glad to see you're with us, boys.'"

Blake was already out of the smoking lounge. He went toward the end of the car with a swift, determined stride. Ferrell and Dauna had been at the window and as he approached the door leading outside, they turned.

"Hold it, Jeff," Ferrell said. "You're going to do something foolish and I won't have it."

"We've already got ourselves into a pretty foolish mess," Blake reminded him almost bitterly. "If I can do any good by trying, I don't want you to interfere. It may be too late."

Dauna barred his way to the door. Her face was drawn and bloodless.

"You're going to face that giant, Harror," she pleaded haltingly. "Jeff, please...?"

He took her hands in his, and smiled down at her.

"Wade wouldn't want you to put on a scene," he said gently. "I'm in this thing up to my neck. Wade's name and my own are both involved."

She hesitated and stepped away from him. Her arms dropped hopelessly.

O'Toole reached the door with Blake.

"What are the plans," he asked? "I'm in on them remember."

"Then start howling at the top of your lungs," Blake grinned. "Call Harror every name you ever heard of, but remember there are women in the car. We're going to get dragged out of here and have a talk with that freak."

O'Toole nodded.

"Okay!" he said. "I get the idea. If we can be bad boys, maybe Harror will spank us himself."

"He'll try," Blake answered quietly. "From then on it will depend on us who does the punishing."

BLAKE turned to the door and ignoring Dauna, started to pound on it with all his strength, O'Toole added his weight to Blake's and they started to shout loudly.

"We want to sock that big goon, Harror," O'Toole howled. He turned and winked at Dauna. "How'm I doing?" he asked.

Dauna smiled gamely.

"So well, you'll probably be shot at once," she said. "Please Blake, be careful."

They pounded again, harder than ever. The door started to sway and buckle under their weight. There was a heavy step outside, and a murmur of angry voices.

"Shut up in there."

"We want to talk with your boss," Blake shouted. "Let us out or we'll clean up on the whole gang of you."

The door swung open, and a guard came in. Two more were close behind. Guns swung around, covering the car.

"You'll talk with Harror," the first man said. "And you'll be damned sorry you did."

He pushed a gun into Blake's side.

"Now walk," he ordered. "And walk straight. No monkey business."

O'Toole started to follow them.

"You're staying here," the guard growled. "This monkey is going to get the business."

O'Toole reddened with rage.

"Why you masked ape," he said. "Let me out of here or I'll push your chin into your scalp."

That did the trick. The second guard twisted around and punched O'Toole in the face. The Irishman reeled, caught himself and said through bloody lips, "You'll pay for that."

The masked man pushed him from the car and O'Toole went a little uncertainly down the steps and after Blake.

They crossed the floor of the cave toward the series of doors in the wall. Two more guards joined the group and they paused before the first door.

"We got some wise guys," the man who was covering Blake shouted. "Want to give them a going over, Chief?"

There was a moment of silence. Then Grudge Harror's heavy voice said from beyond the door.

"Bring them in."

Blake kicked the door open and strode into a small, mercury-lighted room. There was a single chair and the desk behind which Harror was seated. His huge arms rested across its top. His expression darkened as he saw Blake.

"What's he been up to?"

The guard stepped close to Harror and pocketed his weapon.

"He was shouting his head off," he said. Then, in an almost apologetic voice he added, "The Irishman insisted on coming along."

BLAKE'S eyes were on Harror's face. The giant's fists were clenched, his lips tight and cruel. He was searching for something.

"All right," Harror growled finally. "What's the game?"

"Nothing," Blake answered shrewdly. "We were waiting for you to murder us, and got impatient, that's all."

Two of the guards left and Harror swung to his feet. He was leering.

Blake watched the remaining guards from the corner of his eye. O'Toole was still standing quietly by the door, alert and ready. He saw Blake's eye on his, and winked deliberately. O'Toole, Blake decided, was ready any time.

"You were right on the murder angle," Harror admitted. "Pretty smart, ain't you?"

"About some things," Blake admitted. "I don't fall for everything I read in the papers. I know you used a hidden mono track to get us here, and that you'll probably send us back over it into a nice deep canyon, when you have everything you want off the train."

Harror leaned over silently and spat into his face. Blake saw red. With a lightning thrust he smashed the lamp from the table and plunged the room into blackness. From O'Toole's side of the room a ray gun belched fire, but Blake was already out of range. He heard a cry of pain and realized that Harror had caught the flame on the arm. Harror, outlined in the light of the ray was almost on top of him.

From the spot where O'Toole had been, Blake heard a sullen thud and a long groan of pain. Dodging from Harror's plunging fall, Blake knew O'Toole was doing his part. He grasped the edge of the table and tried to thrust it in front of Harror. The man swore loudly and kicked it away. There was a slit of light coming from under the door.

In its path, Blake saw Harror standing above him, a hairy fist descending like a ton of lead. He twisted his face around, sensed Harror's blow miss him by a fraction of an inch. Diving low he hit Harror a body blow with his shoulder and the giant doubled in pain. Blake swung upward before Harror could regain his balance, and set his fist crashing into Harror's face. The giant swung backward like an enraged elephant. Two more flashes of electro-fire went spurting over his head and O'Toole started to sing in a loud, off-key voice.

"Slug 'em," O'Toole chanted. "It's the Irish that are in this mess tonight."

In the darkness, Blake grinned painfully. His lip was split and bleeding. His arm ached from the forceful contact with Harror's jaw.

Another guard went down in the scuffle and O'Toole howled his battle cry again.

HARROR was silent. Blake changed his position wearily, waiting for some sign. He heard Harror breathing loudly from the far corner. The blow on the face must have dazed him.

Blake closed it slowly, listening to Harror. Waiting for him to strike again. Then two giant arms closed tightly around his chest, cutting off his breath. He tried to shout, but his lips made no sound. He felt himself sinking toward the floor, Harror on top of him. Harror was holding on with all his strength.

Blake relaxed slowly, and his head fell to one side. He felt the grip relax just a trifle, and gathered all his remaining strength. With a terrific uppercut, Blake's arm shot upward, catching Harror squarely on the chin. There was a sudden snap as the giant's head tipped back as though unhinged. His arms relaxed and Blake fell away from him.

The Irishman had done his job well. The room was quiet.

Then: "Jeff, Jeff, are you all right."

Blake chuckled.

"I've got condensed ribs," he said. "But I think Harror will lie still for a while."

"Golly!" O'Toole sighed in relief. "You sure had a Goliath on your hands. Wish I could have helped you."

"What became of those two guards," Jeff asked? "Seems to me they had you on the spot for a while."

"Aw!" O'Toole said. "I got hold of one of them fire guns and there wasn't anything to it."

Blake had reached the door to the outer cavern. He opened it a couple of inches and looked out. The Silver Mask gang were still working on Mono 6.

Even as he watched, a man detached himself from the gang at the far end of the train and came slowly toward the partially opened door. Blake jumped back and closed it tightly.

"Get two of these guards out of their uniforms," he said. "Make it quick. We've got more trouble coming."

A QUICK knock came on the door. Blake said, in a hard voice.

"Yeah! Who is it?"

"Slater," was the reply. "Tell the boss we got the train cleaned out. We're all ready to set it loose."

In the light of the open door, Blake looked at O'Toole. The Irishman was already in one of the Silver Mask uniforms. His face was hidden and he looked like one of the gang.

"Tell him the boss will be all set in a minute," Blake said. "I've got to get into one of these outfits."

O'Toole flung the door open wider and pushed the bodies of the silent guards out of sight.

"We'll be out in a minute," he said to Slater. "Get her ready to roll."

"Yes sir," Slater answered him respectfully. "The cab is all fixed, and the motors are turning. The hidden door has been opened so we better make it snappy."

O'Toole nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Make sure you don't leave anything on board that's useful. And Slater...."

The man had turned. Now he hesitated and turned back.

"Yeah?"

"Harror is staying here," O'Toole said quickly. "He ain't feeling so good. Says I'm to give the orders."

Slater laughed.

"That's a good one," he chuckled. "How long since that gorilla started giving orders around here."

Still laughing, he turned and went back toward the waiting masked men.

O'Toole closed the door and ripped the mask away.

"This is it," he said quickly. "I knew Wade was mixed up in this business. Harror isn't the real boss here."

Blake was half way into a uniform of the Silver Masks. He finished his job before answering. Then he spoke.

"I know you and Ferrell hate Wade's guts," he said slowly, "but...."

"It's not me so much," O'Toole protested. "Ferrell said long ago that Wade was in this mess. He didn't seem to get any action on the case. Now with the guy Slater saying Harror isn't the boss, there isn't any other answer."

"SORRY, O'Toole," Blake said. "I should be willing to admit that Wade's our man. I don't know why I can't. It's just that blood is pretty thick stuff, I guess. It's hard to think your own brother would turn on you like this."

O'Toole lowered his head.

"We've got to do something," he said quietly. "Those guys won't sit out there waiting forever."

Blake stood up slowly.

"Supposing Wade isn't the chief," he asked. "What then?"

"They'll kill us all, just as they already plan to," O'Toole groaned. "We might as well take a flying chance."

Blake shook his head.

"I've got a better idea," he said.

"Then spill it. We haven't much time."

"To begin with," Blake said. "If Wade was in this he'd have shown up here long ago. The paper said he couldn't be located. I'd recognize my twin even in one of these outfits."

O'Toole protested.

"Then who is the chief? He's here somewhere and Slater sure didn't intend to take orders from Harror."

"He must be on the train," Blake answered.

"Now you're crazy," O'Toole answered savagely. "The people on Mono 6 have been locked up for hours. If the leader of the Silver Masks was among them he'd have taken charge hours ago."

"Unless," Blake said thoughtfully, "he didn't want any of us to know he was the leader."

O'Toole pulled the mask down over his eyes.

"Let's get out of here," he said. "You've got something up your sleeve and I'll play the cards the way you want them."

"One more thing," Blake told him. "These men had to have a track to get Mono 6 into this cave. When it goes out again we'll be on the same track, but it will end in a canyon or deep lake."

"Go on."

"Well! We've got to get started on that trip. After we are out you and I will have to take our chances of stopping the mono."

"And I thought Grudge Harror was a tough baby," O'Toole grinned.

"IT isn't a matter of being tough," Blake said. "Can you handle the engine room alone?"

"Handled it for years," O'Toole said coolly. "But I'd like to know where that track ends."

"You will." Blake went toward the door. He gripped O'Toole's shoulder. "You're a good Irishman, O'Toole. Now go out of here and straight to the cab. I don't think they'll dare send one of the other men. If the controls are tied into place, leave them alone. When I signal, set all motors going full speed. Sit tight and keep her flying."

"And the end of the track?" O'Toole asked. "If I don't get shot in the back before I'm half way across the cave, how do I know when to stop?"

Blake chuckled dryly.

"Perhaps you won't," he admitted. "But I'll be in the rear lounge with every male passenger within my sight. One of them is bound to break down when he knows he's at the end of the trail."

"So?"

"I'll jerk the emergency cord," Blake said. "Set your brakes the minute you hear it. O'Toole, it's a long chance but we've got to take it."

"One more thing," O'Toole asked. "Blake, who in hell is the leader of the Silver Masks?"

Blake hesitated, his face darkening. He opened the door and pushed O'Toole out gently.

"If I'm not mistaken," he whispered evenly, "Walter Ferrell knows more about this than he's telling."

THE gang of Silver Masks were gathered around the front end of Mono 6 as Holly O'Toole and Jeff Blake emerged from Harror's office. They walked swiftly toward the cab, and Slater who had evidently been waiting, stepped from the crowd and came toward them.

"How about it?" He addressed Holly O'Toole, as O'Toole seemed to be leading Blake. "Everything has been stripped from the baggage cars. She's ready for her trip into the lake."

"Okay!" O'Toole mumbled. He turned to Blake. "Take two men and get all the passengers into the lounge car."

Blake's heart was pounding wildly. If O'Toole slipped now, they'd all pay for it. He turned toward the crowd of waiting masked men.

"Two of you guys step out," he ordered. "Open the doors and herd those cattle into the last car back."

They obeyed him instantly. In five minutes every man and woman in the flyer were crowded into the car with Walter Ferrell and Dauna. O'Toole hesitated, started to climb into the cab of Mono 6, and Slater stopped him.

Standing a few feet away, Blake heard them mumble something. O'Toole pointed to Blake.

"I'll see that she gets clear of the cave," he said in a loud voice. "The boss wants him to be in the car until it's started and on the way down."

Slater hesitated, nodded and turned away. O'Toole winked and Blake grinned back at him. The Irishman had done a swell job. This was one night when his blarney had been a blessing.

When Jeff Blake went into the lounge car, he drew his electro gun. The car was full of frightened women and angry men. He was afraid they might turn on him in the Silver Mask, and spoil his plans. Slater had followed him to the door.

"Don't stick too long," the man cautioned him. "You'll be doing a hundred miles an hour before you hit the head end of the valley. The boss is going to jump when he leaves the cave."

The boss? Then O'Toole really had done a good job. Automatically Blake looked toward Walter Ferrell, and noticed that he was of the same build and size as O'Toole. Slater couldn't see the occupants of the car, but he guessed who Blake was staring at.

"Take good care of Ferrell," Slater said in a dry whisper. "He's worth a lot of money to us."

Blake grinned.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'll take good care of him."

MONO 6 started to glide smoothly back out of the cave. Somewhere out of sight behind the flyer, a huge door opened in the side of the mountain and screeched its way into the concealed slit above. The train gathered speed swiftly, and the moon suddenly appeared from nowhere. Blake waited, made sure there were no guards remaining on board. Then he ran swiftly toward the group around Ferrell. He ripped the mask off as he moved, and Dauna, her eyes glued to his face, gasped in happy surprise.

"Jeff," she ran toward him, "Oh! Jeff, I'm so glad."

He pressed his lips to hers quickly, turned away without a word and faced Walter Ferrell. Ferrell's face was expressionless, frightened.

"Jeff Blake," he said. "How did you make it?"

"There isn't time to talk now," Blake answered quickly. "O'Toole and I overcame Harror. We managed to get them to start Mono 6 out of the cave. O'Toole is in the cab now. In a few minutes we'll be free. Before they wake up to the trick we played on them we'll be five hundred miles away."

Ferrell's face relaxed. Although Blake watched him closely, the man showed no sign of alarm.

"Good work, boy." His hand gripped Blake's shoulder. "I don't know how you did it, but there'll be a big reward for you when we reach South Station."

Blake sat down opposite him. His eyes never left Ferrell's face. Yet, Ferrell held himself remarkably in reserve.

"I did it more for Dauna than anyone else," Blake admitted slowly. "We wouldn't have anything happen to her would we?"

Ferrell turned toward his daughter.

"I've been pretty hard on my girl," he said. "But if she hadn't got out safely I'd have torn that place apart with my bare hands."

He meant every word of it. Blake's body tensed. The full shock of what Ferrell's words meant was sinking slowly into his brain. Suddenly he shot to his feet.

"I've been a fool," he said. "A damned, blind fool!"

"A fool?" There was no mistaking Walter Ferrell's bewilderment.

Blake was already at the car door.

"I'm going to take a long chance," he shouted back. "Ferrell, you crowd the passengers into both halls at the ends of the car. Open the outer doors. If the train goes into the lake, try to get as many out as you can."

WITH the shouts of alarm still ringing in his ears, Blake went swiftly through the long empty cars toward the cab. The train was backing through the night now at a terrific speed, and the black forest flashed past him as he went to his appointment with Holly O'Toole.

Blake reached the head car, tried the door and stepped back in alarm. It was locked. He looked overhead and found the tiny emergency entrance to the catwalk above. Back inside, he dragged several chairs out quickly, climbed them and pushed upward. Luckily the door was open. Head and shoulders above the train, he stopped. The wind pushed him back, clutching at his breath. He climbed out on the catwalk slowly, crouching to the smoothness of the plastic, and wriggled ahead.

The diesel room was below him now. Its top door opened easy. He listened. All motors were purring smoothly. The hot smell of oil drifted up. Ahead, the cab was silent.

He pushed his feet down cautiously and dropped. His feet hit the oily floor and he fell flat. The door to the cab was open. He went toward it, saw lights over the dash and ran to the main control stick. It was lashed firmly in place with heavy chain.

The speed indicator was pointing to four hundred miles per hour. Swiftly he released the chain, and felt the control lever break loose, falling into neutral. Blake reached for the magnetic brake, and heard a footstep on the floor behind. He whirled swiftly. O'Toole was standing at the entrance of the diesel room, electro gun pointing at Blake's chest.

"You're a smart one," O'Toole said. He waved the gun meaningly. "I'm glad you cut the power. We'll coast from here to the lake."

Blake was silent.

"Thought Walter Ferrell was the chief of this outfit, did you?" O'Toole was enjoying himself. "Well, I didn't have any idea of jumping the train. We'll coast within a mile of the cut, shoot the coupling free between the cab and the coaches, and set our brakes. Walter Ferrell and his little party are going to taste cold water for the last time."

Blake said nothing. He started to walk deliberately toward the hulking Irishman. O'Toole snarled.

"Back," he warned. "I've got to kill you anyhow. It might as well be now." Blake grinned.

"I can't understand why you ever included me in this set-up to begin with," he said. "Things would have been easier if you hadn't sent for me."

"Listen Blake, when I sent for you, I figured you'd fit in here. I didn't know you'd fall for all this kid brother heroic stuff."

"YOU evidently knew something of my history," Blake said coolly. "Why did you play that sympathetic game?"

O'Toole seemed anxious to be understood.

"I knew you had been pirating every space craft between here and Mars," he said. "I knew that you had a swell reputation and were clever as hell. I knew that if you'd see things my way, I could get Walter Ferrell in bankruptcy within a month, and cut you in as a partner."

"Why change your mind?" Blake asked. He sat down in the pilot's chair and crossed his legs comfortably. "All we have to do is cut that coupling loose, ride back to the cave and collect all the dough we need by sitting tight."

O'Toole chuckled.

"Do you take me for a fool? I can handle things my own way, with Ferrell out of the way. I don't need you." His face softened a bit, and the gun dropped inches. "Besides, how do I know you won't turn yellow and give the whole thing away?"

Blake saw his chance to hit at O'Toole's one weakness.

"Wade is out of the way," he said swiftly. "I can return to South Station and assume control of the line with Ferrell out of the picture. You'll get half of everything we make."

O'Toole was weakening. He glanced out of the cab, toward the wooded side of the valley.

"You're just crooked enough to be on the level," he pocketed the electro gun. "In ten minutes we'll reach Loon Lake. Better get to that coupling."

Blake followed him back through the power car.

O'Toole turned once, and grinned wickedly.

"We'll have a devil of a time, you and I," he said. "Now, for a nice swimming party to Ferrell and his gang."

He hunched down over the coupling that separated the power units from the line of coaches. The simple coupling adjustment was under his doubled fist. Blake's eyes narrowed as the coupling started to come loose under the Irishman's grip. He lifted his heavy boot, and silently brought it down on O'Toole's head.

The blow was executed coolly and without feeling. No quarter had been asked, and there was no pity in Blake's eyes as Holly O'Toole fell forward, face down. He lay still, arms outstretched over the slit between the cars. Blake pushed him forward, and saw the body drop quickly out of sight to the rail.

HE turned toward the cab and with feverish haste jerked down all three magnetic brake levers. Mono 6 shuddered through its entire length and seemed to settle backward against the screaming, protesting track. The flyer halted slowly, skidding sickeningly. Then outside, with the shrieking brakes silenced, Jeff could hear the soft lapping of water.

He rushed to the open window and looked down. They were on a long wharf, extending out over dark water. He looked back along the line of cars, shining faintly in the moonlight. A sigh of relief escaped his lips. Mono 6 was still on the rail. A scant three hundred feet beyond the last car was open water.

A shout of alarm came from somewhere back in the corridor of the car. Blake turned away from the window and went toward the coaches. At the door to the power room he stopped. Dauna Ferrell, her face flushed with relief came to him. He took her in his arms and held her close. He kissed her roughly, trying to make up for the loneliness and heartbreak he had caused.

Walter Ferrell was behind them.

"I hate to intrude," his face was bathed in a happy smile, "but wherever Wade is, I'm sure he wouldn't approve of his brother making love to my daughter, even if Jeff is somewhat of a hero right now."

Dauna released her hold on Blake's neck, and turned to her father. Blake's arms went around her waist and drew her close to him. She leaned her soft, curly head against his neck.

"Dad," she said, "brace yourself for an awful shock."

Ferrell laughed aloud.

"I know," he said. "You've given up Wade and are going to marry Jeff Blake instead."

Dauna half turned, and nuzzled her chin in Blake's brown neck.

"No," she said. "I'm going to marry Wade anyhow."

Ferrell was bewildered.

"But I don't see...." he stuttered.

"It's going to be confusing," Dauna told him. "But, try to understand. Jeff Blake, the real Jeff I mean, was killed a month ago, while holding up a space ship near Mars."

Ferrell acted for a moment as though he were going to faint. Then he got control over himself. He stared at Blake with unbelieving eyes.

"Then—you're—Wade...!"

Blake nodded.

"I couldn't seem to get a line on this Silver Mask gang," he admitted hesitantly. "When O'Toole wired Jeff to return I couldn't figure out why. O'Toole and I have both known that Jeff was a tramp and a space pirate. I knew one thing that O'Toole didn't. The space authorities informed me a month ago that Jeff was dead. I was suspicious of O'Toole from the first. I caught a local rocket and boarded the moon liner in space. With some artificial tan, a space uniform and a lot of bluff I managed to play the part. It fooled everyone but Dauna. She knew almost from the first, but she kept my secret."

Walter Ferrell backed into the lounge car. He sat down abruptly.

"I know you've done something I never thought possible," he admitted. "And to prove my gratitude I'll apologize for everything I've ever said against Wade Blake. From now on you're half owner of the 'Hope to Horn'."

Wade Blake grinned broadly.

"Thank you sir," he said. "But I can't accept your offer. If Dauna marries me she's destined to get star dust in her eyes."

Dauna looked at him worshipingly.

"In fact she already has flakes of it there now," Wade added. "Space officials have asked me to track down the gang who worked with my brother Jeff. If Dauna will say the word, I'd like to spend our honeymoon on Luna, and then get started on the new job."

Ferrell sighed deeply.

"I think Dauna has given her answer already," he said softly. "As for me, I'll have to make a public statement, taking back every word about Wade Blake and his love for flowers and the violin."

"That man Harror said we had a one way ticket to nowhere," Dauna said dreamily. "I wonder if we'll ever get there?"

"If we do," Wade told her, "I'm sure with you there, it's going to be a wonderful place."

_____________________

6: Queen of the Flaming Diamond

Amazing Stories, January 1943

THE Owl Limb Night Club was crowded with smoothly gowned women and paunchy men as Owner George Lardner approached the hanging "mike" to announce the midnight attraction. At Lardner's appearance "Puffy" Adams nudged his well-dressed boss in the ribs and whispered thickly.

"Come on, Jim. Let's get out of here."

Jim Drake lifted a tousled head from the smooth linen. He gazed at his right hand man with a washed-out expression.

"Huh?"

"Puffy" Adams stood up slowly. His coat was wrinkled and creased across his powerful back. He pulled it down impatiently and rubbed a warm hand across his face. Looking down at the unsteady figure of Jim Drake he grunted. Three crooked teeth that seemed at odds with the world, appeared coyly against "Puffy's" lower lip.

He was accustomed to this old routine. Placing both hands under Drake's armpits he lifted. Jim came to his feet with a surprised gurgle.

"Wait a minute," he protested. "Wanta' see dance."

Puffy Adams pushed a thick arm around Drake and steered him across the floor between the tables.

"Special feature tonight— diamond of mystery...." The night club owner was still talking, his voice drowning the murmur of voices and tinkle of glasses across the big room. "Sylvia Fanton— girl from nowhere—!"

Puffy struggled onward under the almost dead weight of his boss. Drake was trying to hold back.

"You gave me orders to take you home at midnight," Puffy protested, "and, 'Cinderella' Drake, home you go."

He succeeded in dragging his charge up the three low steps that led toward the coat room. A silvery crash of music drowned out Puffy's voice with the suddenness of striking lightning. He dropped his arm from Drake's waist and pivoted, surprise on his broad face. Something weird and lovely about the sound turned them both toward the stage. His chin dropped in delight. This wasn't Lardner's usual nightly feature.

They watched with hypnotized eyes as the girl's slim body twisted and swayed from between the bright shower of curtains. It wasn't the girl that caught Puffy's gaze. Cupped in her slim hands was the biggest diamond he had ever seen. The gem was skillfully cut with the perfection of a Tiffany. From its multi-faceted sides a million sparks of rainbow fire quivered and danced through the room. The shadows seemed to come alive and burn under its presence.

Puffy gasped loudly.

"Shhhhh!"

"It ain't true," Puffy said. "A paste if I ever stole one."

Blake leaned on the low rail that bordered the dining room. His legs were spread wide, body balanced unsteadily with firm-gripped hands. George Lardner had picked a winner this time. Clothed in ankle-length silver cloth, she wafted across the floor lightly as a breeze. Sylvia Fanton was a light, floating angel of beauty. Her hair was raven-black drifting to her waist and the eyes, dark as her hair, seemed caught in worship for the precious stone in her hands. She hardly danced yet the smooth torso, the swaying hips held her admirers fixed.

A sigh of longing escaped Drake's lips.

"Wunnerful," he breathed.

"Yea!" Puffy was still watching the great gem. "Not real though."

"Perfect as a dream," Jim Drake went on, not hearing.

"Perfect phony," Puffy insisted.

Drake swung around unsteadily.

"Who you calling phony," he lisped angrily. "That's girl's wunnerful."

He staggered and collapsed against Puffy's barrel chest.

"Home for you," Puffy decided.

HE retrieved Drake like a sack of spuds and placed him carefully on his feet.

"We're going out." He took a last look toward the dance floor and pushed his boss through the curtains toward the outer lobby.

The music behind them stopped. The lights in the dining room blinked out and a woman screamed somewhere in the darkness. Adams didn't wait to find out what had happened. He pushed Drake along the hall toward the coat room. Beside the tall youngster, Adams assumed all the importance of a harbor tug heaving away at an ocean-going liner.

Mary, the checkroom girl, was waiting. When midnight brought Drake from his whiskey, the girl had learned to expect a lavish tip. She looked at Puffy with a puzzled smile.

"What's wrong in there?"

"Revolution," he answered shortly. "Light went out. Lardner probably forgot to pay the light bill."

Jim Drake fumbled uncertainly in his pocket and brought out a numbered ticket.

"Coat please," he said stiffly. "Coat please!"

He waved the ticket under Mary's nose.

She took the stub quickly and returned in a minute with a woman's silver fox cape. It was a lavish, deeply rich fur.

"How long since you started wearing these things?" she asked and pushed it across the counter.

"Hey!" Puffy grunted. "That ain't ours."

Drake clutched the fur protectively.

"Here— here," he cried. "My coat. Just grew whiskers. My coat just the same."

Before Adams could stop him, Drake was lurching toward the door and into the waiting arms of the doorman. Puffy tossed a bill on the counter and Mary's eyes popped a fraction.

"We'll bring it back when he sobers up," he said quickly. "Must have got the wrong number."

"Thanks!"

"Forget it." He went toward Drake and the grinning doorman. Rescuing his drunken charge. Adams helped him across the walk toward the car.

"Come on, Cinderella. You got a date with the sandman."

Somewhere down State Street came the mournful howl of a siren.

"Whee!" Drake waved the fur in the air above his head. "Fire—want to go to fire."

A CROWD of patrons were pouring from the club behind them. With a quick push Puffy deposited Drake in the streamlined coupe and rounded the rear tires on the run. He jumped behind the wheel and turned the key. Sirens were whining in close now.

The door slammed and a girl landed squarely on Drake's lap.

It was the dancing girl, Sylvia Fanton. Her face was flushed brightly with fright.

"Whee!" Drake shouted gleefully. "The Angel herself. Where's the Tiffany?"

He threw his arms about her slim, silver-clad waist and planted a popping kiss on her cheek. The flat of the girl's hand caught his face, hard. Drake sobered a degree.

"My jacket!" her voice was strained and tense. "Please! I must have it at once."

Drake was interested. His pale eyes started to show fight.

"Sure!" he said. "But it's my jacket."

The sirens were dying now. A powerful police car shot to the curb behind them. Puffy's eyes narrowed and he drove the coupe away from the club smoothly.

"Too hot around here," he said to no one in particular. "Can't stand the smell of copper's feet."

Sylvia Fanton's dress was badly ripped on one side. The silken stocking and smooth flesh of her thigh was visible through the tear.

"Please!" There were tears in her cold eyes. "I must have the jacket. It is mine, you know."

Drake was coy.

"Aw," he insisted. "I had a ticket for it."

She slipped between them, her arm around Drake's shoulder. Realizing that he was drunk, she tried a different approach.

"Now what would you do with it?" she asked sweetly. "You would look funny wearing a silver fox jacket. You'd be just an old fox."

Jim hesitated. Then he slipped the jacket from his arm and around her soft shoulder.

"I'll make a deal with you," he suggested. "Let us take you home and you can have the old animal."

FOR the first time his eyes were clearing enough to get a really good look at the girl at his side. He started to wonder vaguely how she had gotten here. She was small and her tiny face seemed almost cupid-like to his uncertain vision. Her eyes were frightened like the eyes of a timid animal.

"Okay!" Puffy said sharply. "You've made a bargain. I ain't driving all night. Where to?"

Her voice snapped out sharp and cold.

"Nowhere. Stop right here."

Jim Drake chuckled.

"Wait a minute," he stammered. "Be a sport. You promised."

He looked away for an instant, trying to shake some of the fog from his head. When he looked back the girl was gone. There between them on the seat was a small silver fox.

He shook his head dazedly and groaned.

"They got me," he moaned. "Stop car. I got to...."

Puffy took his eyes from the road. A sharp oath escaped his lips. The brakes squealed as he felt sharp teeth settle deeply into his wrist. Howling with pain he twisted the coupe to the curb.

The fox released its grip and leaped gracefully over the door into the street. It was gone, weaving swiftly like a small dog through the straggling crowd. It went out of sight quickly into a nearby alley.

"Holy Ned!" Puffy held a bleeding wrist in his good hand. "I'm getting this way from being with you."

Jim Drake's lips quivered strangely and he turned pale.

"I wanna' go home. Don't wanna' see anyone. No one, understand?"

Puffy nodded, but Drake persisted brokenly.

"Fox woman, that's what she is. Darned old fox woman wouldn't play fair...!" His lips murmured off into something Puffy couldn't understand.

LONG shafts of sunlight split the obscure shadows that had hidden Jim Drake's room for the past twelve hours. Drake turned over carefully in bed, groaned and reached for the full glass on the table.

"Puffy!" His voice arose in shattering crescendo across the stillness of the rich apartment and crashed against the door. "Puffy— it's me. Take these damned rocks off my head."

Adams opened the door and came forward with a sly grin on his face.

"Okay— Okay." He was impatient. "I'm coming, Cinderella."

Drake swallowed the contents of the glass in a single gulp and stretched out with a sickly grin.

"That was a wonderful dream I had last night," he said weakly. "Remind me to call Walt Disney."

Adams went across the room and drew open the curtains. A two o'clock sun slipped into the room and Drake hid himself hurriedly in the pillow.

"Turn out that damned light," he shouted. "Now—about that fox woman. Walt Disney oughta' pay...."

Puffy had braced his feet and placed his stocky arms behind his back.

"It wasn't any dream," he said calmly.

"Yea, I know. I was drunk."

"It wasn't a dream," Puffy said stubbornly. "That girl you saw really was a fox. At least she turned into one. Oh! Damn!"

He tossed the morning paper on the bed.

"Read what the Star had to say about your dream," he said. "They got the story straighter than I did. We took a lady for a ride, Cinderella, and she turned into a silver fox."

Drake sat up stiffly. The foolish look of surprise was gone. He reached for the Morning Star. In huge headlines he read:

DARING HOLDUP AT NEW NIGHT CLUB

World's Largest Diamond Stolen

From Under Eyes of Police

Sober as a lord now, Drake sent his eyes wavering along the column of newsprint:

Chicago, May 6.— A group of daring jewel thieves last night stole the Lardner diamond, largest gem of its kind in the world, from beneath the eyes of an armed guard.

The stone was a perfect cut, pronounced priceless only last week when it was first seen by Tiffany experts.

George Lardner, the owner of the Owl Limb, one of the city's newest night spots, had taken it from a private vault to display in a special dance.

Miss Sylvia Fanton, who danced with the gem has also disappeared, but Lardner insists that she was well known to him and could have had no hand in the robbery.

This story is feasible, as the gown Miss Fanton was wearing at the time has been discovered badly torn in a State Street alley. Murder of the dancer is suspected.

DRAKE tossed the paper across the room.

"Rubbish!" His eyes were clear and snapping now. The night of adventure was thrown from his mind. "It couldn't happen, Puffy. We were seeing things."

Adams picked up the Star carefully, thumbed toward the last page and held the news sheet where Drake could see another, much smaller caption.

"Look at this," he begged. "You'll sing another song."

Jim took the sheet again, as though afraid he would believe the impossible. This story was short, and wedged in at the bottom of a last page.

ZOO OFFICIALS CAPTURE FOX

RUNNING WILD IN CITY STREET

Captured while trotting calmly down a State Street alley early today, a perfect silver fox has found its home at Wildwood Zoo.

Keepers chuckled when asked for a statement to the press. They expect a fox farm to place a claim on the valuable animal within twenty-four hours.

The fox was in perfect condition, with a deep, rich black coat, tufted with snow white tips on each hair.

The Mayor has already offered to convert the pelt into a cape for his wife, should an owner fail to claim the animal.

Jim Drake shuddered.

"I was drunker than I had any business being last night," he said finally. "Did it all happen, what I saw?"

Puffy Adams grinned woefully. He drew his arm from behind his back and displayed a clean, bandaged wrist.

"I got teeth marks an inch deep in my wrist," he said. "What do you think?"'

Drake was out of bed in one bound. He pulled his slippers on hurriedly.

"Plenty of hot water for a shower?"

"Coming up!"

Puffy retreated toward the bathroom door. Over his shoulder he asked.

"Going to the zoo?"

"I'm crazy," Jim admitted. "But if they found a girl's dress a block from where we parked, and there's a silver fox at the zoo this morning, I want to know why."

Puffy's stout figure was hidden behind the glass door. Water started its inviting swish from the shower. His voice came out with a hollow ring.

"Well, Cinderella," he said whimsically, "we're on the make again, but the odds are against us. If that dame can bite my arm and turn into an animal in the same night she'll make a hell of a mate for Jimmy."

Drake was already halfway across the room, knotting the sash of his robe with long brown fingers.

"It's the call of the wild," he shouted above the hiss of the shower. "We all have to answer it some time."

HALF way out of town Jim Drake drew the coupe skillfully to the curb and turned off the motor. He had parked opposite the city library. Drake felt much better this morning. The sobering effect of the Morning Star had made a new man of him in short order. Dressed neatly in a brown sport suit, clean white shirt and white shoes, Jim looked his type perfectly. Young bachelor with cash to burn, yet with a certain dissatisfaction in himself that had etched little wrinkles around the clear brown eyes.

He pushed the door open and tapped Puffy Adams lightly on the shoulder. Exhausted from the events of the night before, Adams was cat-napping peacefully.

He sat up stiffly under Drake's touch and his face reddened.

"Huh?"

"This is where you get out," Jim grinned. "You're going to do some reading this afternoon."

Puffy was dumbfounded. His only association with the printed page was the Morning Star and the Police Gazette.

"Wait a minute," he protested. "Don't I get a look at that fox?"

Jim piloted him skillfully from the car.

"Look up a book on gems," he said. "I want to know how big the largest diamond was that has been found to date, where it came from, and if they've ever been found in the far north."

Adams gulped, saw that the boss was sincere and started to turn away. Jim halted him.

"After that, go down to police headquarters and see what you can dig up on George Lardner."

Puffy's chin stiffened.

"It'll be dirt," he said. "This boy Lardner comes from an old line of dirty wash. He's the heel of the family shoe."

Jim Drake nodded.

"That's what I figure," he agreed. "But I want all the facts."

Adams pivoted, took one look at the imposing granite building in which he was about to trust his tender body and with a shake of his head mounted the long flight of steps.

Jim Drake stepped hard on the accelerator and sped away toward Wildwood Zoo.

ONCE on the grounds he had little trouble finding the section of open air cages that housed the small animals. Wildwood was built with a complete lack of eye appeal. Down a tarred path he passed through tangled brush and approached a short line of ugly wired cages.

The silver fox was crouching at the rear of the last cage. She stood up as he came near and started to trot slowly back and forth in front of him. Looking around carefully, Drake saw that he was alone. Afternoon crowds had long since deserted this uninteresting section.

His imagination told Drake that there was something feminine about the smooth motions of the animal's body. The black eyes were pleading— Sylvia Fanton's eyes.

"Please," the girl in the car had said. "I must have the fur."

The walk was deserted. He leaned over the fence and said softly.

"Sylvia— Sylvia Fanton."

The fox continued its restless pacing.

Drake doubted his own sanity. If anyone heard him standing here alone, talking to an animal.... He shook his head in disgust and started to turn away.

From the corner of his eye he caught the sudden flash of smooth, human flesh. Whipping around, eyes wide, Drake was sure that for a fraction of a minute a lovely nude girl appeared in the cage where the fox had been. It was Sylvia Fanton. A flash of nude limbs molded breathtakingly, snatched at his breath. Warm pleading eyes, full rich lips that seemed to cry beseechingly.

"Help me. You are the only one...."

Then the vision was gone. The silver fox stood silently in its place, head bent forward. Jim Drake suffered all the emotions of a man about to go mad. He knew it was all a crazy dream, and yet.... Last night he had been drunk. Now, here in the harsh light of late afternoon it had been so real.

Hurried footsteps crunched loudly on the tar walk. He slipped quickly out of sight into the brush that grew beside the fox cage. Feeling like a fool, Jim waited. The heavy slouching figure of George Lardner heaved into sight. One of the keepers, trimly uniformed, was at his side. They stopped before the cage and engaged in hurried conversation. The keeper nodded several times and Lardner passed him a bill.

"Tonight," Drake heard him say in a low voice. "Make sure it's unlocked."

They were gone up the little incline when he stepped out on the path once more. Drake had been forced to make a decision.

IN spite of his addiction to the bottle, Jim Drake's body was hard and supple as he raced toward the car. Digging around in the trunk he brought out a sharp file. Thank God for Puffy Adams and his early safe cracking days. Returning to the cage he made sure no one was about. The door was a strong affair behind the inner building, hidden on the side of the hill. He started to file hurriedly on the Yale that held the bolt in place.

The fox came toward him and sat down patiently just inside the door. Its eyes never left his face as he worked. The curve of the lock separated and with a quick motion he tossed it from him. The animal came out swiftly as he opened the door. It trotted at his heels and they kept to the underbrush, running toward the car.

Pushing the door open with shaking hands, Drake said, "In— quickly, and stay on the floor."

The beautiful animal leaped and settled close to the floor boards. Drake rounded the car and in a minute they were purring swiftly toward the main highway.

From behind him somewhere in Wildwood Zoo, a sharp cry of alarm went up. His theft had been detected. In five minutes the roads to town would be blocked by police patrols.

Jim's forehead wrinkled into tight furrows. The coupe was doing eighty-five. With one hand he reached down and petted the fox's smooth head.

"You snap at me," he warned, "and I'll send you back to your cage."

A warm tongue touched his hand softly.

The police sirens were dying now, and he breathed with relief as they passed the city limits and swept into heavy traffic. Slowing down a little, his forehead smoothed out and a sly smile swept across his face. Fifteen minutes later Drake eased the car into the alley behind the apartment hotel.

There was no one on duty at the freight elevator. With the silver fox in his arms Drake made a hurried entrance and shortly they reached the private floor of his apartment. He placed the animal carefully on the floor and with his key opened the door.

Puffy Adams was stretched across the bed. His eyes opened with a jerk at the sight of Jim's passenger, and he drew himself toward the safety of the far end of the bed.

"Well," Puffy said hesitantly. "If you go for this kind 'a thing it's okay with me. Just keep that four-legged Dracula away from me. No more blood-letting this week, please."

Jim ignored him. He locked the door swiftly and turned on the fox.

"You can come out now," he said. "It's safe here."

THE animal crossed the thick rug with a bound, pounced to the bed with a stealthy spring and curled into a little ball of fur. Its eyes closed and it was motionless.

"I'll be damned." Drake slouched down in the leather chair beside the cocktail table and dragged out a much smoked pipe. "That's gratitude for you."

Puffy gazed with growing respect and admiration for the faults of the insane.

"I suppose," he suggested, "that you expected that pint-sized bundle of fur to kick one foot, toss off her coat and do a snake dance right here in the bedroom?"

Drake sat motionless. Smoke drifted in lazy circles around his head.

"What about the diamonds?" he asked. "Get any dope?"

Adams edged carefully away from the bed and glided safely away from the sleeping fox. He dipped a slip of paper from his wrinkled pocket and started to read mechanically.

"Largest diamond came from Africa— weight one pound and a quarter— didn't get the name of it, because I couldn't pronounce it anyhow." He looked up anxiously. "Is that enough?"

Jim put the pipe away carefully.

"For brevity," he admitted. "It's perfect. But it will do."

"So?"

"From what I saw of that diamond last night," Drake continued, "it must have weighed at least two pounds. Perfectly cut and yet by no one in this country. Puffy, we've a perfectly swell mystery on our hands."

"And the fox?" Adams added, with a suspicious look at the drowsy animal on the bed. "What in hell's bells made you bring it here?"

"George Lardner," Drake said slowly.

"What?"

"Lardner was at the zoo this afternoon," Jim explained. "He paid a large sum of money to make sure he could steal the fox tonight. If Lardner wanted it that bad, what could I lose?"

He didn't mention the sudden vision of Sylvia Fanton he had seen, haunting and lovely in the cage.

"So he thinks Sylvia had the rock?" Puffy's face awakened with new angles.

"So do I," Drake admitted. "At least she knows a lot about it."

He jerked upright suddenly, caught by the sudden movement on the bed. Adams wheeled, his eyes following Jim's.

"Holy Ned!" he shouted. "The girl...."

THE silver fox was gone. Sylvia Fanton, more lovely than ever was stretched comfortably across the bed, her slim limbs partly covered by the fox cape. She was real this time. Drake caught the look of gratitude in her eyes.

"Then you are real," he went toward her in long strides. "I was beginning to wonder."

She crouched away from him slightly, trying to stretch the short fur to cover her rounded limbs. The task wasn't very successful.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He knew she was sorry. Sorry for all the trouble she had caused him.

"But why...?"

She sat up, shielding herself carefully.

"It's very simple," she explained. "I am doomed to wear the body of a fox during those hours when the sun is high. At night...." She motioned toward the window with slim fingers.

Drake turned, saw that the sun had drifted behind the distant skyline and darkness had come down on the city. He smiled, only partly understanding.

"At night you become a very lovely woman. I know that much."

Sylvia Fanton blushed.

"Thanks!"

Puffy whistled.

"Leave it to Cinderella Drake," he grinned. "Man, you sure hit the jack-pot this time."

Drake sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Please tell us about yourself," he begged. "There's something I should know? Some way I can help?"

She shook her head sadly.

"I'm sorry. I owe you an explanation, and don't think I'm not grateful. More than that I can't tell you now."

"Listen," Jim said. "I may have been drunk last night. Perhaps I'm a mild sort of rotter, but at least I want to try."

The girl shrugged her shoulders helplessly.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It may sound foolish, but the success of my mission here depends on myself alone. The lives of many people are hinged on my playing the game alone. The curse that holds me, binds my people also."

Puffy Adams' jaw dropped. He reached for the always ready bottle in the small bar and poured a drink. He swallowed it with a loud gulp.

"George Lardner shares your knowledge," Drake said.

Sylvia's body shuddered under the fur.

"Lardner is a snake." Her voice was as cold as ice. "His greed has destroyed my people. Death will be his reward."

"All of which means," Drake said evenly. "You have recovered the diamond that you held in your hands last night at the Owl Limb."

THE girl arose slowly. The fur draped itself about her body revealing warm shoulders, slim, evenly tapered legs. She stood like something apart from them, small and queenly. Her voice was strained and hurt.

"I cannot say more. You have helped me in the quest of the flaming diamond and you will be rewarded. Now, I must go before I cause your death also."

Jim felt helpless— lost. She had aroused emotions in his heart that had been long buried. Now with stark death and worse threatening her, Sylvia Fanton proposed to leave him forever. He was at her side, his hand clasping the warm wrist tightly.

"Let me help," he begged. "I'm not much on speeches but you're in trouble. I can believe what I have seen. If there is a way of saving you torture, I'm going to do it."

Sylvia stared up at him, tears misting her dark eyes. For a moment he was sure she would throw herself into his arms.

"You're very nice," she said softly. "I'd be grateful forever if you could help, but you can't. I know my task and I have others with me who know theirs. It will be best if we never meet again."

Drake's jaw grew stubborn.

"And if I refuse to let you leave?"

The girl's eyes were cold and she twisted the cape around her slim body tightly, wearing it like a queen's robe. Words tumbled from her lips swiftly.

"There is nothing you can do to prevent it."

A worried grin spread over Jim Drake's face.

"If you insist on going," he said, "there isn't much else to say."

"Don't think I'm not grateful to both of you." This time her smile was for Puffy and his chest swelled a good three inches under its influence. "If you'll promise not to follow me tonight, I'll return here in the morning. If you insist on getting yourselves in trouble on my account there isn't a thing I can do about it without appearing ungrateful."

"That's more like it," Jim said cheerfully. "Now, about your clothes. You can't wear that fur without something under it, although the effect is appealing."

"And revealing," Puffy added.

She blushed.

"Could— could you find something for me. Some of your clothing?"

Puffy Adams chuckled. "With those shoulders Cinderella's got, you'll look like an ex-prizefighter," he warned.

DRAKE started a search in the closet. Ten minutes later Sylvia Fanton made an appealing picture in tan slacks, light jersey sweater and a pair of sport shoes Jim had discarded years ago but had forgotten to throw away. She stood at the door holding the fox fur close to her breast. Then smiling brightly, she tossed it into his arms.

"Take good care of it," she said. "If it's not here in the morning...."

Drake stood close to her. He couldn't find words for what was in his heart. A dull hurt feeling welled up in his throat. It was so damned futile sending a girl out when he had promised not to follow. If she didn't come back in the morning....

Sylvia's eyes grew tender. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to his stubbled chin.

"You've been up for a long time, laddie," she whispered. "Better shave and get some rest."

The door slammed quickly and she was gone. Drake held the fur carefully over his arm and rubbed his chin reflectively.

"I'll be damned," he said.

"So will I," Puffy spoke from somewhere behind him. "Looks like Cinderella Drake is gonna go huntin' for that other slipper, and after all these years."

Jim looked around the room for a safe place to hide the precious silver cape. He decided on the big cedar chest in the open closet. He locked the fur in safely and dropped the key in his pocket.

"Ready for a little traveling?" he asked.

Puffy had discarded his shoes and was stretched out comfortably, a frosted glass in his hand. His chin dropped, jumped forward protestingly.

"Just let's relax," he begged. "I've worn the heels off my feet for you today."

Even as he talked the stout one started to tie the laces of his shoes. They went down the quiet hall and into the private elevator.

"What about George Lardner?" Drake asked as they shot toward the main floor. "Find out his life history?"

"At the police station," Puff admitted. Then in a puzzled voice he added, "all but the last two years of it."

"And those last two years?"

They passed quickly through the rear lobby and into the alley. The car was still where Jim had left it. As they drove out of the narrow alley and into the street, Puffy talked.

"George Lardner has been in every racket the law knows about," he said. "The police have a complete record of him since he cut his eye teeth stealing milk. But the last two years get me."

DRAKE settled down behind the wheel and they headed toward the rush of downtown traffic.

"Don't kill me with the suspense," he said. "What's Lardner been up to that's so startling?"

"Exploring," Puffy said dryly.

"An expedition to the city's slums?" Drake queried.

"No!" Puffy crossed his legs comfortably and scratching a match on the bottom of his shoe, touched the flame to his cigarette. "I had to go to the Explorer's Club to get the dope on him. Lardner has been spending a lot of time in the Baker Lake district just east of Hudson Bay in Canada."

Drake's foot released its pressure on the gas pedal. "Thought that country was pretty well explored years ago," he said mildly. "Nothing much but snow and ice up there, is there?"

"And maybe diamonds," Puffy said. "At least that's what Lardner and some of the boys at the Explorer's Club think."

Drake's interest was increasing.

"Is that where he found that big gem he displayed at the club the other night?"

Puffy's lips split in a wide, toothy grin.

"Cinderella Drake knows the answers," he admitted. "Yes! That's where he found the diamond and that's how he happened to get in with the stuffed shirts at the Explorer's Club."

Drake was silent.

Adams hesitated, then added,

"Lardner showed up there six months ago claiming he had found the world's largest diamond. He claimed he got it from a secret valley somewhere in the Baker Lake district."

"Fantastic!" They had reached their destination and Drake pulled the coupe in smoothly to the curb. The lights over the door of the Owl Limb Night Club were darkened.

"The Explorer's Club doesn't think so. They are mighty stirred up about his find. The only thing that puzzles them is how come the stone is cut. Lardner refuses to tell them who did the job. As for finding it where he did, it seems they've had an idea there were diamonds in that country and were just waiting for someone to prove it."[*]

[* Professor Hobbs of the University of Michigan has found several small diamonds and diamond particles in the strata of the glacial flow throughout certain northern states.

Hobbs, a careful and painstaking research worker, used his knowledge of geology to trace the strata of the glacial flow. He determined several years ago that the diamonds came from the north, somewhere in the Hudson Bay area. Although his co-workers are confident that he is correct, a rush of prospectors failed to find anything that would prove his theory.

Although opinions among geologists vary, many believe in Hobbs and his work. A consulting gem expert at the world famous Field Museum put forth this story to your editor, and convinced him that Hobbs is a clear headed expert who knows what he is talking about. Somewhere under the waste of snow, probably a little east of Hudson Bay, there is a fortune in uncovered diamonds. A fortune that could easily eclipse the yield of Africa's richest diamond fields.—ED.]

JIM DRAKE knew all he wanted to for the time being. He turned toward the unlighted marquee of the Owl Limb.

"Looks as though the police closed the place up," Puffy said soberly. "Gonna stay sober tonight?"

"Do you know where that check room girl lives; the one you call Mary?" Drake asked.

Puffy's face sobered.

"She's married and has three kids," he said. "I don't know where any married women live."

Jim chuckled. He twisted the car into the traffic again, and with a swift U-turn, headed the coupe toward home.

"Just the same I need information from a married woman," he said. "And you're getting out at the next corner in a perhaps futile effort to find Mary."

"And if her husband doesn't meet me at the door with a shotgun," Puffy asked, "what do I ask her?"

Jim shot an appraising look toward the deserted corner ahead, whipped the coupe up beside a traffic officer and opened the door.

"From now on," he said, "we are interested in Lardner. He's a busy man these days. Mary ought to know where her boss is. Women like that have an idea of everything that is going on. Find out where Lardner went and meet me at the apartment as soon as you can."

Puffy was already on the sidewalk.

"Leave it to me, Cinderella," he said. "I get the idea. If you can't follow the fox, you're gonna follow the wolf and let him lead you to her."

Drake nodded and smiled after the sturdy figure with a growing respect.

"Move along there!" The gruff voice came from his side. "Can't be holding traffic all night for you."

Drake turned, saw the officer grinning at him, and shot into the traffic.

THE door of the apartment was ajar. The puzzled expression on Jim Drake's face changed to one of worried interest. He pushed the door open swiftly, and silently. The lights were out. A sound came from the direction of the window and straining he thought he saw the curtain blow in slightly. On tiptoe he went swiftly around the side of the big room. The chair by the bed had been moved and he struck his shin on it in the dark.

The room flashed white as he pressed the electric button. Hot anger passed through his body. Every piece of furniture in the room had been tipped upside down. Linings were torn from the chairs. His clothing was heaped in an ugly pile in the middle of the floor. Drawers were pulled out and emptied.

The fur! He ran swiftly to the closet, twisted the handle and breathed a sigh of relief. The cedar chest was broken and splintered around the lock, but the cover hadn't been lifted. He inserted the key quickly and drew out the fur cape. Its rich depth felt more precious than ever in his fingers. Here in his hands was the link to his first real love affair.

A footstep sounded faintly behind him. His heart was in his throat. Drake whipped around and sprang to his feet. He stared straight into the barrel of a wicked automatic. Lifting his eyes slowly, he studied the man who held the weapon.

The stranger's face was hard as stone, almost barbaric. His bronze skin stretched tightly over firm, high cheek bones. The mouth was open slightly in a determined way. Teeth that flashed like an uneven row of pearls seemed half savage, yet not unfriendly.

"You will come toward me slowly," the man's voice was cultured, yet hesitant, as though he hadn't spoken English for many years. "A false move will destroy you."

He backed away toward the center of the room.

"How ... where?" Drake stammered.

"You forgot to examine the bath," the gunman said. "You are not a painstaking young man, Jim Drake."

Jim started. The man knew his name, held a gun on him that threatened immediate death, and yet his voice was friendly, ever courteous.

"I have nothing here that you want," Drake said.

HE stood in the middle of the room now. The stranger reached down carefully with one hand, still holding his aim. He twisted a chair upright and sat down. For the first time Drake had a chance to look him over more carefully. His eyes were the same deep black as Sylvia Fanton's. Cold and yet somehow gentle.

"You are holding in your hand what I need more than anything in the world." The man relaxed but the gun didn't waver. Drake sat down opposite him on the edge of the bed.

"The fur?" he asked.

"The fox fur." The gun settled on the strange intruder's knee and he leaned forward eagerly. "Give it to me at once. If I leave with it now, you will be troubled no more. This is as our mistress demands."

Then Sylvia Fanton had sent him. He must be one of the henchmen she had spoken of. At once Drake felt relieved. He pushed the fur away from him slowly, hating to part with it. The man stood up, took it with his free hand and held it tightly.

"You are very wise," he said slowly.

He started to back toward the window.

"Wait," Drake was on his feet, "Sylvia promised to return in the morning. Why...?"

A look of compassion spread across the gunman's face.

"Sylvia Fanton is no more," he said pityingly. "You had but a brief glimpse of an earthly woman who is the most perfect creation on earth. Now she has completed her mission and will return to her people."

"Then you did get the diamond?" Drake was sorry at once that he had spoken. The man's eyes turned icy.

"We have done what we came to do," he said shortly. "We appreciate the part you played in our success. More than that, I am not at liberty to discuss. Please do not follow me as I leave."

Then, carefully,

"Make no mistake, Mr. Drake. Our queen came very close to deserting her sacred trust. If you were to see her again, you would not enjoy the same close association. There is no place in her life for you, or you would be going with me instead of staying here at the point of a gun."

Drake moved forward hesitantly, and then stopped with the gesture of a man who knows he is beaten.

"Okay," he admitted. "You've got me on the spot. But remember this: George Lardner thinks more of that diamond than he does his life. He's going to leave a trail of blood in every country of the world, but he'll get it if you don't kill him first."

The gunman's face was a mask of hatred.

"Do not underestimate the power Lardner is fighting," he said grimly. "There will be blood, yes. It will be Lardner's blood. He has a debt to pay, and it is not our wish that you be involved when payment is made. Our leader whom you know as Sylvia Fanton has one message for you. Goodbye."

He tossed a small envelope of paper at Jim's feet and was gone through the window as silently as a floating cloud.

JIM stood speechless for a second, then he went toward the window and looked down the long line shadow of the fire escape. There was no one in sight. A small dog darted along the edge of the alley far below. Or was it a dog? His bewildered mind told him the animal was more like a fox in its quick, sly movements.

Drake picked up the slip of paper in shaking fingers. He opened it and stared at the neat longhand message:

We were very close to love, Jim Drake. Love is not good for a woman who has my obligations.

The outer door rattled noisily. Drake took a second quick look at the note and stuffed it into his pocket. Puffy Adams stormed in and stopped abruptly with a shocked look in his eyes.

"Been havin' a party?" he asked whimsically. "Looks like the guests came on a whirlwind."

Drake was silent. He started to rearrange the room mechanically. Duffy collected the clothing from the floor and replaced it in the closet. The boss would talk when he got ready.

From the chair by the cocktail table, Drake said suddenly, "What about Lardner? Did Mary know where he went?"

Puffy, his job completed, slumped across the bed.

"That guy Lardner is off on another trip." He started to slip his shoes off, thought better of it, and tied the laces again. "Mary says he gave the employees all a month's pay and said he'd be back in time to keep them in cash next month."

Through a cloud of pipe smoke, Drake was placing more pieces into the jigsaw of Sylvia Fanton's life.

"Any idea where he's going?" he asked.

Puffy shook his head.

"Not the slightest," he admitted. "Mary says her boss is tighter than a bum's pocketbook when it comes to information."

Drake had enough pipe smoke. He put it away carefully and stood up.

"I see you didn't get the shoes off after all," he said a little slyly. "Going somewhere?"

Puffy arose, took a suitcase from the closet shelf and started tossing clothing into it.

"I think so," he said grimly. "If I'm half as good a stooge as I think I am, we'll be needing overcoats before we get back."

Drake was already waiting at the door when his companion lifted the heavy bag to his shoulder and prepared to follow.

"Got your long underwear?" he asked soothingly. "We're going to the airport first, but after that I've got a hunch we'll go diamond prospecting somewhere east of Hudson Bay."

Puffy shivered.

"Cinderella Drake hunts the silver slipper." His voice was doubtful, his eyes were twinkling. "If you find it up there, you'll freeze your foot trying the damned thing on."

THE Municipal Airport was deserted, save for a small group of men waiting just outside the main lobby. They were obviously the members of a dance band. Instruments were packed and waiting on the baggage truck outside as Drake and Puffy entered. Drake went straight to the ticket window. The man behind the ticket cage looked up with a smile as he approached. His eyes were tired and questioning.

"Yes, sir?" in quiet friendliness.

Drake tossed a roll of bills on the counter.

"We're thinking of taking the night plane to Winnipeg," he said indecisively. "Any empty berths?"

The clerk grinned.

"Fortunately for you," he said, "there aren't any priority passengers tonight. The Winnipeg job has been full of flyers headed for the Canadian border for the past two weeks. Nothing of importance tonight. Five berths available."

Drake looked around curiously.

"Have you a passenger named George Lardner?" he asked.

The clerk took down a small file and thumbed through it. He shook his head.

"No. Had you planned to meet him here?"

Drake smiled.

"We had a date," he admitted. "George Lardner is headed for the same destination. He'll no doubt catch a later plane and meet us in Winnipeg."

The clerk was penning figures rapidly across the ticket.

"You won't lack for entertainment," he laughed in a low voice. "That gang at the door call themselves Harry's Rhythm Rascals. Headed for a dance job up there."

"I'd rather have a quiet berth," Drake admitted. "Need sleep more than I need rhythm."

The clerk collected the two fares and said sleepily,

"Your plane will take off in twenty minutes, sir. May as well get aboard. The berths are made up."

"Thanks." Drake pocketed the tickets and motioned for Adams to follow. As they passed Harry's Rhythm Rascals, Drake watched one of the men turn slowly and follow him.

"That guy must be the tuba player," Puffy said quickly. "He sure looks as though he'd been pushed around."

The luggage was disposed of and in ten minutes Drake was lying quietly under the dome of the plane. A sudden throb of motors came from up ahead. With half closed eyes he wondered, if at the end of this mad journey, Sylvia Fanton might be waiting for him. George Lardner wouldn't be far away. Although the plane trip had started like a wild goose chase, at least he was headed in the general direction of trouble, and the grandest girl he had ever met. Turning restlessly on one side, he was aware that the bumpy ground was no longer under the plane and the three great motors were purring smoothly as they drifted ahead through the starlit night.

"JIM!—Jim!" Drake opened one eye with effort, remembered that he was in a plane bound for Winnipeg, and sat up. Through the parted curtain he could see the dark earth underneath sprinkled occasionally with a handful of twinkling lights. Puffy Adams was leaning over the berth, his body clad in oversized pajamas, eyes wide with excitement.

"The orchestra!" Puffy was muttering. "They ain't! They're Lardner's gunmen! Lardner's on board!" He babbled on.

"Wait a minute!" Drake was wide awake now. He helped Adams into the berth, holding a warning finger over his lips. "Now," he said firmly, "one thing at a time."

"Those punks that called themselves Harry's Rhythm Rascals. They got a plane full of tommy guns. They can't play but one tune on those."

Drake's eyes narrowed.

"How did you find out?"

"I couldn't sleep," Puffy said. "Went up front to get a glass of water and find that pretty hostess to keep me company."

"So?"

Puffy gulped.

"So she isn't aboard the plane. We landed somewhere last night right after we took off. I didn't think nothin' of it. Ain't used to these airplanes. Well, when I was up front I heard two of these punks talkin' in their berths."

He opened the curtain slightly and looked both ways along the narrow aisle.

"This whole damned plane is full of Lardner's men. They were laughing at the trick they pulled on the airlines. Seems they forced the pilot to land, threw out both pilots and the hostess. Lardner was waiting at the private field and he came aboard."

"You're sure Lardner's on this plane?" Drake asked. "You didn't dream all this?"

"Listen, Cinderella." Puffy was himself again. "This sky bird is headquarters for every ex-con in Chicago. I don't know why they didn't throw us off with the hostess, but I sure wish they had."

A hard smile twisted Drake's lips.

"I think," he said, "that we're going to see Sylvia Fanton much sooner than I had planned. Unless we do some fast thinking we may not see her alive."

THEY sat quietly as Drake studied the country under the plane. He tried to discover some landmark listed on the map. There was nothing but scarred, snowcapped mountain peaks. A sprinkling of toothpick pines relieved the monotony of blinding snow, here and there. Gradually, as the plane droned on, even these were left behind. Ahead—only the white wastes.

From somewhere forward in the plane came a hard chuckle of laughter.

"Our hosts are coming to life," Drake said. "It's now or never." He pushed bare feet into the aisle and dropped, stretching his arms overhead with a yawn.

"As soon as I'm out of sight," he whispered, "get back to your berth and dress. I'll see you in the cabin ahead. Act as though you know nothing. Understand?"

Puffy grinned sadly.

"That'll be easy," he answered, "but I've been around those violins that talk death before. Don't like a tommy gun unless it's in my own hands."

"Okay," Drake said grimly. "Keep your mouth shut and you may get your wish."

He slipped into his shoes, dressing quickly, went toward the tiny wash room halfway up the aisle. One of Lardner's men was making a hurried exit. They met, heads down, with a jarring blow. The gunman started to swear loudly, caught himself and said in a mock pleasant voice,

"Good morning. Say, ain't this a darb of a trip?"

Drake nodded.

"Guess I'll splash a little water over my face if you're done."

The man's heavy face lighted in an embarrassed smile. He stepped hurriedly to one side.

"Oh—oh sure. The sink's all yours."

Once inside, Drake locked the door quickly. He washed the sleepiness from his eyes. So the laugh was on him after all. Lardner was in control of the ship, and headed for the lost Flaming Diamond. Where, Drake wondered, did he and Puffy Adams fit into the picture?

Suddenly there was a difference in the tune the motors were humming. The plane slanted down at an abrupt angle and Drake pitched forward against the wall. Struggling up, he heard a sharp knock at the door.

"Better strap yourself into a seat," a strange voice carried through the wall, muffled and far away.

He turned the lock quickly, lurched out, and felt an automatic in the small of his back.

"Hey!" Drake feigned surprise. "What the hell?"

"Never mind, buddy," the man gave him a sharp push toward the cabin, "get yourself strapped in. We ain't got time to tell stories."

A sharp prod of the gun settled the argument. Silently Drake went forward. Puffy was already in his seat, his face an expressionless mask.

"Remember," he whispered, "keep your chin stiff and wait for a break. The fun has really started."

THE plane had dropped and leveled off. Lardner's men seemed to have forgotten their captives in the excitement. They sat with faces glued to the windows, watching curiously as George Lardner at the controls brought them down in ever tightening circles toward the valley below.

Adams nudged his companion.

"Look at 'em," he whispered. "The rattiest looking bunch of bums I've ever seen. What in hell does Lardner need so many guns for?"

"To finish murdering a race of people," Drake answered coldly. "A job that he started when he found the Flaming Diamond. If he has a chance, he'll finish the task to get it back again."

"Shut up, back there!" A lean, sharp nosed individual in the seat ahead turned slightly. "No talk now. You'll have plenty of chance later on."

A ripple of hard laughter went through the cabin.

George Lardner was an expert pilot. More than that, he was familiar with the country over which they were flying. Realizing that any attempt to escape now would be futile, Drake tried to memorize the layout of the small valley into which Lardner seemed to be heading.

With the entire country a white layer of blowing snow it was difficult to make out the sharp walls of granite that arose from the cup-shaped hole below. It was like a huge bomb crater, perhaps ten miles across. On the valley bottom was the smoothly swept blue-green of a frozen lake.

The plane banked abruptly and Lardner cut the motors. Drake felt the tenseness mount within the cabin. A fear was filling these State Street gunmen that had never troubled them before. The motors were silent. The ship dropped below the lip of the canyon wall and the wind died smoothly. Circling, Lardner gunned the motors again and roared in straight over the strip of frozen ice.

Try as he might Drake could see no sign of life or human habitation. Heavy fir trees came straight to the edge of the lake, standing guard stiff and frozen.

The plane zoomed up sharply and cut back over the lake leaving a black shadow against the ice. It sank down, bounced gently and rolled ahead. They went straight toward the high cliff at the far end of the lake.

"This guy better know what he's doing." Puffy clutched the chair ahead and held on grimly. "Or we'll crack up like a broken match against that wall."

Drake was silent. A murmur of anxious voices arose about them. They still rolled swiftly toward the cliff. Lardner seemed to make no attempt to cut speed. The plane took the bump at the edge of the lake, and then Drake saw the cavern ahead. It was huge and black, cut at an angle in the surface of the rock. A sudden blur of rock walls and they were in the darkness of the cave. The plane settled back roughly on its shock absorbers and stopped. Lights flashed on within the cabin.

GEORGE LARDNER pushed through the small communication door between the pilot's cabin and the waiting gangsters. As he came, he jerked the helmet and goggles from his eyes. A hard smile on his heavy face left no doubt as to his frame of mind.

"Hello, Drake," the mouth a mask of expressionless hate. "I take my hat off to you. Never gave Cinderella Drake credit for being anything but a whiskey mill."

Jim stood up slowly, knowing these minutes might be his last. Fear was in his heart. Not for himself, but for the doom that faced Sylvia Fanton unless she could be warned of Lardner's coming. There was no doubt in Jim Drake's mind that this frozen valley was the home of the fox people and their queen.

Lardner wasn't the soft night club owner now. The man was short and stocky, but with bulging arms that were tensed for action. The dark face was filled with devilish purpose.

"I'd like to know why we weren't thrown out of the plane last night with the others?" Drake said quietly.

"Oh! That?" Lardner chuckled. "I knew you were headed toward this valley and I thought you'd appreciate the lift."

"For your information," Drake answered coolly, "we took the plane for Winnipeg. Where we are now I haven't the slightest idea."

George Lardner started toward the outer door. He whipped around savagely, his face twisted into a hateful grimace.

"All right, play boy," he snapped. "You asked for it. Now it's my turn. I know you helped Sylvia Fanton to escape. I know you had a part in stealing the diamond, and I also know you are in love with the girl. That, if you'll have the truth, is why you are with us now."

A hissing sigh escaped Puffy Adams' lips. He was beginning to understand now why Lardner had not shot them both long ago.

"So I am to act as decoy," Drake said. "If you think I'll let you torture that girl, you're a madman."

Lardner ignored him. He pushed the outer door of the cabin open and dropped heavily to the cave floor.

"Unpack your stuff, boys," he ordered crisply. "And keep an eye on our guests. I want them to be safe and comfortable."

The gangsters closed in, and some of them started for the baggage compartment.

A ring of steel closed about the pair.

"Out, quick," one of the plug uglies mumbled. "And don't try to get away."

TO Drake's surprise the cave was warm, as though heated from some vast, hidden source of fire. Lardner was well ahead of them, going cautiously down the long tunnel. A flash-light sent its beam ahead of his outstretched hand. The baggage was handed down quickly and tommy guns came into sight from the instrument cases. They were smoothly polished and glistened under the dull light of lanterns. They followed Lardner slowly down the vast hall that led under the lip of the mountain. It was warmer and more humid now.

"The boss knows what he's doing," a voice said behind Drake. "These fox people can't do us any harm during the day. By night we'll be ready to blast them down in short order."

Unable to speak to Puffy, Drake was thinking plenty. If they went on to wherever the tunnel led them, it would be too late to face Lardner with any show of force. Drake knew that Sylvia Fanton would be caught off guard if she were here. Could he raise some sort of alarm?

The man at his side seemed a trifle sleepy and disinterested in what was going on. Making sure the man's gun was pointed away where he wouldn't jerk the trigger, Drake lifted an arm high, pointing toward the dark roof of the cave. Pretending fright, he shouted:

"Oh my God! Look!"

Before Lardner could control them, two men had raised their guns and sent salvos of lead screaming into the darkness. Lardner's voice, ahead in the shaft, shattered the silence that followed with wild oaths.

"Who the hell did that?" He stormed back toward Drake, but Jim was well satisfied with what he had done. The sound would carry for miles into the base of the mountain. If Sylvia or her people were here....

From far down the shaft a faint bark echoed clearly. It was the bark of a fox, followed in quick succession by more of the same sounds.

George Lardner faced him, neck red and arms akimbo.

"You're getting too damned clever for your own good," he shouted. "I oughta' knock some of the cockiness out of you."

Drake had a slow temper. But behind the Cinderella Drake who had soused himself so thoroughly in Lardner's whiskey still lurked the keen eyed air patrol cadet who had only six months ago put his body through every air battle on the west coast. Some of the old strength and nerve were coming back now. Coming with a rush of hot blood to his head.

Puffy Adams had sworn he'd stick by Drake until that spirit returned. Now, ringed in by steel death, Adams' face lighted with interest. Yet, he realized that Drake had small chance against these bums.

The cave was dead silent again. Lardner breathed hard, crouched like an oversized wrestler about to spring.

DRAKE'S face was suddenly cold, emotionless.

"If your men weren't ready to shoot me down the minute I move," he said slowly, "I'd pound you within an inch of your rotten life."

Lardner's face lighted slowly and a sardonic grin crossed his face.

"Talk big, play boy," he urged. "I don't need lead to put you out of the way."

Drake's slim body shot forward with the suddenness of a catapult. His shoulders were low as they struck Lardner's thick belly. Caught off guard, Lardner's heavy, ape arms twisted about Jim's waist and he started to crush Drake's body against his own. With a quick twist Drake was loose, dodging backward as a light left caught Lardner on the chest. Lardner jumped in quickly, puffing hard. His right arm swept out and brought blood to Drake's nose.

The slim air cadet shook his head, feeling the sting on his face. He brushed an arm across his nose, and felt warm blood on his fingers. This time Drake went in low, caught Lardner with his left hand just above the belt. The big man bent over with a grunt as Drake's right climbed under his chin like a looping Spitfire. Jim Drake's right fist went home with the entire impact of his shoulder behind it. He felt a twinge of pain shoot through his arm as Lardner's head swept backward with a jerk. The fat man stumbled and sat down abruptly. He looked surprised and frightened, shaking his head back and forth like an angry bull.

"You dirty...." Lardner didn't attempt to rise. His face was flaming red. "Shoot the legs out from under him."

A tommy came up swiftly, trained on Drake.

"Hold it!" A harsh, almost frightened voice came from the shadows by the wall.

Puffy Adams stood, back to the granite, sweeping a tommy gun around on the gang of men. His trigger finger was poised easily, the gun slung carelessly in the curve of his arm. His voice, frightened for Drake, became cool as he saw the last gun drop toward the floor.

"One shot," he said, "and I'll poke enough lead into your boss to keep you rats from ever flying anywhere again."

Drake was at his side now.

"How did you manage it?" he whispered.

"Black-jack," Puffy grinned. "They were interested in you. It wasn't hard."

GEORGE LARDNER was frightened. The tommy gun was aimed at his head and he knew Puffy Adams wouldn't hesitate when the time came to shoot. He sat up slowly, eyes on the pair by the wall. Then like a shot he rolled quickly over and over into the darkness beyond the lighted area. His voice, harsh and powerful shouted.

"Get them, quick!"

A hail of lead swept the air over his head as Puffy jerked backward.

"It's the firing squad," Adams shouted. He dropped to one knee and opened up wide.

Lardner was snarling something unintelligible. Guns swept around on the men by the wall. Then from within the circle of men compressed hell broke loose. Someone was opening up a deadly fire from within the ranks. Gunmen screamed in pain and turned their guns in every direction, trying to determine who had betrayed them.

"Run for it, Drake. Down the tunnel."

The voice was vaguely familiar. Drake didn't hesitate. He clutched Adams' arm and together they dashed into the blackness ahead. From behind them, the sound of gun shots ceased. Only loud groans of pain drifted to them as they went forward through the midnight blackness. Then, far behind, single footsteps followed them hesitantly.

Lardner was still alive. Drake had heard him curse softly as they passed him. He felt blood on Puffy's arm.

"You're hurt," he said quietly. "Where did it hit?"

"Just a nick." Puffy sounded game. "Glanced off the shoulder. A bit of shirt will fix it up. Say! That was a nice poke you took at Lardner."

THE tunnel grew wider. Far ahead a pale shower of colored light tossed against the walls like a weak rainbow. There wasn't a sound ahead or behind them. Drake led the way swiftly. The light seemed stronger, drawing them toward its source.

Then they stood on the edge of a great chamber. From the walls of the circular room a barbaric curtain of rainbowed color sprayed down toward its center.

It flashed and changed as they watched with wide eyes, changing into rich shades of purple, gold, orchid and startling the eye with its everchanging spectrum.

In the direct center of the chamber on a raised dais stood the huge carved statue of a marble polar bear. It towered ten feet high, a magnificent standing beast with lifted outstretched paw. On the back of the bear a small throne had been carved. The blinding flood of color that converged on the throne, hid anything that might be seated there.

Drake clutched his companion's arm.

"Look!"

He pointed toward the low pit that surrounded the statue.

Puffy nodded.

"The biggest fox farm in the world," he said dryly. "Or I'm going nuts."

As their eyes grew accustomed to the changing light, the pit grew clear. The animals became visible against the floor of the pit. There were thousands of them lying about the chamber. They spread over the floor carpeting it with rich fur like a deep rug of precious black and silver.

One thing held Jim Drake spellbound. Every animal had its head lifted toward the throne atop the bear's back.

His eyes lifted again slowly. His vision broke through the bright haze of light. Stretched out in sleep across the stony back was the perfect nude figure of a girl. She seemed frozen in death, yet the bronzed flesh was alive and throbbing. It was the same girl he had saved from Wildwood Zoo— Sylvia Fanton!

HE tried to take his eyes away from the vision but could not. Color seemed to splash and caress her body as though it alone gave her the power to exist. Then he knew what it was that made her look human. The light preserved her body during daylight hours, or she would have been forced to enter the body of a fox and mingle in the pit with her own kind.

A queen, Queen of the Flaming Diamond, doomed to lie dead until she could be restored to her normal life.

"What do we do now?" Puffy asked in a tense whisper.

"What I want to know first," Drake said wonderingly, "is who saved us from Lardner's mob?"

"Whoever it was," Adams offered, "he'll never escape them alive."

Soft footsteps came from behind them.

"But you are wrong!"

Drake pivoted, and faced the same man whom he had met in the apartment that night he lost the fur. The man who brought his last message from Sylvia Fanton.

"You see," the man went on quietly, "I am not your enemy. I asked you to stay out of this, but I could not desert you."

Drake's face was lighted in a relieved smile. His hand gripped the other's.

"Now you have saved our life, why did you do it?"

"Because," the man said simply, "you are human and you are good. Sylvia Fanton asked me to help you, and I am her brother."

Puffy Adams sat down abruptly on the cave floor.

"And I," he said unbelievingly, "am the keeper of Cinderella Drake, the sap who still looks for the silver slipper."

"But Sylvia is no fox woman," Drake protested. "She's too warm, too human!"

For a moment there was silence. Then a warm smile lighted the stranger's eyes.

"We are all human," he said. "We are early settlers who came to this valley and sought its sanctuary. Only the curse of George Lardner has spoiled our paradise and driven us into animal form. Perhaps you will see...."

HE looked hurriedly at the light that was growing dimmer above them. The rainbow had faded swiftly and darkness was coming down on the cavern.

"I am Silvaris, King of the Fox People," he said swiftly. "On the Flaming Diamond depends our ability to exist. Night is almost upon us again, but unless the diamond can be restored to the paw of the bear, there will be no more night or day."

"But you have it!" Drake protested. "Lardner came here to get it back again...."

"Lardner came by mistake to this valley six months ago," Silvaris said brokenly. "We welcomed him as we welcome all people. He betrayed our trust and stole our life source. We took him to our hearts as Sylvia and I were taken many years ago."

"Then you aren't really of the same race?" Drake's voice was filled with relief.

Silvaris shook his head.

"We are here by our own choice," he went on. "Sylvia and I, lost children, found our way here from a trapper's cabin when we were very young. We never tried to leave. When Lardner stole our precious gem, she and I alone knew the ways of civilization. It was our task to return the stone to its rightful place."

"If that diamond is the solution of this mess," Puffy asked in a puzzled voice, "why don't we clean up the mystery right now?"

"Wait!"

Silvaris went slowly down the long steps to the fox pit. He climbed the steps to the side of the polar bear and his sister's lifeless body. From her armpit, he took a huge gem. As he came toward them, Drake knew it was the Lardner stone, flashing and alive in the semi-darkness.

He pushed it into Drake's hands.

"Somehow Lardner pawned a paste imitation of the real Flaming Diamond off on us that night in Chicago," Silvaris said sadly. "The real stone is the only gem that will make the transformation."

Drake examined the diamond curiously.

"Hey!" Puffy said excitedly. "Wait a minute. How come Lardner is so almighty hot after us, if he thinks we've only got a paste?"

"That I cannot explain," Silvaris admitted helplessly. "I purposely disguised myself to mingle with his men. He came to destroy us and yet he knows our life is short now that the diamond is gone. We cannot live long as animals."

FAR away toward the mouth of the tunnel came the sound of an idling motor. Drake sprang into action.

"I think," he said, "that we can outplay Lardner at whatever game he's playing. He must be wounded. Perhaps too badly to fly."

The face of Silvaris, the Fox King, lightened.

"You are a pilot?" he asked.

Puffy chuckled.

"Cinderella can fly the blind spots off a Jap Zero," he said. "Just strap a pair of wings on him."

They charged toward the mouth of the tunnel. A few hundred feet from the entrance Drake stopped. He picked up a tommy gun where it had been dropped by the fleeing gunmen. Going forward more slowly they saw three men at the entrance, guns pointed into the darkness.

On one knee, Drake fingered the trigger. He picked up a large rock with his free hand and tossed it ten feet to one side. It struck with a loud thump. Immediately red fire cut loose around the place where the rock had hit. Drake brought his finger back lightly against the trigger and watched coldly as the men went down. They pitched forward like alley pins, bleeding and screaming with the pain. There was no time to lose.

Dropping the gun he went forward swiftly, whipping an automatic from his pocket as he ran. Then, seeing Lardner, he took a head dive into the deep snow as the vicious crack of lead whizzed over his head. He rolled over silently coming to his feet with a bound. Lardner, waiting by the plane, shot again and the lead burned into Drake's shoulder. He sprang forward as Lardner's foot lifted toward the open door to the cabin.

Clutching his foot, Drake jerked the man back into the snow with all his strength and they rolled into a white, seething mass of fury. With a short, terrifying blow on the chin he snapped the man's head backward. It twitched queerly and his eyes bulged. Lardner's neck was twisted to one side, stiff and broken.

"The diamond?" Puffy was at his side. Jim Drake bent over the dying man, watched his face as it twitched in pain.

"You want the girl," Lardner croaked. "You'll never get her. Even with the diamond, you'll never...."

His body relaxed suddenly, as though deflated of life. Drake pushed him back into the drifted snow, a look of disgust in his cold eyes.

"GIVE me that paste imitation," Drake said. "Perhaps somehow...?"

Silvaris nodded helplessly.

"It's of no use," he groaned. "We tried, but it has no power."

Puffy, a knife in his hand once more, was working slowly over the gem with its keen blade. His face was solemn and deep with interest. In spite of themselves, the two men stood close to him watching the thin, case-like stuff that he peeled away from the surface.

"This ain't paste," he said excitedly. "It's a kind of silicate. Lardner must have dipped the gem into it and let the stuff harden as a protective cover."

Drake took the gem eagerly.

"Then he realized that whatever the power was that this stone has, it couldn't work unless the diamond itself was clean and unprotected."

The late afternoon sun was fading slowly beyond the far end of the frozen lake. They turned and went into the cave of the Fox People. Perhaps the gem would work. But if it didn't, Lardner had died with the secret on his lips.

"You'll never get her," he had said, "even with the diamond."

At the edge of the pit they stopped. Silvaris spoke in a faraway, silencing voice.

"Our lives depend on you. I am no longer able to control myself. In a few hours we will all be dead...."

He hesitated and the voice trailed off into nothingness. Before their eyes the man fell away into a light mist. Instead, a large fox stood at Drake's feet, tail drooping and its eyes staring ahead dully. Silvaris the Fox King had returned to the stature of his people.

The chamber grew silent as death. The fox turned slowly and walked down the steps into the marble pit. He mixed quickly with the others and no movement came from below. The spot of color over the throne wavered and went out. The cave was black as pitch.

"Now or never," Drake muttered. His tongue was rough and dry. His hands shook under the weight of the diamond. It and it alone seemed alive and glittering in the cold unnatural tomb of the cave.

HE went toward the bottom of the pit and gently forced his way through the sleeping animals. Up toward the throne his legs carried him step by step, and each step was a million years. A torture of uncertainty and hope.

He lifted the diamond and without hesitation pushed it with all his strength into the outstretched claws of the marble bear.

The Flaming Diamond suddenly glittered more powerfully than ever before. The claws seemed to grasp it tightly, as though the power of the gem must stay where it could never be stolen again.

Bright flames of every hue sprang from the surfaces of the stone. They bathed his body like colored lightning and he fell backward down the steps, his arm upraised in protection. The place came alive with sound. Pealing, silvery tones of rich bell-like music tore the air asunder and the light of the diamond flashed warmly against the flesh of the girl on the throne.

On his feet now Drake stumbled toward Puffy Adams at the entrance of the chamber. Puffy was on his knees, face blinded with the light.

"Holy Ned," he shouted. "Now look what you've done, Cinderella."

Drake didn't answer. His eyes had grown accustomed to the glare. The chamber was hot and brilliant with some new world born from the cold womb of the old. Men and women arose from where animals had been waiting for the end.

Silvaris, the Fox King, came toward them. His face was alight with thanksgiving. Looking over his shoulder, Drake saw something that made him lose all interest in the others. Something that he had prayed for was taking place atop the polar bear's throne-back.

Sylvia Fanton, her body alive and glowing, sat upright. No false modesty marred the perfect, classically molded body. She slipped down from the beast's back and caressed its side with slim fingers. Then she came toward him slowly.

THE men and women parted as she went among them gracefully. Her eyes were wide and wonderfully warm as she came up the steps toward him. Her gaze never wavered from his. They had changed from a cold black to soft, gold-flecked brown.

"I knew you would come," she said softly. "It was necessary that we have each other."

With a happy sob she was in his arms. He only knew that her body was pressed tightly to his. That the warmth of the Flaming Diamond had brought her life, and that Jim Drake would never be lonely again.

Voices arose happily in the chamber. The heat, now, was almost unbearable. He heard Silvaris's voice say happily:

"It is good that the Ice Gods have played their part."

Strong arms were on Drake's shoulder. He stumbled after the men toward the open valley. Then, with his emotions under control, he saw the transformation that had taken place because he had done his job well.

"You have once more breathed life into a lost valley," Silvaris was at his side. "We will be forever thankful."

Drake looked down at the wisp of loveliness at his side. She was partly clothed now in a small fur jacket. Somehow it displayed rather than enshrouded her charms.

Away toward the head of the lake frozen cliffs jutted up to the sky from green, lush fields of deep grass. The valley had come suddenly alive. Trees waved gently under the warm wind that rushed from the cave. Small cabins were visible where they had been brought to life from under the deep snow. Deep flower-splashed meadows crept to the water's edge and the ice of the lake was gone. This, he realized with a lump in his throat, was the magic power of the Flaming Diamond.

"The plane is ready," Silvaris reminded him. "It is best that you leave while my people will let you. They are very grateful."

Jim Drake looked questioningly at the girl. Her eyes answered his with a smile. As much as she loved the Fox People, her place was with him.

They went slowly toward the waiting plane.

DRAKE looked back once as he sent the big ship skimming along the meadow at the far end of the lake. Silvaris and his people were gathered in a tight, worshipping little group, watching the bird plane take to the air.

At three thousand feet he leveled off. Something soft and warm brushed his cheek. He turned and saw Sylvia's eyes close to his, warm and promising.

The valley was no longer visible. From the air one could see only vast sweeps of snow and ice. The secret of the Fox People was well hidden.

"Well," Puffy said from behind them, "Tiffany will never see another diamond to equal that one."

"Everyone is happy," Drake answered.

Adams chuckled.

"Cinderella Drake found the silver slipper after all," he said. "And man, what a queen there was in it."

Sylvia blushed prettily.

"I'll try to dress a little more modestly in civilization," she offered.

"Not for me," Drake urged. "When a man comes home from a hard day's work shooting down Japs, he likes to see as much of his wife as possible. Namely, in a very small fox fur."

"Yea!" Puffy said. "Guess you're right. Excuse me while I go curl up with a good book."

He blundered noisily toward the row of empty berths at the rear of the plane.

_____________________

7: Bridge Of Banishment

Amazing Stories, May 1943

IT was a curious, overwrought group that gathered at the end of the footbridge. Three Japanese army officers stood in close conference. A half-dozen Chinese civilians had withdrawn to the safety of the jungle that grew close to the trail.

"Rick" O'Conner, puzzled over the proceedings, sat on a log behind the officers. He removed his pith helmet and rubbed lean fingers through a mop of damp, red hair. He had come alone down the trail from the Red Cross hospital to see this.

A figure clad only in a worn gunny sack tied at the waist, swung down the trail. Behind him came two soldiers with leveled bayonets. "Rick" O'Conner straightened his shoulders a bit and watched the prisoner.

He studied the man closely, and his fingers tightened on the rim of the helmet. The midday sun was hot and the jungle sent up a steaming, putrid odor of rotting vegetation.

The prisoner was a tall, bronzed Burmese. The inscrutable face and high head told O'Conner at once that here was a strong man. He approached the bridge and looked straight ahead toward the opposite bank. Below, the river foamed and roared between the cliffs of the gorge.

The officers were ill at ease. One of them looked apprehensively at the others and stepped forward. He spoke half-heartedly, as though to make a last gesture of authority. His words were English, harsh and badly garbled.

"Aben Dagh, you are prepared to face the punishment your crime demands?"

Aben Dagh said nothing, but his head dipped forward slightly in acknowledgement.

"Then— march."

"Rick" O'Conner came to his feet automatically. This was fantastic. Here was a Burmese condemned to walk a bridge for murder. The whole thing must be some sort of hoax.

He stared across the chasm. The footbridge swayed slightly in the wind. It was constructed entirely of jungle vines and the bark of trees. Green creepers had grown its length, strengthening the bridge for God knew how many years. They hung downward, waving like green snakes over the canyon.

His eyes returned to Aben Dagh. Grasping the vines firmly, the condemned man stepped onto the swaying span. His head bent, he hesitated, then walked swiftly toward the opposite bank.

A quarter of the way across, he stopped, glanced back. No sound disturbed the day but the steady rumble of the river below. O'Conner couldn't take his eyes away from the figure.

For a second, Aben Dagh's eyes caught his. Then, facing the opposite side of the gorge he went forward at a slow pace. The bridge swayed back and forth under his tread. In the exact center of the span, the man seemed to lose his balance. No cry escaped his lips as he fell forward on one knee. Faltering, he grasped wildly for the vines and pitched forward on his face.

One moment the Burmese was there in plain sight, trying to grab something solid. The next he was gone. Faded as surely as a dream fades with the coming of the day.

DAUNA WELLS, slim and white in the uniform of the American Red Cross, stood with blazing eyes before the short, burly figure of General Timosha. Though surrounded by enemies in a hostile section, she was more angry than afraid. Behind her, the rugged block walls of the Yunan Hospital towered against the sandy hills.

"I've asked you to stay away from the hospital," she said. "When you took over this sector there were only five of us Americans here. We promised to treat your men as well as the Chinese if you would leave us alone." Her lips tightened. "That meant all of us. Personally, I hate you like the animal you are. I'd rather die than have you break one word of that promise."

General Timosha was a small man but a smart one. He knew that from this woman he must accept insults, at least for the present. The Japanese High Command had sent him here with three thousand men and no medical equipment, to occupy the town. That they remained in good health was pertinent. Until these pig Americans had served their purpose, he must comply with their treaty. After that?

Timosha shrugged his shoulders.

"I respect your words." His dark angry little face, slightly squinted narrow eyes gave away his true thoughts. "But— I urge you to be more friendly."

A shudder passed through Dauna Wells' body and she turned her back on the diminutive Jap.

"For the time being, I prefer the company of my own kind," she answered coldly. "Please don't trouble me again or..."

Timosha's expression was not one of pleasure.

"...or— what?"

Wordlessly, Dauna opened the screen door that led to the small hallway and went in. The screen slammed behind her. Timosha wheeled angrily and walked down the dusty street.

DOCTOR WALTER NOSHAN rolled down his white sleeves and removed the short surgical apron. He met his superior, Doctor Marshall Wells, as the older man came from the washroom.

"That one will never pull through," he said with a shudder, drawing a tweed coat over his white shirt. "Too much dirt in the wound."

Wells nodded his gray head slowly. Marshall Wells was perhaps fifty, tall (in contrast to the short, swarthy-skinned Noshan) and sparsely built. His jaw reminded one of solid granite and deep blue eyes were youthful in spite of the pain they had seen.

"Noshan," he said suddenly, still fumbling with his surgical cloak. "How long can we hold out here?"

"As long as our drugs and nerves hold out," Noshan said quickly. "The Japs won't touch the hospital as long as their own health depends on us. Later—God knows." He shrugged.

Wells sat down on the edge of a wicker chair and picking up a fan, rotated it slowly before his face.

"As we were cutting into that poor chap today," he said, "I thought how easy it would be to let the knife slip a fraction of an inch."

Noshan said nothing.

"Without us," Wells went on, "and the fever coming on soon, the great Timosha would have hell to pay."

Noshan walked to the door, hesitated and turned about.

"Except for Dauna," his voice was low.

A sigh escaped Wells' lips.

"That's the whole damned trouble," he admitted. "The boys could fight their way out. Dauna wouldn't have a chance."

"We've faced this thing for six months now," Noshan said. "Better try and stick it out to the end. The Chinese are in Kweiyang. They may manage to break through."

Wells chuckled dryly.

"And when they get here, the Japs will calmly march us all over the bridge. A lot of good they'll do us, once Timosha decides we're useless."

"TEX" WALLACE, and "Gab" Harnett had one thing in common. What they lacked in medical knowledge they made up as good company to each other. Collectively, "Rick" O'Conner, "Tex" and "Gab" were known as the eightballs.

"Tex" characterized the term for O'Conner one night at the Royal Hotel in Manila. The three of them had just knocked hell out of half of the hotel's population. It had been a great party, built on too many bottles and a blonde with a temper. When the mêlée calmed down, "Tex" had dragged himself to the bar where "Rick" and "Gab" were already deep in a bottle. Raising himself to full height, he had proposed a toast.

"Here's to the eightballs; a name for three guys who are plenty tough!"

Now, comfortably bogged down in the hospital kitchen, Tex and Gab gnawed chicken bones and waited for Rick O'Conner to return

Gab Harnett weighed two hundred in the raw. His face was flabby with fat, but the remainder of his body turned every bit of food into muscle. He drawled when he talked.

"Trouble with Rick," Gab said dolefully. "He always thinks we're kidding him. Wait till he sees that crazy bridge in action. I've seen a hundred slant-eyes go across that mess of swaying shrubbery and none of them came back."

Tex looked out through the fly-covered screen and across the dusty compound. Rick O'Conner was just coming from the trail where it entered the forest.

"Speak of the devil..."

O'Conner came in slowly and seated himself in one corner. The room was silent but for the buzzing army of flies still trying to invade the questionably clean kitchen.

"Well," Tex asked, "do you believe it now?"

O'Conner still stared at the floor. He nodded his head.

"Then pay up," Gab broke in. "Tex and me celebrated while you were gone. Had one American chicken and we hated for old Timosha to find it."

"You don't deserve one fin of my hard earned dough," Rick reached into his pocket. "Fine pals you are, eating the last American chow we'll see for weeks. Or—forever— "

"Cut it." Gab said sharply. "You been hanging black curtains for a month now. Timosha needs us until he gets reinforcements and supplies. He ain't gonna murder his own saviors, or somethin'."

"That's the point," Tex insisted.

"Burma is full of Japs. If it wasn't for those attacks along the border, he'd a' had his men and supplies weeks ago."

Rick O'Conner raided the ice box and settled down with a chunk of cold beef. The compound was empty and deserted. The sun climbed high and hot against the cloudless sky.

"Rick," Gab asked slowly. "What's burning? You didn't get sick down there?"

O'Conner straightened up. He licked his fingers after the last bite of beef and wiped them on a handkerchief.

"That prisoner, Aben Dagh. Who was he?"

"Burmese," Tex said. "The Japs captured him while trying to sneak up on a Jap encampment."

"He had an odd look," Rick confessed. "Unless I'd seen him walk straight into nothingness, I'd have sworn he wasn't afraid of crossing that bridge."

Gab's breath sucked in noisily. He started to say something, and stopped, mouth open.

"Go on," O'Conner prompted. "What's burning you?"

"What you said," Gab whispered. "Look, I heard something funny last night. I thought I wouldn't say anything, but now I gotta."

His companions were silent.

"I was peekin' around for a pint of whisky after dark last night. I ran nose on to a couple of Chinks over by the hotel. They were talking about Aben Dagh."

O'Conner leaned forward.

"Go on."

"I can't make out much of that talk they throw around," Gab admitted, "but this I'm sure of. They said the prisoner was condemned and they seemed to think it was a joke. They talked about the bridge, but they had another name for it."

"We're waiting." Tex swung his long legs from the table and stood up. "They called it the bridge of escape."

A QUICK sigh escaped O'Conner's lips. Tex went to the door and pushed it open and battled a large fly outside. Then he closed the door again and sat down.

"You've got something on your mind," he said to O'Conner. "Ever since you came back that look of mystery has encompassed your stern mug. Give—will you?"

O'Conner stared at him as though looking straight through the Texan.

"I been thinking a lot about Aben Dagh," he confessed. "The Japs are smart enough to know that the bridge is a quick, easy way to get rid of their prisoners They don't stop to figure what happens to them."

"So?"

O'Conner arose, tossed a bit of bone into the garbage can and strode up and down the room. As he walked, he started to talk again, as though thinking as he moved.

"I'm crazy," he admitted. "The sun and the Japs have got me off stride. But..."

"But what?" Tex asked.

O'Conner stopped suddenly and faced the pair almost fiercely.

"I think that Aben Dagh is no more dead at this moment than you or I. I've got an idea that bridge is a manner of escape. Maybe it's not pleasant, but at least the Chinese don't seem to fear it much."

"Then why doesn't every Chink in the place cross the bridge," Gab faltered. "If it's as easy as that."

O'Conner grunted.

"Try a harder one on me," he asked. "I've thought this thing out carefully. If the Chinese sit tight, they are safe for the time being. When the Japs get rid of a man, instead of shooting him, they send him across the bridge. They are superstitious enough to believe that he walks to his death. The Chinese are biding their time. Until they give the bridge away, their countrymen are safe from the firing squad. Does it make sense?"

"It does," Tex Wallace agreed. "It makes sense and it presents some nice ideas."

O'Conner cocked his helmet on one side of his head and opened the door.

"That's what I thought," he said. "If you boys hear a strange voice talking from the side of the bed one of these nights, don't mistake it for Grandma's ghost. I've an idea that may put old Timosha in the grave of his ancestors."

THE three eightballs walked past the hospital together. Dauna Wells waved to them from the second story. Gab touched the tips of his fingers to his lips and blew her an airy kiss. Dauna smiled and went on with her work.

The village lay in a dry, dusty valley below the hospital. Jap planes had tore into it with unholy fury, reducing the buildings to rubble. The modern, new hospital, an irritating eyesore to the Japs, still stood protected and safe atop the hill. No power of the Red Cross made it thus. Only Timosha and his wish to keep his troops alive and healthy.

O'Conner and his companions crossed the red sand above the building and went quickly down into the small ravine. It was deep and well hidden from the hospital. The Jap troops were quartered on the opposite side of the hill. A little stream cut through the valley and they crossed it silently. Gab stayed where he could see anyone who approached from any direction.

Tex followed O'Conner to the far end of the ravine. They drew away a couple of thin rock slabs and tugged at the low shrubs that hid a hole in the side of the hill.

"One American tank," O'Conner said lovingly. "Full of hell and gasoline. If we only had an army to back us up."

The tank, a standard medium weight affair, stood in the cave opening, its treads oiled and clean. A wicked looking 37mm. cannon protruded from the business-like turret.

"Okay!" Tex said. "I've seen it before. You were lucky as hell to get it up here and hidden before the Japs came, but what good is it against Timosha's boys?"

Apparently satisfied that the tank was still safe, O'Conner covered the opening quickly and carefully.

Gab met them at the head of the ravine.

"No one within a mile," he said. "What's up?"

"Nothing yet," O'Conner admitted. "But I think something will be in a few hours. I don't know what's going to happen when I cross that bridge, but if I am any good at guessing, an invisible tank could do a hell of a lot of damage here, in spite of Jap preparations."

SOON after midnight, Dauna Wells heard a light footstep in the hall outside her door. The moon was gone and no light entered the small room. She drew on her slippers and robe. At the door she hesitated. With it locked, she was safe. But her father's door was only a few feet away. Perhaps it was only one of the patients wandering about in the cold. She unlocked and pushed the door open silently and looked toward the red light that marked the fire escape. A man was going through the door.

"Rick!" Her voice was a loud whisper. "It's Dauna, wait."

Rick O'Conner turned. His face registered irritation at being discovered. He was fully dressed and he carried a stubby automatic rifle under his arm. His belt was full of grenades and a pair of field glasses hung from his waist.

He was at her side in an instant, pressing her back into her room. His face, stern and purposeful, warned her to be silent. Once inside, he pushed the door closed and listened. No sound come from outside.

"You should have stayed in bed," he said. "You had no business..."

The girl was angry. She hated being pushed around and Rick had been mean for several days.

"Don't talk that way to me, Rick O'Conner," she said, and her breathing was suddenly hard. "Just because Walter has been kind..."

"Shut up," O'Conner said pointedly. "I'll talk. You were my girl. That's putting it bluntly, I know, but I don't beat around the bush. This two-bit screen lover has been giving you the works and you fall for it. You've been giving him the go sign for months. When I'm washed up, I know it. All I ask is that you leave me alone now and don't gum up the works."

A tear glistened in Dauna Well's eye, but her voice was still firm.

"Go on. Finish any hair-brained scheme you have. Walter Noshan is at least a gentleman."

"Gentleman!" O'Conner's voice was filled with biting sarcasm. "He's so gentle that the sight of blood sent him screaming from the line at Kweiyang. I wouldn't trust him..."

Dauna was both frightened and angry now. She had never seen Rick so determined and bitter. His equipment told her he was about to attempt something foolhardy.

"Rick, please," her voice was husky with concern. "Perhaps I've been thoughtless. Walter Noshan has tried to make me comfortable here."

"And I've been trying to find a way to get us out of this mess," O'Conner's teeth grated. "I haven't had time for moonlight and roses."

DAUNA tried to reason with him.

She tried to show her fear for his safety, but the man was beyond fear. She gave up the attempt, opened the door quickly.

"All right, go get yourself killed. I won't tell a soul. You might at least hear what I have to say."

O'Conner passed her in the door. He wanted to reach over and draw her to him. To kiss the anger from those straight, tight lips. Instead once outside the room he turned and looked at her quietly.

"You may have a chance to prove that you want to help me," he said quietly. "I'll be seeing you."

She clutched his arm tightly and held on.

"Rick, please, where are you going? The gun? You haven't a chance if you use it."

"The gun has been hidden too long now," he said tonelessly. "As for me, you might ask Tex in the morning. I'd rather no one knew tonight."

He went the length of the hall quickly, stepped to the iron ladder outside and swung down it.

The night was perfect for his plans. The jungle hid Rick O'Conner as it hid the wild beasts that lived within it. He followed the trail swiftly, knowing no Japs were necessary to guard the place. The roar of the river came to him from the opening ahead.

O'Conner reached the head of the vine footbridge with pounding heart. It wasn't an easy thing, to walk calmly into what might be death for him. A strong wind whipped through the canyon. He stopped, and slipped the automatic rifle carefully into his belt. With both hands firmly on the vines, he waited. The footbridge swayed wildly back and forth under the force of the gale.

"Here goes nothing!" O'Conner whispered.

The bridge was unstable and like a living thing under his tread. Remembering Aben Dagh, he stopped a quarter of the way across and looked back.

A lantern bobbed on the trail. In its light, he could see Dauna, Walter Noshan and a Japanese soldier running toward him. He wanted to go back: wanted to murder Noshan with his bare hands. And why had Dauna betrayed him?

"Rick—Rick O'Conner." It was Dauna's voice, high-pitched with fear and hysteria. "Please, Rick, it's death."

NOSHAN was shouting wildly, his dark face partly visible in the lantern light. The Jap soldier raised his rifle and aimed it toward the bridge. Dauna, ahead of him, would not see the action.

O'Conner started to run blindly toward the other side of the chasm. If they managed to shoot him now...

The center of the span was close. Aben Dagh had approached it calmly, well poised. O'Conner ran.

Crack.

The song of the bullet passed over his head.

He reached the center of the bridge. Crack.

The second shot was closer. A strange dizziness came over O'Conner. He faltered, tripped on a twisted vine and fell forward. Had he been hit? Through the maze of the bridge he could see the slim, straight arrow of the river shooting toward its goal. He was suddenly bathed with heat. It passed over his body as though a furnace had been opened in his face. The black tidal wave of night swept across him and the river. The scraping vines against his face vanished.

"Rick— Please come back." It was Dauna, her voice far away and fading with every word. Then, nothingness.

GENERAL TIMOSHA was a clever man. There were those among the younger leaders of his army who would have long ago done away with Marshall Wells and his company. Timosha had remained adamant.

"An army remains strong only with food and medical attention."

This was his one civilized thought, and it remained intact only so far as his own army was concerned. This, perhaps, was why the bridge appealed so much to the little warrior. Although frightening even to him, he found the bridge an ammunition-saver. It was quick and clean when it came to disposing of his enemies.

Timosha was not in a pleasant mood this morning. He was excited and perturbed. He came with a small detachment of men, strutted into the open compound before the building and commanded them to halt. His men, like puppets, looked much alike. They were gray with dust and their eyes seemed more slanted than ever, puffed with their early arising.

Marshall Wells met him at the door. The old surgeon had had only time to don his robe and get downstairs before the general reached the door. They met as always, in keen distrust of each other's inner thoughts.

"The general arises early," Wells said and led the way into the small, bare office at the rear of the building. "What does he wish from us?"

Timosha was silent. He sat down on one of the straight chairs and removed his cap.

"Last night your attaché, O'Conner, crossed the bridge." His voice was expressionless.

Wells nodded. The news had troubled him deeply, since Noshan and Dauna had told him upon their return to the hospital.

"I know," he answered. "The man must have gone mad. He wasn't the type to stand imprisonment."

"Imprisonment?" Timosha's eyes lifted. "I am sure you are all well treated and safe here."

Wells retracted his statement carefully.

"To the American, O'Conner," he said. "Fighting was the only thing reasonable. You know of men who stop thinking normally unless they are under terrific punishment?"

Timosha nodded.

"Perhaps there are others who feel the same," he asked innocently.

Wells shook his head.

"No, I think not. The others will work for their safety. Only O'Conner was a problem. It may be well that he is gone."

MARSHALL WELLS was stalling.

No such wish entered his mind. He hoped fervently that O'Conner was somehow safe. Rick had been a good man. Too good a man to lose. He watched Timosha's face closely. The general arose and faced him. His legs were spread far apart. He held his riding quirt tightly in his gloved fist.

"My spies report that the other Americans, you call them Tex Wallace and Gab Harnett," he pronounced the names with difficulty, "were with O'Conner constantly."

Wells agreed with a nod.

"They are few against many," he answered. "It is only natural that they stay to themselves. They are both good men."

If he expected the Jap to take this statement calmly, he was mistaken. Timosha's body grew rigid.

"We cannot take chances," he said. "The two must be locked up. That will leave you, your daughter and Noshan to work here.

"A force of our men are on the way here from Burma," the general added. "They will be several days in transit. When they reach us, you also will be safely taken care of."

Marshall Wells, at any other time, might have let the words frighten him. But now, as Timosha left the office, he slammed the door bitterly. Tex and Gab would be out of the picture. O'Conner had quit. He wondered what would become of Dauna, once the Jap force was complete.

Through the window Wells saw Jap soldiers prodding Tex and Gab not too gently with their bayonets.

RICK O'CONNER had been partly aware of what he faced. So aware of it that had Dauna not found him, and the Japanese soldier not opened fire as he stood on the bridge, Rick might have turned back. Now, he was glad he had not.

He opened his eyes slowly, realizing that the heat had died and he was lying full length on the ground at the opposite end of the bridge.

He stood up to make sure of this, and then stared down at his own body. He was not invisible or changed in any form. He still carried the rifle and the grenades were strung about his waist. He stepped toward the chasm. It was daylight. He had crossed the bridge and flopped into the undergrowth. No telling how long he had been thus.

Something moved and glinted in the sun across the river. Japs were coming down the trail from the hospital. Straining his eyes, he tried to make out who was with them.

Tex and Gab walked in front of the small group.

Their shirts had been torn off. They walked silently, facing straight ahead. Quickly, O'Conner stepped behind a tree.

Then he realized that it had been needless. From his hiding place, he could make out a Jap, only his head showing above the foliage across the river. There were three of them, now that his eyes picked them out. A machine gun had been placed at the edge of the chasm a few yards from the bridgehead.

They had been there all the time.

He had stood in plain sight of them, not fifty yards away and they had never opened fire. The knowledge of it made him excited in a way he had never felt before. A strange new feeling of power swept through him as he realized he had supposedly been in plain sight of the Jap machine gun crew and they had not fired upon him.

Then, although to himself, he was entirely normal— evidently he was invisible to the others.

O'Conner stepped toward the head of the bridge. He'd have to give this thing a test sooner or later. Making sure the men in the machine gun nest were looking toward him, he stood in plain sight of them, waved a hand and then ducked back behind the trees. They made no move to fire.

TEX and Gab were at the opposite end of the bridge. Obviously they were going to be forced to walk it.

Timosha had grown wiser during the last few hours. Those machine gunners were hidden in the forest for a purpose. As Tex started across the bridge, O'Conner saw one of the gunners arise, cross and kneel before the gun.

Timosha was taking no chances. Tex and Gab would be mowed down before they reached the center of the span.

O'Conner could see the white, bloodless face of Tex Wallace as the slim Texan started out across the vines. Gab's heavy body plowed behind him, and the bridge started swaying under their combined weight.

O'Conner went to one knee, the automatic rifle balanced against his shoulder. The machine gunner had both hands on the firing end of his weapon. Tex would be picked off before he could get ten feet out on the span.

Crack.

O'Conner's rifle sent lead straight into the Jap's forehead. The man twitched backward and dropped out of sight. A shout of anger arose from the far side of the river. Automatically, face expressionless, a new man pushed the body away and clutched the barrel of the machine gun.

"Run for it, Tex!"

Tex looked ahead of him, recognized Rick O'Conner's voice and started to run. Gab, not so fortunate, slipped and fell heavily. A hand grenade arched high above the chasm from O'Conner's right hand and the machine gun blew straight into the air.

"Rick," Tex sounded frightened. "Where in hell are you?"

"Keep moving," O'Conner said. "You'll see me in a minute."

He was already on the bridge. Tex reached the center and fell forward on his face. He kept crawling slowly forward, clutching his throat with one hand.

"Rick, Rick! I think I've been hit. It's hotter than the devil."

O'Conner reached Tex and vaulted over him. Gab was trying to rise. A Jap officer raised his pistol and fired at point blank range. A quiver passed through Gab's paunchy figure and he lay still.

"Gab!"

O'Conner, not even a shadow on the bridge, reached down and tried to lift him.

TEX was still crawling, close to the far end of the bridge. O'Conner could see him, but he knew that to other eyes, Tex had already passed from sight.

Gab lifted his head slowly.

"Rick— what the hell. I don't get it."

"Shut up and try to crawl," O'Conner whispered. "I'm here all right. You can't see me."

More bullets tore from the group of Japs. The Japs were almost on the bridge, but they dared not advance across it.

O'Conner hurled a grenade toward them and saw two men go down. He lifted Gab under the armpits and started to tug him across the bridge. The vines under him gave way and he fell, arose and went on again.

They were cutting away the supports.

A half-dozen long, cable-like vines reached into the trees on each side of the gorge. Japs were slashing at them with their sabers.

O'Conner managed to reach the center of the bridge.

"Leave me." Gab tried to catch his breath and O'Conner knew he was suffering with the wound and with the heat. "I'm done for. They'll drop us both into the river."

"Shut up," O'Conner grunted and kept on tugging. Gab regained some of his strength and pushed with his feet. Two of the cables had already parted.

The bridge sagged wildly on one side.

The Japs stopped cutting. They had just seen two men disappear from sight. They had forgotten, in the excitement, to go on with the task of hacking the bridge apart. Timosha himself, and a small group of soldiers were hurrying down the trail. O'Conner dragged Gab the rest of the way to safety.

Tex was stretched out on the grass, seemingly in a deep sleep. O'Conner dragged Gab to the side of the Texan and with his handkerchief, stopped the flow of blood from Gab's wounded shoulder.

Gab's breath was coming more evenly now.

Then, for the time being, the three of them were safe. O'Conner stood up, tried to resist the temptation of hurling another grenade at Timosha's men and thought better of it. No use drawing their fire if he could prevent it. For the time being, they were safe, and unseen.

Three men against an army were not many, but three shadows—three men who could go directly into the enemy's camp without being seen should prove a power to be reckoned with.

"I SEE the American with the red hair has found our secret." O'Conner pivoted swiftly, his rifle aimed straight at the head of the giant Burmese, Aben Dagh. "I suggest you drop the rifle before my men misunderstand the action," Aben Dagh went on.

"Good Lord," O'Conner's mouth dropped open. "Robin Hood."

A broad grin lighted Aben Dagh's face. He stood perhaps twenty feet from O'Conner, his gigantic bronzed body covered from head to foot with tight fitting brown skins. On his shoulder he carried a quiver of long arrows; his bow, a mammoth six-foot affair, was strung with one of them. It lay loosely across his wrist.

Behind Aben Dagh, six Chinese stood. They were dressed in the same manner and their faces were jolly and tinged with smiles at O'Conner's bewilderment.

"That is better," Aben Dagh said as O'Conner let the gun hang loosely in his hand. "No, not Robin Hood, I'm afraid. One could hardly call this snake-infested swamp Sherwood Forest."

The Burmese was no jungle savage after all. O'Conner had felt the keen intelligence of the man that day Aben had walked the bridge. Now he understood the smile, the lack of fear. Aben had been returning to a land he knew well.

"I— that is— we are on the spot," O'Conner said suddenly. "Last night I crossed the bridge because I had a hunch. My companions were forced to follow me."

Aben nodded.

"I know," he said simply. "We have been watching."

"Then, you saw what they tried to do?"

"I saw that you are a brave man," Aben stepped forward, extending his hand. The arrow had already been replaced in its quiver. "Perhaps we allowed you to go close to death, wondering if you would prove yourself a fit warrior for our purpose."

O'Conner took his hand and gripped it tightly.

"I don't know what your purpose is," he answered quietly, "but if you're fighting the Japs, count me in."

"Hey," it was Tex Wallace, "for the love-o'-Mike, what goes here?"

O'Conner turned to find Tex and Gab on their feet a few feet behind.

"Plenty," he said dryly. "In twenty minutes, you've escaped death by a hair, met a modern Robin Hood and become invisible men."

Gab looked at Tex and a foolish grin twisted his fat mouth.

"The guy's nuts," he said. "If this bulk of mine is invisible..."

"Only to those on the other side of the bridge," O'Conner pointed out. "If you don't believe it, look across."

Gab looked at the Japs, still waiting about the far end of the bridge. They were barely fifty yards away, fully armed and yet they made no pretense of opening fire.

"Christopher," Gab exclaimed.

ABEN was growing impatient.

"It will be necessary for you to go before TiSenn, our leader," he said. "We must go at once, before nightfall brings more danger to the jungle."

O'Conner was taken back.

"Then there are more of you?"

A titter of laughter came from one of the Chinese, and Aben smiled.

"Many more," he assured the American. "Come, you will see."

He turned and went silently back into the heavy, dim jungle. O'Conner looked once more at the two men he had saved on the bridge. Gab was staring at Tex as though the Texan was a hoax.

"How those heathens can miss this two hundred pound bulk of mine is more than I can savvy."

"Don't worry, Gab," O'Conner grinned. "You haven't lost a pound. It takes the same amount of lead to kill an invisible man as it does a normal one. Better get moving."

They followed him quickly, taking a last look across the bridge where, under Timosha's orders, Jap soldiers were hard at work repairing the supports that held the bridge.

Aben and his men were already ahead, walking quietly and swiftly through the forest. O'Conner followed, making sure that Gab was well enough to keep up. Aben moved along the small trail as though it were Main Street. The man was familiar with every stick and stone.

This was something that O'Conner had not reckoned with. It was only logical that when men disappeared from the world, they must go somewhere. Yet, meeting Aben Dagh and learning that many men dwelt here on the other side of the gorge had surprised him. Try as he might, O'Conner could make no plans now beyond his nose. This was an astonishing new world. A world where men lived normally and yet were shut from their old companions by the simple problem of sight. It was as though Dauna Wells and Timosha and everyone in the world were blind. As though he dwelt on a same plane of living, and yet could not be understood simply because they were unable to see that he existed.

ABEN was slowing down now.

O'Conner saw that the swamp was deeper and the trail blotted out in the gumbo underfoot.

"You will jump from one dry place to another," Aben had stopped and turned around. "Make sure your feet do not slip. We have but a mile to go."

The three of them, Americans with a lost past, went forward cautiously. Black, stinking mud gurgled around the tiny grass spots they jumped on. The thick, vine-clad trees towered up and interlaced with each other.

Then, ahead, there was light. They reached high ground and came out into a grassy opening. Ahead of them was blue sky.

"The city of Twung," Aben said shortly and O'Conner went to the edge of the cliff they had approached.

A quick sigh escaped his lips. Then this was the hiding place of the invisible men of China. Spread out across the fertile valley below was a great city. Its buildings were much like any Chinese city. One thing was different. The place was clean and white in the sun. No dust was here and no filth. Instead, broad avenues were bordered with bright flowers and green grassy slopes. He imagined it must be a sort of Chinese heaven to the doomed men who came here.

"The palace of TiSenn," Aben was at his side, pointing toward the square, squat building in the very center of Twung. "We go there at once."

AS they approached the palace O'Conner grew increasingly aware of the respect paid to Aben Dagh. The city, as he saw it at close range, was a thriving place of many merchants and thrifty shops. There were no high walls or dark, warlike gates. Horses were waiting them at the edge of the jungle and they rode down the avenue, ever closer to the center of Twung.

Men and women came from their places of business and bowed low to Aben as he passed. He smiled at them, waving a friendly hand as the party moved forward. Riding close to O'Conner, he said:

"Of course you are surprised. I will try to tell you something of Twung. TiSenn will enjoy telling you more."

"Thanks," O'Conner answered. "But right now I'm anxious to get a crack at Timosha. I'm worried about Dauna Wells and her father."

Aben's face darkened slightly.

"You have time later," he said. "Now, of Twung. We know nothing about the gorge of disappearance. Why our bodies change when we cross it, we have not fathomed. Twung was built centuries ago as a refuge for the men and women who come here. TiSenn has ruled for half a century and his father before him. Bandits and criminals are eliminated."

"Then you don't allow everyone to stay here?" O'Conner had been wondering about that.

Aben's lips parted in a smile.

"The elimination of the unsuitable is my task," he confessed. "TiSenn is a kind man. He does not talk much of the business I handle."

That was why Aben had commanded so much respect, O'Conner thought grimly. Thank God the tall Burmese hadn't decided that he and his companions were unfit for Twung.

"Others who come here," Aben continued, "are given a shop or a trade. They thrive and are happy."

"But surely you must have an outside source for food and goods?"

Aben smiled.

"That is also my task," he said. "You mentioned that I was a Robin Hood. Out of Burma come caravans of teak, sapphires, rubies and jade. We do not touch honest men. Fortunately, for us, a great number of bandits bring their loot along the Burma road. It is no crime to rob these fat gluttons to feed our honest men."

"I'm beginning to like you a great deal," O'Conner said. "I guess I'd make a good killer myself, if a few Japs and a wagon- load of Japanese food and equipment came over the hill while I was waiting."

He felt Aben's hand come down lightly and sincerely against his shoulder.

"That's what I have in mind," the Burmese said quietly. "I've admired you since the day you stared at me with that puzzled look as I crossed the bridge. I need good men. Many here do not care to fight."

"And the girl?" O'Conner persisted. "We can rescue her?"

"That will come in good time," the Burmese insisted. "Time will care for many things."

BECAUSE of Aben's power, they were admitted to the palace of TiSenn without difficulty. O'Conner was surprised at the straight simplicity of the great white halls and the lack of ornate materials. Two guards in the same skin uniforms, bows strung, stood at the entrance. They bowed low as Aben entered, followed by the three Americans.

"Some joint," Gab whispered. "This guy, SenSen goes for big rooms."

TiSenn's chamber was at the far end of a great hall. In the huge throne room were three small chairs placed about a rich, oriental rug. At the fourth corner of the rug was TiSenn's throne. It was covered with dark wine-colored fabric.

"You will be seated," Aben said quietly and his voice echoed through the place. "Our master, TiSenn is a simple man. He does not deal in power, but in love."

O'Conner sat down, ill at ease in his torn, dirty clothing. Aben sat cross-legged on the rug.

An old, old man came to the door behind the throne. His hair was black and sparse, hanging in two pigtails. His face was a mass of wrinkles and the nails of his aged hands were nearly an inch in length.

"Welcome, Aben."

TiSenn's voice was stronger than his body, low and pleasant. He approached the rug, bowed quietly at the three strangers and sat down. His dress was simple, a long gray robe that covered his body to the floor and hung in folds about his wrists.

"You have brought men from beyond the line?"

Aben nodded and stood up.

"We also bring food and jewels from a caravan of dogs waylaid on the road," he said. "We leave tomorrow for more riches."

TiSenn was pleased.

"Tell me of yourselves," he addressed O'Conner. "You wish to stay here?"

It was the American's chance. He stood up slowly, bowed and launched into his story of the Yunan Hospital. TiSenn's old face was expressionless, as he told of Timosha and the ruthlessness of the Japanese invaders.

AS O'Conner talked, he was aware of a gathering storm outside the walls of the palace. The place grew dark and candles in long silver holders were brought by servants and placed beside the throne.

"Six Americans were at Hunan," O'Conner went on, and a sudden clap of thunder silenced him. He waited for the sound to roll back into the hills and continued. "Now there are but three. One is a girl, unprotected and at the mercy of Timosha. It was my wish that you would send men with me to rescue them and perhaps attack the Japs."

TiSenn was silent. Thunder and lightning were tearing down upon the city of Twung now, and they talked only between the attacks from the heavens.

Aben's face told O'Conner nothing. Perhaps he had talked too much. Aben had said that everything would come with time, but time would only serve Timosha and give his troops time to consolidate. God alone knew what the Chinese at Kweiyang would have to face in another week.

At last, TiSenn had made up his mind.

"I can sympathize with your problem," he said slowly. "But, it is unfortunate that I cannot supply men to fight the Japanese people."

"But..."

TiSenn held a thin arm aloft.

"Let me speak," he said quickly. "The city of Twung has been founded on peace. We could have attacked the Japanese many times. Through the centuries, many invasions have occurred in this part of China. If we had fought against them, the City would have become a pool of war. Instead, we have taken here only men who hate blood and wish peace."

"Does Aben hate war?" O'Conner asked coolly.

A tinge of red came to the cheeks of the old man and Aben crouched forward, wondering what trouble O'Conner had brought.

"Aben," TiSenn answered, "is at heart a good man. It was necessary that we have food and materials. We cannot become entirely self-supporting."

Tex, sitting quietly beside Gab, heard the faint hum of motors.

He leaned over Gab.

"Bombers!" he whispered.

Gab nodded, only half hearing.

"Aben attacks only bandits," TiSenn was explaining to O'Conner. "He does not fight where policies are concerned."

"The Japs are bandits," O'Conner protested. "They kill men and women as one. They murder children."

Tex's head was cocked on one side, listening.

"If I don't hear Jap bombers," he said aloud, "I'm one myself."

Aben arose, his figure strong and straight. They all listened to the rapidly growing sound.

"They will not harm us," TiSenn said quietly. "Like yourselves, the city of Twung cannot be seen from the air. It, also, is bathed in the air of invisibility."

"Just the same," Tex answered. "Those boys are plenty low. The storm must have forced them down."

It was worse now. Rain slanted down over the city of Twung and thunder crashed time after time, drowning the increasing violence of sound that came from the approaching bomber squadron.

"Can't get above the storm," O'Conner said. "Probably loaded with stuff for Yunan."

Aben still standing alert before his king, uttered one last plea.

"Then you refuse to allow me to fight with these Americans against the Japanese?"

TiSenn nodded.

"I am sorry," he said. "Under the circumstances, you cannot fight."

TISENN arose slowly and crossed the room. They followed him to an outer porch, partly covered, that was supported against the upper wall. Rain swept in and drenched them. TiSenn stood quietly, listening to the storm and the approaching planes.

"Jerusalem," it was Gab. His voice loud with awe. "Here they come."

O'Conner felt the skin on his neck prickle strangely as the huge formation of bombers swept down into the protected valley. The sky was low with black clouds. He wondered how the Japs would get altitude to clear the opposite end.

The first plane dove down suddenly and a half-dozen long sticks dropped from its under side.

"They're dropping their stuff," he whispered. "God pity the city of Twung."

He was right. As they waited, rain pelting down into their faces, ten great bombers swept down one after another, dropped their heavy loads and swept up straight toward the sun they knew would be above the clouds.

In those few minutes, TiSenn, King of Twung, was forced to change his mind. As the heavy bombs dropped into the great city, crushing and destroying huge sections of it, TiSenn turned from a peaceful man into a determined, hard-bitten warrior.

"And all because a gang of Jap bombardiers hit a target they didn't know existed," Tex said to O'Conner as they followed the King back to his room.

"Wait until morning," O'Conner answered. "We'll have an army that will fight."

AS the hours passed, they waited in a chamber near TiSenn's throne room. Waited while TiSenn received full reports of the damage from every part of his city. At last, he called them to him.

Aben was there, a new light in his eyes. TiSenn stood this time, and refused to rest. His age added fire to the battle light that shone from the old man's eyes.

"Short hours ago," he spoke direct to O'Conner, "I told you that we would not fight the Japanese. If I had listened to Aben, this slaughter might not have occurred."

He caught his breath, speaking in quick, jerky sentences.

"What has happened has changed my mind. I am aware that those flying devils did not mean to hit our city. However, if they had done it deliberately, they could have never killed and destroyed more ruthlessly.

"I have made my decision. Aben will be ready tonight to lead five hundred of my best bowmen to the camp of Yunan. You, Rick O'Conner, will be second in command.

"Under other circumstances, five hundred men would not be enough."

He paused, smiling thoughtfully. "With my men," he continued, "it will be different."

"Very different," Aben agreed.

A hard smile passed over TiSenn's face.

"A cloak of invisibility is a wonderful power," he said finally. "See that none of my men abuse it. See that they fight for the cause that is good."

RICK O'CONNER had but one thought in mind the next twelve hours. Aben would take care of the Japs. He, O'Conner, had a score to settle with Timosha.

Five hundred of TiSenn's men were marching to Yunan. They were much alike. Kind, healthy men with solemn faces. Their dress was Aben's dress and they carried bows and full quivers.

"You, perhaps, wonder why we are able to keep our invisibility on the far side of the bridge," Aben said, when they were close to the gorge.

O'Conner shook his head.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," he confessed.

Aben smiled.

"A very important point," he said. "It is necessary that you know your own margin of safety. Twung is a city in a horse-shoe- shaped bend of the river. The fourth side is protected by dense swamp through which no man can pass. For some strange reason, we remain unseen by the human eye for ten hours after passing the chasm. By then, the spell which envelops us will wear off. I have timed this carefully and know that our raids must never be longer than ten hours. Mark that point and mark it well. Your life may depend on it."

Gab and Tex were close behind as the army of Twung marched in single file through the dense jungle.

"Ten hours," Gab sighed. "Tex, if I get close to the dead-line with this hunk of flesh, for the love-o'-Mike see that I get across the river in time. Timosha's monkeys will think I'm a battleship stranded in the desert."

Tex grunted.

"In ten hours, Timosha won't miss anything but his head," he answered grimly.

Aben was the first to reach the gorge. O'Conner behind him on the trail heard a gasp of surprise escape the Burmese warrior's lips.

"The bridge," Aben rushed forward. "They have destroyed it."

Gab Harnett groaned.

"No bridge and me with my pound of flesh."

O'Conner was at Aben's side. They stood silently, staring down at the river deep in the chasm below.

"Timosha!" Aben said. "He has finally realized the meaning of the bridge."

AT the Red Cross Hospital at Yunan, Dauna Wells and her father were facing their last days. No word had come from Rick O'Conner and his buddies. Marshall Wells had given them up for dead. Walter Noshan was with them at the hospital.

The three of them sat on the porch of the hospital. A storm was clearing over the city. Japanese bombers had come over, flying high and going to the east. The moon was up and Yunan had strangely escaped the fury of the bomber squadron. The air, for the first time in weeks, was clear and they sat quietly, trying to enjoy it.

"I tried to talk sense to O'Conner," Noshan was saying. "I told him we didn't have a chance here. His attitude was bound to endanger our safety. He should have played up to Timosha as I have."

"Our safety, or your own?" Marshall Wells' voice was harsh as he stared with partly closed lids across the compound toward the Jap tents.

Noshan's lips tightened.

"I know you hate me, doctor," he confessed. "I've tried to help you and Dauna since we came here. My friendship with Timosha has finally given us a chance to escape."

The speech had produced the effect he meant it to. Wells, no longer disinterested, turned quickly and stared at him. Dauna's lips opened and an exclamation of surprise escaped.

"But Rick!" she protested. "And Tex and Gab. Are we to desert them?"

The darkness hid Noshan's face.

"They are dead," he said. "Timosha said his men shot them all on the bridge."

"And now the bridge has been destroyed," Wells answered curtly. "I suppose you knew that."

Noshan made no attempt to hide his emotions.

"They were fools," he said. "Timosha will kill those who oppose him. He will kill you also if you don't leave at once. His replacements are due here tomorrow."

"And how do you propose that we leave?"

"Timosha had been grateful to me for the favor I have done him," Noshan continued. "We, at least you and I, are enemies. In spite of that, I will drive the station wagon across the hills to Kweiyang tonight. In a few hours, we will be with the Chinese."

Marshall Wells did not answer for a while, but his jaw was jutting forward angrily. He turned to Dauna.

"We have little choice," he said finally. "I'd do anything to get you out of here."

"And suppose I refuse to go?" she asked. "Suppose I would rather stay here and wait for Rick. Defy the Japanese and fight with you here at the hospital."

"Then I would be the proudest father in the world," Wells answered softly. "But my daughter would be facing death and I'd still be a damn fool. No, we'll go to Kweiyang. If the boys were alive, they'd want it this way."

Dauna stood up slowly. Her heart was heavy. She felt as though everything within her was dead. In Kweiyang, at least, she could be of help at the Chinese hospital. She turned toward the door, carefully avoiding Walter Noshan's eyes.

"I'll pack," she said. "I suppose you'll want to start at once."

"The sooner the better," Noshan's answers were curt. "The sooner you are safe, the happier I will be."

IN an hour, they were on the road to Kweiyang. The desert and the red sandy cliffs were bright as day. Noshan had whispered quick words to the sentry and the station wagon had passed, picked up speed and fled into the night.

"That was simple," Wells whispered to Dauna. "Too simple, I'm afraid."

Dauna was silent. Her thoughts were with Rick O'Conner. Rick was stubborn, but he was brave and honest. That, she thought with a shudder, was more than she could say about Walter Noshan. She knew it now.

Ten miles along the road the station wagon sputtered and came to a halt in a place where the road went through a sharp cut. Marshall Wells followed Noshan from the car and leaned over the hood.

"The engine?" he asked questioningly.

Noshan whirled about quickly, a pistol in his hand. In the rear of the car, Dauna Wells stiffened. The two men stood there, the older one with arms raised, his face white with anger. Walter Noshan's words were hard.

"I cannot take both my passengers to Kweiyang." The gun in his hand wavered dangerously. "It was my intention to see that Dauna reached safety."

Dauna Wells was not a coward. Her hand crept toward the darkness at the bottom of the car, groped about and found the handle of a jack.

"You're rotten, Noshan." Wells' voice was low and choked. "I should have known a snake would never stop crawling on its belly."

The pistol came up slowly and a sneering grin covered Noshan's lips.

"Talk, Marshall," he said. "Talk your head off. I'm in the driver's seat as I have been from the first. This is Timosha's gift for my loyalty. I'm taking Dauna to Kweiyang with me. If she squeals on me, I'll kill her as I'm going to kill you."

Dauna was partly out of the car now, the jack handle firmly grasped in her right hand. Her foot touched the sand and Noshan whirled about, firing quickly. She felt a hot searing pain in her shoulder, whipped the jack handle up and threw it with every ounce of strength within her. Then, with a sob, she fell forward in the sand.

"DAUNA," it was her father's voice. "Good girl! You've taken care of Noshan."

She felt firm hands on her shoulder. He ripped her dress open. Opening her eyes, she saw his kind eyes upon her and felt the torn strip of cloth as it wrapped tightly around the wound.

The sound of a car stopping came from behind them. Three men advanced across the sand to the station wagon. A car, its light burning dimly, was parked on the road. The men were Japs.

"An accident?" It was Timosha himself, his eyes slitted angrily. "Why, it is Marshall Wells and his charming daughter."

Wells was silent, waiting. Timosha went to Noshan's side, lifted him up and then dropped the man with an expression of disgust.

"Dead," he said. "A fit end for a traitor."

Sitting there helplessly as her father faced the men, Dauna Wells wanted to cry. Her eyes were hot and wet.

"Marshall Wells," it was Timosha who spoke his words cutting into her brain like a knife. "You have murdered a man. You must stand trial. You are under arrest."

"Go on," Wells' deliberate, sarcastic voice was an insult to the small Jap. "You intend to kill me one way or the other, get it over with."

Timosha grinned and the expression was burning with hatred.

"It would be so simple to leave you here," he answered. "But the firing squad is more formal. Facing a military firing squad brings out the best, or the worst in a man."

"I'LL be thrown by a longhorn," Tex Wallace said quietly. "So the monkey men knock the bridge down on us. What now?"

O'Conner was already searching about. An army engineer doesn't let any river stay long unbridged, in spite of how hopeless the crossing might seem. Aben halted his men and they waited, seemingly untroubled by the loss.

Aben followed O'Conner, catching up with him amid the trees.

"You have a plan?"

O'Conner shook his head.

"Not much of a plan," he admitted. "Just wondering if there are enough vines here to make another bridge."

The trees were hanging with thick cable-like stuff. O'Conner caught the end of one, hacked it with his knife and tested the strength. Apparently satisfied, he turned to the Burmese.

"It will be dark enough to cross in a couple of hours," he said. "Meanwhile have your men cut as many of these things as they can."

"We must get one man across to work from the other side."

"I'll take care of that," O'Conner promised. "There's no time to waste."

While Aben set his men to work, O'Conner followed the edge of chasm north. With a sharp eye he chose a place where the canyon was narrow and a giant tree grew close to its edge. One branch hung out half-way across.

"Tex."

The Texan came on the run. He saw the tree and the narrow lips of the canyon and grinned understandingly.

"Takes the loss of a bridge to make a monkey out of me, huh?"

O'Conner nodded.

"You're the only man light enough to swing across without breaking a vine," he said. "Think you can make it?"

Tex looked up at the limb overhead and then calculated the distance across the gap.

"I think so," he answered. "I'll have one chance to try."

Aben's men had already collected a pile of long, heavy brown vines. From the pile, O'Conner chose the thickest one he could find. Attaching the end of it around his waist, he climbed the trunk of the tree quickly and made it fast to the limb. When he came down, his face was grim.

"I hate to take a chance with your neck," he said. "Tex, if you let go of that thing before you get across, I'll kill you."

The Texan's face was sober.

"You won't have to," he said.

Gab Harnett had been standing several feet away watching the proceedings silently.

"Buy me a kite and fly me across," he offered. "Man, this is one time I'm glad a scale can't hold me."

Tex grabbed the end of the vine, tested it with a quick jerk and wrapped it tightly around his wrists.

"Here goes nothin'," he said and backed as far away from the tree as he could. With a running jump, he was in the air.

Swinging back and forth, he gained momentum, shooting far out over the canyon. The vine had reached the apex of its swing. O'Conner waited until Tex swung past him and shouted:

"Now!"

The Texan flew out straight over the chasm, reached the end of the swing and let go. His body seemed to hesitate in mid-air, then fell forward. Grabbing with both hands as he landed, he hit the far bank and lay panting. Then he arose, rubbed the palms of his hands together and grinned across at them.

"Let's build that bridge," he shouted. "It ain't safe alone over here."

With the first cable across and attached to the other side, O'Conner went over hand over hand. In an hour, they had constructed a heavy causeway over which Aben's men marched.

There was no need for caution now. Aben's army could remain on the enemy side of the time chasm for ten hours with no danger of being detected. As they climbed the pathway toward the hospital, O'Conner noticed lanterns and much activity near the hospital.

"Wait," he told Aben. "Something going on up there. I think you and I had better look around before we run into more trouble than we can handle."

"Wise talk," the Burmese answered. He held up his hand and the column halted, waiting as silently as ghosts along the trail where it met the road.

"Tex," O'Conner called. "You and Gab stay with the men. If we signal you, come alone. This thing will take planning."

The Texan nodded and the two men went quickly toward the lanterns. As O'Conner reached the front wall of the hospital, he realized with horror what was about to take place. Marshall Wells was there, stripped to the waist, his face to the wall. Timosha and his aides stood by the car on the road.

TEN men stood in a straight line at the edge of the yard, rifles ready.

"You have a last chance to pray to your white God," Timosha's voice rang out in the stillness. Wells' head was bowed, but his lips remained silent.

O'Conner gripped the automatic rifle which he had carefully kept throughout his trip to Twung.

"My friend, Wells," he whispered to Aben. "They've done something with the girl. We've got to save Wells first and then find Dauna."

Aben pointed to the rifle and nodded grimly.

"Take care of the firing squad," he said in a low voice. "I'll get the prisoner away while you work."

O'Conner moved closer. The gravel kicked up under his shoes and the general twirled around nervously. His face turned a trifle pale, but satisfied that he had been mistaken with the sound, Timosha turned once more to the business at hand.

"Attention."

The firing squad snapped to attention, rifles held stiffly.

"Aim."

Aben was on his knees, creeping along the wall where Marshall Wells stood. O'Conner could see him clearly as he whispered something to Wells and saw the doctor's figure stiffen. O'Conner lifted the rifle quickly and fired into the air.

"What was that?"

Timosha wheeled about. The men in the squad reacted at once to the strange occurrence. Some of them whirled about, rifles aimed at the spot. O'Conner took no chances. He fired at point blank range at Timosha and saw the little general go down with a groan. The rifles flashed along the line of the firing squad, but they were shooting at nothing. Afraid he might be hit, O'Conner fell flat on his stomach and fired.

Timosha arose on one elbow, holding his stomach with a bloody hand.

"Retreat to the camp," his voice was weak. "They are invisible devils."

The Japs broke ranks and ran wildly across the road and into the brush. O'Conner saw Aben leading Wells through the hospital door and made sure that Timosha was in no condition to fire at them. Then he turned and motioned to Tex Wallace.

In half an hour, Aben and his men were all in the big stone building. O'Conner went straight to Marshall Wells. The doctor was on the third floor lying on a small cot. O'Conner came in quickly and sat down beside him.

"Sorry we have to meet under such odd circumstances," he said.

Wells smiled wanly.

"Aben, I guess you call him, has told me what happened."

"Good," O'Conner answered. "I'm afraid we must be an odd army, but for the time being, a powerful one."

Wells held out his hand in the direction of the voice.

"I can't see you, Rick, but I'm glad you came back. Dauna..."

His voice choked with emotion.

"Where is she?"

"Timosha has her somewhere in the camp," Wells answered. "I think she's in his tent."

"Timosha won't do harm for the time being," O'Conner said. "I'm going after Dauna."

ABEN had waited without a word until this conversation was finished. Now he had made known his own plans.

"I have the general downstairs," he said. "His wound is not serious. Perhaps, so long as we are already holding him here, we can use his power to get your woman out of the camp."

O'Conner started downstairs, then turned to Wells.

"I'll have Gab take you to safety," he said. "The Japs can't see us, but they will come here soon to search for you."

Wells nodded.

"Don't worry about me," he said. "For the love of God, Rick, find Dauna."

O'Conner reached the first floor to find Gab and Tex Wallace poking fun at Timosha.

"The little general is wearing his neck out trying to see us," Gab said as O'Conner approached. "He's wise to our trick, but it doesn't help him."

"Seems to have eye trouble," Tex drawled.

Timosha sat alone on a small chair. His side was bulging with a huge bandage that Tex had dragged from the supplies. Timosha was afraid. Never before had he been at the mercy of men who were solid and yet could not be seen.

"I demand that you release me at once." His voice was weak and lacked conviction in his own power.

"I've got one task for you," O'Conner crossed the floor swiftly and faced the Jap. "Dauna is within your camp. If I don't bring her out alive, you'll never leave this hospital."

An ugly, forced smile covered Timosha's face.

"You have an offer?"

"I make no offers," O'Conner snarled. "Where the girl is concerned, I'll kill you with my bare hands."

He turned to Tex.

"Take this skunk and Marshall Wells to the forest," he said grimly. "See that you and Gab protect both of them. Aben will give you ten men."

A gasp of surprise escaped Timosha's lips.

"Ten men..."

O'Conner whirled upon him.

"Yes, ten—and many more. You and your monkeys are against an army this time. An army of men who will fight unseen."

O'CONNER crossed the road swiftly, making sure that his footsteps were unheard. Timosha's camp was stretched out on the top of the hill, hundreds of tents with lanterns that flickered in the night. Sentries had been posted on all sides. Machine guns and rifles had appeared in profusion since the attack.

O'Conner passed the line safely and went down the row of tents. Everywhere, the place was alive with chattering groups of Japs. These men could fight and fight well what they could see. The strange story of the firing squad was on all their lips. They had no wish to venture from the camp lines, even in search of their brave general.

Timosha's tent was not hard to find. O'Conner knew he must murder the sentry who stood guard at the big, circular tent in the center of the camp. The man was alert and frightened, standing before the flap of canvas. O'Conner wondered if they had tied the girl up and decided they would take this precaution. Standing close to the wall, he thought of cutting the canvas and entering that way. It was useless. They would notice it at once.

ALREADY two hours had passed since they crossed the time chasm. They had but eight hours now to sweep Timosha's army away. He went toward the guard, raised his rifle and brought it down coolly and with great force on the man's head. Before the body hit the ground, he dragged it into the tent. Listening, he heard no sound of alarm from outside.

He heard a gasp of terror escape Dauna's lips, pivoted and saw her lying across a cot, her arms and ankles bound firmly.

"Be quiet," he said in a low voice. "It's Rick. Don't be frightened."

"Rick." She looked quickly about the tent. "But I don't see..."

He was at her side, one hand on her arm.

"I'm invisible. Your father's safe and I've come for you. I'll explain later."

He paid no attention to her questions, cutting the ropes quickly. He picked her up and placed her on her feet.

"But, Rick, it's your voice and not your body. I don't understand."

Forgetting where he was, O'Conner bent her to him and kissed her firmly on the lips.

"Now, is there any doubt?"

Dauna's face was white, but she understood that it was Rick's voice and Rick's body.

"The tank," he said. "We've got to get to it!"

"But Rick, I can't understand how..."

He pressed a finger to her lips.

"Don't try," he urged. "We'll go to the tank in the ravine."

"But how can I get there without them seeing me?"

He started to undress the dead sentry, taking only the trousers, cap and shirt.

"Here, get into these. Go out and walk straight down the path. If anyone speaks to you, say nothing. I'll be right behind you with a rifle."

SHE took the sentry's gun and with a frightened, questioning look at the spot where she knew Rick stood, opened the tent flap and went out. No one seemed to have noticed what had taken place. They went carefully down the line of tents.

A figure loomed up in the darkness.

The Jap's challenging voice was tense.

Dauna stopped with his rifle in her face. She kept her head down carefully. The Jap started to question her sharply in Japanese. Then his body stiffened suddenly and the rifle fell from his hands. He pitched forward against her and fell to the ground. A deep, bloody wound was in his back.

"Now," O'Conner whispered. "The ravine and quick."

A high pitched cry came from the direction of Timosha's tent. It was taken up quickly on all sides. They raced into the ravine, and into the cave.

"In, quick," O'Conner pushed the girl up the side of the metal monster, "They've found the dead sentry."

Timosha's soldiers were rushing about wildly now, lanterns were bobbing on all sides. Quickly, O'Conner lifted the turret and they dropped into the interior.

O'Conner found the controls and switched on the ignition system. Light flashed out in front of them and the engine started with a roar. He backed and twisted the tank out of its hiding place and they rumbled swiftly from the enclosure.

Dauna started to laugh hysterically.

"Hold it," he said. "Can you work the gun?"

"I'm sorry. No, I can't."

"And the laugh?" he asked.

"It's all so crazy," she answered. "I'm sitting here riding without a driver, and the driver who isn't, talks like Rick O'Conner."

They were on the road now, heading straight for the hospital.

"Any doubt of me, after that kiss?" he asked.

"Rick," she clutched his arm quickly.

"Jap tanks!"

He stared into the rear-view mirror and saw three heavy machines rumbling out of the camp and onto the road behind them.

"They'll shoot us out of this thing in three minutes," he said shortly. "I could escape, but they'll see you."

"Rick," she begged. "Take a chance. We'll burn if we stay in this."

The tanks were close now. Already one of them had opened fire sending a stream of lead overhead.

"Got an idea," Rick said grimly. "Hold tight. We may die, but we'll do it our own way."

She held his arm now, clung to what she could not see and found it strong.

THE road forked. On the left was the trail down the hill. The trail to the chasm. He jerked on the lever and the machine twisted around and plunged down the narrow trail. The tank behind turned also.

"They think they've got us trapped," he said.

The tank was ploughing and bucking its way ahead now, tearing through the small trees that got in the way. The Jap tanks had halted and soldiers poured from behind them, rifles firing with deadly precision. The dark slit of the gorge was under his lights.

"Out!" shouted O'Conner. "Climb out and across that vine bridge under cover of the tank."

Dauna clambered out, ran for the gorge. O'Conner went with her, and they plunged on across. Behind them the Japs blazed away at the tank. Finally one Jap threw a grenade and it exploded with a roar. Several Japs poked around in the ruins, then, obviously puzzled, they retreated.

"We made it," Rick's voice held no triumph. It was harsh and thankful for the manner in which they had achieved the impossible.

Dauna Wells lifted her head and saw brown cloth close to her eyes. Tears flooded down her face as she looked up at his rugged face.

"Rick," she said, her voice ringing with emotion. "Rick, darling, don't ever do that again, Rick. I can see you now, and I love you for what you've done."

O'Conner held her tightly.

"It's sort of funny," he said finally. "You can see me, and old Timosha's boys can't see you. Looks as though we can do business with him now."

AFTER Rick O'Conner had gone into the Japanese camp, Aben watched closely the events that followed. He knew that the American would work best alone. Yet, when so many shots were fired and the tanks roared on the road, he was sure that O'Conner had been captured. The Japanese were ready to march on Kweiyang.

Aben had fought for this opportunity to lead an invisible army. O'Conner had his personal problems and Aben had already done much to help him solve them. Now the Japanese would march to Kweiyang and destroy more Chinese cities. Also, the Japs were carrying much equipment and food that would be useful to Twung. Aben called Tex and Gab to him in the room downstairs. They spoke openly before Timosha, believing the little general to be harmless.

"We have already spent three hours of our time here," Aben said. "I think it time we finish what we came to do."

Tex was worried. He wondered if O'Conner had walked into a trap, but knew it was useless to mention it. Rick had a way of taking care of himself. Aben had treated them well. He deserved cooperation.

"Okay by me," he said at last. "How we gonna' handle this job?"

Gab Harnett had an idea.

"Look, Tex," he begged. "Maybe Rick is held prisoner. Why not try an exchange for this half-pint stinker. We'll make a trade and save Rick."

Aben looked interested and Tex nodded.

"Sounds good," he turned to Timosha. "If we stand you out there on the road where you can howl your head off, will you tell them to send Rick to us?"

Timosha stood up, some of the fright he had shown was vanishing.

"If he is in the camp, I will see that he goes free. In turn, you must let me return safely within my own lines."

Aben clutched the little general's arm firmly.

"There will be ten men with strung bows at your back," he snarled. "Make sure you do not betray us."

Timosha's voice was smooth and reassuring.

"There will be no mistake."

Aben motioned for a few of his men and quietly instructed them.

The group went out under the dark sky and across the road. At the edge of the camp, Timosha felt himself yanked to a rude halt.

"This will be far enough," Aben said. "Now—call your men."

Timosha raised his voice and a startled sentry came toward him on the run. Seeing the general standing alone and apparently unharmed, others followed.

"Keep your mouth closed until we tell you to talk," Tex said coldly. "Then talk fast and in English."

Timosha nodded and glanced nervously behind him. Were these actually men or ghosts, he wondered. Horrible, solid ghosts that ordered him about like a puppet. In the heart of the general was a bravery of sorts. This was his sacrifice. His last gesture of defiance in the face of the white men. At least twenty men stood before him now, wide eyed, wondering why their leader had called them.

"Now," Tex whispered close to the general's ear.

Timosha gritted his teeth and started to talk speedily in Japanese.

"Cut that," Tex's voice was ice cold in his ear. "English or I'll shoot."

Timosha ignored him, shouting now as fast as he could speak.

"Tell my officers to march against Kweiyang at once. Spare no one. You are faced by men who cannot be seen but who can be shot. Aim your guns at every open spot and fire. Use the flame throwers and tanks in the assault at Kweiyang ..."

A sob escaped his throat and before the frightened group of Japs, General Timosha sank down to the ground and died with his face in the dirt. A clean, dark bullet hole was in his heart. Before the report of the gun had died, the Japs were fleeing wildly toward their tents. Three of them flopped in the dirt before they had gone ten feet. Long, invisible arrows were buried between their shoulders. The remainder reached the encampment and disappeared, shouting wildly in the darkness.

"We will leave here at once," Aben said. "There must be a spot on the road to Kweiyang where we can stop their advance."

FIVE hours had passed since Tex Wallace had swung across the time chasm. Now, Aben and his army were stretched across a rocky promontory above the road. This way the Japanese army would come. Here, where the road narrowed and went between high rock- walls, the invisible bowmen were ready.

Aben sat alone with the two Americans, waiting impatiently for some sign of the advance.

"If they wait until daylight, we are lost," he said finally. "Five hours will make my men visible and armed only with arrows against powerful guns."

Tex grinned happily.

"We came, we saw," he said suddenly pointing toward Yunan. "Now they've come and we'll conquer."

Aben sprang to his feet, straining his eyes into the night. A faintly visible rise of dust was floating above the flat land.

"You know the plan," he said calmly. Tex nodded.

"Gab and I will take a dozen men to the far side of the road where it enters the cut," he said. "We'll make a lot of commotion and draw the tanks and heavy stuff that way. You sweep in and cut them off on the other side."

Aben nodded, and put out his hand.

"Good luck," he said. "I hope your friend is safe."

"Thanks," Tex shook hands and 'jacked away, anxious to get started. "If we don't meet again, tell the King of Twung it was nice being unseen for awhile. Gives a dope like me the chance to play king."

The Japanese troops were in sight now, moving at a slow pace along the road. Tanks led the column. Behind them the long line of marching men walked with guns ready for a surprise attack. After what had happened, the soldiers of Timosha were taking no chances.

Tex led his men quickly along the ridge and down into the desert. The oncoming troops were five hundred yards away, tanks ready to mow down anything that came into sight.

"Now!"

Tex raised one arm as a signal and the men behind him lifted their bows. A rain of arrows sped through the air and picked off men just behind the tanks. The column stopped moving and the men seemed at a loss to know what to do next.

Gab put his hands to his lips and howled a long, bloody war cry. It sounded like an Iowa farmer calling hogs, but it did the trick.

One Jap pointed in the direction of the sound and Tex's men all shouted loudly, making sure their voices would leave no doubt in the Japanese mind where the sound was coming from.

The tanks tipped down the steep bank from the road, gathered speed and came directly at them flame-thrower sweeping burning torches across the sand before them.

"On the double," Tex shouted and started running. They managed to escape the onrushing tanks.

A HIGH pitched scream came from a foot soldier on the road. Aben was attacking from the far side. With his bowmen long anxious to avenge the city of Twung, he was killing arrow for arrow. The Japanese troops were many, but against the invisible army of Twung, they were helpless. The tanks cruised wildly about, first in one direction and then the other, shooting blindly.

To Tex Wallace, it was a mad nightmare. His eyes saw the bowmen as they rushed into the battle, cut their men out cleverly and run away to evade the blind rifle fire.

It was like fighting blind men. Men who were angry and frightened at the same time. At last, close to morning, they were not men, but slobbering, hysterical animals who wandered about in the early daylight, seeking an escape that was impossible. The entire army of Timosha had been cut down during the night. Ten hours had passed since the invisible army of Twung had come for their revenge.

Tex did not know when he first became visible again, but he realized the strange sight must have unnerved the few Japs that were left. They fled across the sand as the men of Twung appeared among them. Timosha's army couldn't have committed suicide at its own hands with more dispatch.

They were safe then, a small army of men who had done their job well and were returning to their peaceful homes.

On the road to the village, they said little. Aben, still a man alone, had gained little pleasure from the slaughter. It had been a necessary thing. Tex and Gab were thinking of O'Conner and Dauna Wells.

"If they were alive when we left," Tex said finally, "the Japs would have murdered them after we shot Timosha."

Gab floundered along without a reply.

A car came toward them and the men halted and stood aside, to let it pass. It was the station wagon in which Marshall Wells and his daughter had first attempted to escape. It stopped, drawing alongside the three leaders. Marshall Wells climbed out stiffly.

"Tex," he said. "Did you manage...?"

Tex took the old man's hand.

"Aben's men wiped out the whole flock of them," he said. "Gab and I just sat in on the party."

Wells' eyes twinkled.

"Then you'll be glad that I brought these two along with me," he motioned toward the empty rear seat. Tex stared at the cushion, and an odd look passed over his face.

"Are you nuts?" he asked finally.

Wells smiled.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It is Rick O'Conner and Dauna. They returned to the hospital after you left."

Gab's mouth flew open.

"You mean to tell me those two are sitting there grinning at us and we can't see a thing?"

"That's what he's saying." It was O'Conner's voice. "Now you know how you didn't look last night."

Gab sighed.

"Golly, sure must look good on me," he confessed. "I'd like to take some of this invisible stuff home with me."

"But the time limit," Aben protested. "The spell works off in ten hours."

O'Conner's voice told them quickly what had happened. How he and Dauna had been on the opposite side of the chasm after their escape with the tank.

"I hope we'll meet again, Aben," he finished. "I'm sorry I missed the battle."

Aben stepped close to the car and put out his hand. O'Conner shook it.

"It was I who fought the battle," Aben confessed, "but you were responsible for many things that happened."

A clear, feminine voice came from O'Conner's side.

"I'll say he was," it was Dauna Wells. "And he's going to be busy from now on."

Gab and Tex stood very still, listening to the faint affectionate little sounds that came from the seemingly empty seat.

"Sounds like that invisible business is being used unfairly," Gab said finally. "What goes back there, Rick?"

A happy chuckle— then the sound of a kiss.

"Two more hours before they can see us," O'Conner's voice sounded very happy. "Let's make those boys envious."

Dauna Wells sighed contentedly and the station wagon turned around and started homeward toward the hospital.

__________________

8: Freddie Funk's Madcap Mermaid

Fantastic Adventures, January 1943

NEPTUNE, son of Saturn and conspirator against Jupiter, smashed his trident angrily in the sea bottom and cursed. His chariot halted and the graceful dolphins that drew it toward the courts drifted idly in the green water. "Damn it!"

"Nep" shouted so loud that the dolphins jerked in their harnesses and he sat down again ungracefully. He howled louder and with great emotion. "Damn it, Strider, I told you to get rid of that girl, Aquanis."

Strider, dwarfish court attaché, wriggled a fin nervously, and stuttered in a manner so befitting one of a low position.

"I'm— I'm so sorry, your majesty. But this girl, Aquanis, is— well— I'm afraid she's out of control."

Neptune's statuesque body stiffened.

"By the gods, man," he howled and almost fell over, "for a month this greentailed wench has made eyes at every young man in my navy. Now she must go, and if you can't do the job, I'll handle it myself."

"But— your majesty!" Strider squirmed on his fish half and looked miserable. "Aquanis is a most lovely young lady. It would be a mistake to do away with such beauty."

Neptune considered the angles for a moment and then a salty grin split his lips.

"We won't have to kill her," he said slowly. "We'll pawn her off on an Earthling for a while. I never did like those weak sailers of ships. Perhaps a touch of Aquanis' deviltry will put salt in their brine. Maybe she is just what some Earthling needs to give him an appreciation for the better..."

"But how?" Strider, almost groveling before the master now, hoped he wouldn't figure in the task of disposing of Aquanis.

If the truth were known, he, like most other men in Neptune's green sea kingdom, had fallen head over fin in love with the gorgeous little court hussy. Her floating bronze hair, lakelue eyes, and pouting coral lips had him on his ear, or tail, most of the time.

Neptune laughed. It was a booming, deep laugh that sent a school of small sea creatures scurrying from under the green coral that shelved his city.

"How? I'll take her to Earth myself. I haven't been up since the World's Fair and that fountain in Grant Park is the 'nuts.' Verily! Chicago is the place. Aquanis will fit in well there."

He jerked the long thongs in his hand and the dolphin team darted forward again, thrashing the sea wildly in an effort to please their speed-loving god, Neptune.

FREDDIE FUNK rounded the corner at Michigan Avenue on all sixteen and whistling loudly, approached the gay splash of paintings along the outer wall that bordered Wacker Drive. Freddie Funk was happy this sunny spring morning. The outdoor art show brought in a few extra greenbacks and his pocketbook had been empty for a long time.

Still whistling badly off-key, he found an empty spot against the sun-splashed wall, opened his folder of paintings, and arranged them carefully around the stall. He stepped back a few feet, tipped his curly thatched head to one side and examined the display with approving gray eyes.

"Pretty bad, aren't they, son?"

Freddie Funk turned grimly and found himself staring into the eyes of a strong old man with a thick, weedy-looking beard. He framed a scorching reply.

"If you're referring to my work...?"

He hesitated and his mouth dropped open widely. The hefty old character had a booth next to his own. But the paintings! There must have been two dozen of them. The most beautiful reproductions of undersea life he had ever seen.

"Golly!" His eyes narrowed slightly with respect. "You've done some fine work."

The old gent stood up and made a low sweeping bow.

"I do only my humble best," he said. "Just the scenes that are most familiar to me."

Freddie Funk had forgotten his own smelly collection of alley paintings.

"Familiar?" There was something strangely familiar about the old man himself. The tough-hided face, rope-like hair, green eyes that looked straight through Freddie, gave him that feeling that he was drowning in them.

"I'd say you'd have to be a fish to get paintings like those."

Green-Eyes smiled and bent over his small box of paints and art material. When he straightened again, he held a long drawing pencil toward Freddie with a promising gesture.

"Here," he said wryly, "try it, and you might be surprised."

Freddie Funk took the pencil gravely. Bending to look for its hidden qualities, he felt a sudden gust of wind from the river. Was it his imagination, or did water hit his face in a salty mist?

His head jerked upward and eyes spilled open in surprise. Green-Eyes had vanished— vamoosed. Gone as though the river had  reached over the wall and swallowed him into it.

The paintings were still there, but Lord, what a change. He stared at them in disbelief. Where before there had been fine-colored fish and undersea fauna, now he found only ugly green streaks running up and down the canvasses.

Completely unnerved by the trying experience Freddie Funk arose hurriedly, gathered his belongings, and beat a hasty retreat to the Avenue. This time he did not whistle. A look of fright that could only be eclipsed by a glimpse of death itself, had settled in grey lines across his handsome face. Freddie Funk's long legs carried him with surprising haste toward the apartment studio on Wabash. In his right hand he still clutched the drawing pencil that Green Eyes had thrust toward him.

TRY as he might, Freddie could not throw from his mind memories of the strange afternoon. He still toyed with the thoughts of the old man's familiarity. Sitting before the drawing-board, he picked up the drawing pencil that had been bequeathed him by the stranger. He made a few experimental lines across a clean sheet of paper. The point moved slowly. In fact it moved of its own accord.

He felt a force exercising itself as the lead traveled in delicate lines and circles against the paper's clean surface. This pencil was drawing something without his help. He held on tightly and let it work.

No one, Freddie thought, could ever buy a sketching pencil like this one. He watched with pretended disinterest as the point switched about under his fingers. Slowly a face appeared. Then a lovely neck and a smooth sheen of long hair. He blushed and felt that he should hide his head as the upper part of the girl came out on the paper. A slim shaded mid-section that was calculated to start tears of emotion in the eyes of the strongest male.

Two perfect unveiled breasts appeared. They left so little to the imagination that for the first time in his artistic life, Freddie Funk shivered with anticipation at the work on his drawing-board.

But the pencil wasn't finished. It dipped down and started to draw the lower portion of the dream girl. This time the blush turned to a frown. An expression of distrust and faint disappointment worried Freddie's forehead. The completed drawing was before him. The pencil seemed to relax and wilt a bit in his sweaty fingers. It had completed a picture of the most perfect mermaid his mind had ever conceived.

He sat back quietly admiring the work. He tried to believe that this girl was from his own mind. It was no use. Why not admit it? She had all the wild abandon and perfection that had been given to the paintings Green-Eyes had exhibited on Wacker Drive.

Freddie Funk sighed. He uttered the wish of any strong man. The thing that Neptune had planned on. Looking straight into the paper eyes of the mermaid he said lustily,

"I'd give up a square meal any day to have a look at the real product. Golly, but I wish she were real!"

S-P-L-A-S-H!!

STARTLED, Freddie jumped to his feet. Stumbling over his chair, he sprawled full length across the carpet. He lay very still.

There was a loud gurgle of water from the bath adjoining his room. Then little human sounds of excited bewilderment. Sitting up cautiously, Freddie tried to bring his wits into a compact working group.

He stood up slowly and sidled toward the bath. At the door he hesitated.

There was a girl in Freddie Funk's bathtub.

He pushed the door open a little more and peeked in with all the terrible guilt in his soul bursting up in masculine curiosity. It wasn't a nice thing to do, but she had no business being there in the first place.

There she sat in the tub, water around her waist. Her eyes were green in a gentle sort of way that at once made it his favorite color. Her skin was as white and pure as milk. Her hair, like burnished copper, swept down about her shoulders until she was almost hidden beneath it.

"H'lo," she said, and two rows of sparkling teeth flashed between red lips. "Come on in. The water's fine."

She shook her head and the silken hair fell away, taking his breath from him.

"How...?" He stammered and stopped again abruptly.

"Don't stand there like a blue-nosed shark," she cried in mock anger. "Can't you see I need a towel?"

She did, but definitely. Round firm hillocks of marble had only partly retreated behind her drifting hair. Trying not to stare, Freddie retrieved a towel from the hook and tossed it to her.

"How did you get in here?" He tried to tone his voice at an angry level. "If the landlady finds out..."

She laughed mockingly.

"You wished for me," she reminded him, and retreated into the folds of the big bath towel. "Are you disappointed?"

Freddie Funk remembered the drawing. Then the lower half of her must be fish! His brain started to whirl.

"Are you— you...?"

"A mermaid?" She winked solemnly. "Well, there's one way of finding out."

He blushed furiously and stared at the soapy veil of water that hid her body from the waist down.

"Look, I'm just a nice young guy trying to figure things out. Don't get me wrong."

"Then I'll just have to show you myself." A devilish little grin parted her lips.

A spray of water hit Freddie Funk squarely in the face, and he saw a green scaly tail flip in abandon as she flopped it above the water.

He turned pale. "Don't ever do that again," he begged.

"Then will you believe I'm a mermaid?"

"BUT how...?" He sat down weakly on the dressing-table chair beside the tub, and dried his face. "I mean— well— things like this just don't happen."

"My, aren't you the funny person!" He had a strange feeling that she was laughing at him. "Well, it's like this. My name is Aquanis. It seems that Neptune is getting too old. He can't stand the sight of a pretty young thing twisting his navy around her fingers. He decided to send me here where someone can appreciate my beauty, and at the same time his navy can be rid of temptation."

She wriggled her shoulders enticingly and leaned toward him.

"So," Freddie scowled, "without considering the complications that might arise from setting a mermaid down in the middle of my bathtub, he pawned you off on me."

Aquanis started to weep softly.

"Oh dear! No one seems to want me around. Don't you think I'm beautiful?"

She started to draw the towel away from her shoulders.

"No! Don't, please! You're too darn nice, that's the trouble." In his anxiety for her feelings, he stood up and patted her comfortingly on the back. Little bumps of gooseflesh came up on his arm from the warmth of the contact, and he stopped hastily. "Now everything's all right. Just don't cry."

She brushed a small hand over her eyes to wipe away the last tear. The sun came through again.

"Then you do like me?" she pouted.

"Like you!" He grinned. "Kid, you're all right. And now how long since breakfast? You must be getting hungry."

"I could stand a bite," Aquanis admitted. "Can you get fresh ones around this strange place?"

His chin dropped.

"Fresh what?" He knew with a terrible certainty what the answer would be.

"Why silly! Fresh fish, of course! I could just eat my tummy full of tiny fresh sea horses right this minute."

Freddie Funk turned his head away, collected his scattered brain cells and asked:

"Would raw perch do?"

"I never tasted them," Aquanis admitted. "They might be good."

He gulped hurriedly and retreated to the door, then turned toward her with a sickly smile.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," he said. "Anything else?"

"Oh, yes!" she fairly squealed in anticipation. "After my tummy's full, I want to go everywhere and find out what kind of a city this is. Nep says it's quite a 'joint,' whatever he means by that."

Freddie left the apartment hurriedly.

The fish store down the street was still open. Feeding the mermaid Aquanis was only the beginning of his problems.

Freddie Funk's mind was functioning with remarkable clarity when he returned to the apartment. Aquanis had made herself at home in the tub, and was stretched out glamorously in a pose that would have made Homer himself follow Ulysses over the brink in search of the mermaids.

FREDDIE FUNK went on a shopping tour at Marshall Field's. He had been fortunate enough to sell a very prosaic painting to an unsuspecting art collector. He was also unwise enough to tell Aquanis of his luck. At her bidding, he was humbly following a chic little clerk through a blush-building array of feminine apparel.

"A long evening gown," he heard himself muttering. "Red, and very long, if you please."

When it arrived, he snatched it up hurriedly and paid the price.

"And did you wish anything else?" The feminine creature that hovered over him made the misery worse.

"Just— well, if you can give me one of those— those things..." He made a subtle little twin motion with his hands, trying to think just what size Aquanis might take.

The clerk nodded understandingly.

"What size does your wife take?" She said wife in a tone that made him feel like hiding in the woodwork.

He muttered something vaguely under his breath, pointed to a silky wisp that hung from a counter, and packed it quickly out of sight in his pocket. With a heavy, curiously thumping heart, Freddie started for home.

Aquanis had combed her hair out into flashing sunlight while he was gone. He tossed the packages across the threshold and closed the door hurriedly as she cried out in delight. He could hear interesting little giggles as she wriggled into the new luxuries.

"Does the— er— thing-a-ma-jig fit?" He tried to sound casual. Aquanis giggled again, then laughed a low pleased laugh.

"You'll be surprised," she answered. "Come in."

She was seated on the small chair as he opened the door. The long crimson gown covered every last inch of those embarrassing fins and scales. Hair fell about" her shoulders crowning a face more lovely than he had ever seen.

Freddie gulped.

"You're lovely! Almost as though....”

She bit her lip and smiled dimly.

Freddie crossed the room in a stride and picked her up in his arms. Aquanis cuddled her head against his shoulder happily.

"You do like me?" she asked in a worried voice.

Something like a shiver passed through Freddie, and he carried her into the studio.

"You poor kid," he said, "We're going to have a good time even if..."

"Even if I'm not like other people." She tried hard not to cry.

"Even if everyone in town wonders why I have to carry you everywhere I go. I sort of like it."

AQUANIS was startled by the lights on State Street. She wondered with wide green eyes at the size and beauty of the city. At the Chez Paree and the Ivanhoe Freddie tried to carry her around as casually as possible, only to find himself the object of much curious attention from other patrons. Although others were startled at this sleek young man who carried his lady in red like a knight of old, they soon forgot and stared with envy at the little mermaid with the hidden rudder.

At one o'clock he broke down under the load and sat her down in Grant Park beside the great colored fountain. For a long time Aquanis snuggled close to him, her lips buried against his neck. Freddie Funk had forgotten she was a mermaid. The night was very warm. Aquanis suddenly felt confined and uncomfortable in the folds of the gown.

"I'm going swimming," she announced calmly.

Freddie stiffened in fright.n

"Oh, no!" he said. "You really shouldn't."

"The fountain is so pretty," she said, and pouted. "If anyone comes by, I'll just sit still and they'll think I'm part of it."

Freddie thought of the slim body under the thing-a-ma-jig, and shook his head.

"You don't know much about Chicago," he said.

She started to wriggle away from him.

"I'll scream, and when someone hears me, I'll flip up my gown and show 'em I'm a fish."

Freddie considered the problem carefully.

"You're a devil," he said grimly. "But if you must, all right. Please duck under if someone comes too close."

"I promise." She wriggled out of the warm clothing and flipped into the water.

"Oooh!" she said, letting it cover her shoulders. "It feels good. Come on in."

Freddie shivered at the thought. "No thanks," he said. "I'd rather not."

"Killjoy!"

"Nope. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight. Never did like the jail."

Aquanis stretched out in the warm water and leaned her elbows on the side of the pool. She put her lovely head against her hands and looked at him questioningly.

"All these other girls we saw tonight," she said thoughtfully. "Do you like them?"

"They're nice," he agreed. "Just so -so."

"Gee," she sighed, "I wish I were like them. You'd like me then, wouldn't you?"

"I like you..." His voice trailed off then, dropped into his shoes. Heavy footsteps burst from the bushes beside the walk.

"SO!" the blue uniform howled, swinging his night stick threateningly. "Caught you, didn't I?"

"Caught who?" It was Aquanis, her silvery voice filled with curiosity.

"Just what I thought," the policeman bellowed. "A lady in the fountain. Come out of there, Miss, before I come in after you."

He pushed Freddie aside roughly and approached the pool's edge. Aquanis sat up, her soaked hair leaving little but a lack of modesty to clothe her.

"The water's nice," she said. "Please come in."

The policeman gulped and turned away, not too hurriedly.

"Sure and I'll give you just one minute to come out of there. Just one minute." Under his breath he added "A naked woman in the pool, is it, O'Shannagon? Did you have too much beer this night?"

A brilliant thought was collecting in Freddie Funk's mind. He could smell the faint aroma of ale wafting to him from O'Shannagon's lips. Hoping that Aquanis would be clever enough to catch his plan, he turned upon the bewildered policeman.

"Officer," he announced solemnly, "I believe you've been drinking."

"Young man!" O'Shannagon said, and burped loudly.

"What did I tell you?" Freddie turned to Aquanis, winking slyly. "I'll bet he even thinks you're a girl."

She grinned.

"Silly," she said. "He's just drunk enough to think I'm a fish."

O'Shannagon had suffered enough, and turned on them furiously.

"I'm running ye both in," he roared.

Then his eyes popped wide open, closed tightly in disbelief, and opened again reluctantly. Those two beers had sure done some funny things. The girl in the fountain had flipped the lower part of her body above the shallow water. He stared aghast at a long green tail, complete with scales and fins.

"Sure and I'm seein' mermaids," he moaned. "By the Shade of Saint Patrick, I am drunk." The night-stick dropped from his limp hand. He twisted on his heel and rushed away across the lawn.

IT WASN'T with too gentle a touch that Freddie Funk assisted his mermaid sweetheart from the water fountain. He stood guard by the clump of bushes that bordered the walk, while with some difficulty she again donned the evening gown and other flimsy essentials. There was a certain amount of forgiveness in Freddie Funk's heart as he carried her back across the park with the burnished hair drifting down around his shaking shoulders.

He hailed a cab and they were soon back at the studio. Locking the door quickly he breathed a sigh of relief. For the time-being they were safe from O'Shannagon and his ilk.

With Aquanis once again installed in her porcelain throne, Freddie sat down just outside the bathroom door. All the problems of the world were on his shoulders. He knew from the splashing water and gurgling laughter that Aquanis was once more enjoying her almost perpetual bath.

This was a hell of a predicament. He couldn't go around the rest of his life carrying her in his arms. Suspicions were bound to arise on all sides after the novelty had worn off. Horrible visions arose in Freddie Funk's mind. He dreamed of the day when through some crazy trick of fate he might slip on a banana peel and unveil the whole horrible secret. The fish peddler was already growing suspicious of Freddie's insatiable appetite for fish. Desperately he stood up and started to pace the floor. The sounds in the bathroom had quieted and he wondered for a moment if she were still there.

"Aquanis," he called softly. No answer. He went to the door and listened. She was sobbing pitifully. He turned away, and with heavy shoulders and a drooping heart, walked to the drawing-board. For the first time he realized that he was in love with a red-head mermaid. He sank down in the chair and brushed something akin to a crocodile tear from his eye.

Suddenly the sad droopy look on his face brightened and his shoulders straightened. There on the drawing board before his eager eyes was the same beautiful drawing of Aquanis that he had created with the magic pencil. The same image that had brought the girl living and breathing into his bachelor domain. More than that, the magic pencil was still lying on the table where he had cast it aside after being startled by that first embryonic splash from the bathroom.

Why, if he had created this gorgeous creature with a few simple lines of a pencil, couldn't he return her to Neptune by erasing what he had drawn?

A LUMP gathered in his throat and stuck there. No amount of gulping would wash it away. To send her back now would be a little less than murder. Most terrible yet, murder of someone he had learned to love dearly.

"Aquanis," he called softly.

This time she heard him and the sobbing stopped.

"Yes," she answered in a very quivery little voice.

"You're not very happy here, are you?"

"Oh, darn it!" Her voice was filled with returning spirit. "The top half of me is delirious with joy, but the bottom half seems— so— unnecessary."

Freddie's brain was thinking over an idea that would put modern science to shame. His brow clouded and little furrows of mistrust dug their way across his forehead. "Well, maybe...."

"Listen, kid," he shouted. "Are you game to try something?"

The voice that came back through the door sounded anything but game.

"Just— just so long as you don't send me away."

He picked the pencil up hurriedly and said in a not too confident voice.

"Tell me if it hurts."

Leaning over the drawing board, he erased just the tiniest section of her tail fin. A loud cry of surprise came from the tub.

"Oooh!"

"Did it hurt?"

Aquanis giggled. Evidently she was still hidden under the water and had experienced some queer emotion that startled her but brought no pain. Beads of perspiration popped out on Freddie's cheeks. With quick little jerking motions of his arm, he erased the entire lower part of her fish body, and left only the lovely head and undulating smoothness of her upper half on the paper.

A SCREAM of protest came from the bathroom. "Oh my goodness, Freddie," in a voice filled with bewilderment, "there's only half of me here."

He couldn't stop now.

"Just sit tight," he shouted hoarsely, "everything is going to be all right."

Now she was laughing at him.

"But how can I sit?" she cooed sarcastically. "There's nothing to sit on."

FORTUNATELY for Freddie, and more fortunate for Aquanis, Freddie Funk had studied well the more subtle proportions of the human body. With his head close to the drawing board, he sketched below the already completed part of her body, a pair of long graceful legs attached to rounding hips that were almost beautiful enough to sway even on canvas. Dexterously, he completed a newer and much more enticing Aquanis. A perfect creature, much more suited to the life of sidewalks and Chicago night life.

Before he looked up from the board, Freddie knew the penciled operation had been a complete success. Little squeals of laughter and the sound of wet pattering feet on the floor beyond the door told him that his happiness would soon be complete.

He dropped the pencil, rushed to the door and threw it open. A startled cry fell from the girl's lips.

"Freddie!"

He realized immediately that although she was very attractive, it would be more convenient right now if he could give her an extra pair of arms. The two which she had were busily and hopelessly attempting to conceal an entire consignment of newly acquired charms.

With a happy gulp, he blushed to the color of an over-ripe tomato, and stumbled back to the drawing board. Hastily he sketched the necessary clothing around his ex-mermaid's body.

"There!" he said. "Can you come out now?"

He turned momentarily to find her standing in the doorway blushing modestly under the new housecoat.

"What are you drawing now?" she asked.

He grinned happily. Aquanis tripped lightly across the room and leaned over his shoulders. Freddie Funk was sketching a flowing, satiny wedding-gown, complete with lace veil, wedding-ring and corsage.

_________________

9: O'Sheen Goes to the Dogs

Mammoth Detective, March 1943

"WHAM."

Officer "Paddy" O'Sheen stopped dead in his tracks in the darkness at the far end of Mangrove Street. His ruddy face darkened and the twirling night-stick stopped in mid air and fell to his side. The explosion of the shotgun against the night came clear and loud from the row of cheap cottages along Fox Creek.

O'Sheen crossed Mangrove at a dog-trot, trying as he ran to determine from where the shot had come.

Lights were flashing on down the street. The bump-bump of Shad Waller's wooden leg sounded sharply against the frost- covered sidewalk.

"Officer O'Sheen! Down here! Quick!"

Shad ran toward the stout cop as fast as his stiff leg would allow.

"It's Richard. He's gone and killed himself."

Paddy was winded. He didn't speak, but followed Shad back toward the little one story, frame cottage in which the two old men had always kept bachelor's haven. As he pounded heavily up the steps, Paddy O'Sheen was doing some furious thinking.

He didn't like it a little bit, he didn't. By the shade of Saint Patrick, Richard Rand had always been a kindly, God-fearing man. Lazy perhaps, but with a love for his dog Pat, and a liking for the out of doors and hunting. By all the Saints, what would such a man be doing shooting himself?

Shad followed him into the tiny, dirty bedroom and stood by the door as Paddy O'Sheen bent over the still body of the man on the floor.

"Heard the shot from the kitchen," Shad said. His jaws were working at high speed and tobacco-juice streaked from between heavy lips. Shad's shoulders were stooped forward as though this problem were too much for them to bear. "I can't for the life of me figure out why he done it.

Paddy O'Sheen's eyes darted over the shotgun, a twelve-gauge that lay on the floor by the blood-covered corpse. There was a bloody, jagged hole in Richard Rand's chest, almost the size of a tea-cup. O'Sheen looked away quickly, a soft Irish curse on his lips. Paddy O'Sheen didn't like violent death. It made him sick and angry inside.

"You run to the drug-store right away, Shad," he said. "Tell the Chief to send the death-wagon over. No use letting Richard lie here longer than need be."

Shad turned toward the outer door, hesitated and turned back again. His face was long and bewildered.

"Richard kinda complained of the distemper," he faltered. "I told him to get under the blankets and warm himself. Paddy, so help me I don't know...."

Paddy nodded.

"Sure, and I understand how you feel, Shad. Don't go worrying about it. Can't do Richard no good now. Run along and I'll take care of things here."

Shad stumped out toward the porch and the rising voices as the door opened told O'Sheen that a crowd had gathered.

HE started a search of the room. There was something missing. Something that Paddy couldn't quite put his thick finger on. The bed was torn up and the whole room was a mess. Not the kind of house his Marta kept, Paddy decided with a little smile.

Richard Rand's guns were on their hooks by the far wall. Richard loved his guns and his dog Pat above all else.

The dog, Pat!

That was it. Pat was missing. O'Sheen hadn't heard him bark, even when the shot was fired. Yet, Pat was dead loyal to Richard. The dog wouldn't go from the house or hunt, even with Shad Waller, not without Richard's permission.

"Glory be!" Paddy O'Sheen's lips moved soundlessly and he studied the rack of rifles and revolvers, fastened neatly against the wall.

Doc Hargreave's death-wagon was coming now. It rounded the corner of Mangrove and Vine with a deep-throated roar. Brakes squealed and it halted outside. The sudden rise of voices again told Paddy that Doc Hargreave would know all about the death of Richard Rand before he entered the house.

It was nearly midnight. Paddy slipped out of the back door and stood in the cold, bright moonlight. The fields beyond the shaft of Fox Creek were dew-covered and silvery under the silent light.

Paddy O'Sheen remembered Richard's love for those fields and a sudden lump gathered in his throat.

The bump-bump of Shad Waller's leg sounded against the frozen ground at the side of the house. The old man passed Paddy O'Sheen without a word, entered the kitchen and settled into his chair by the iron-bellied stove. The front door slammed. Richard Rand would be going on his last ride. Paddy followed Shad into the kitchen and sat down opposite him.

For a long time neither of them spoke. Paddy heard the death- wagon grind into low gear and draw away from the house. The lamp flickered and black smoke flickered up, sooting the chimney.

A faint bark sounded far away across the fields. Shad came forward in his chair, white hands with heavy blue veins showing as they clutched the chair arms.

"Sounds like Pat's coming home," Paddy O'Sheen said softly.

Shad grinned, and his teeth were brown with tobacco stain.

"Darned dog's been gone since morning," he said. "'Bout time he found his way home."

PADDY O'SHEEN came forward in his chair with visible effort, waiting. Minutes passed and the sullen expression on Shad Waller's face remained unchanged. The quick pad-pad of heavy paws sounded against the rough boards of the porch. Pat, the English setter, was whining and scratching at the door. With the toe of his foot, Paddy O'Sheen reached out and kicked the door open.

The dog bounced into the room with a happy bark, then stopped still, teeth bared at Shad Waller.

"Down!" Paddy said sharply.

Pat circled Shad slowly, and settled at Paddy's feet. He seemed to recognize Paddy O'Sheen's voice of authority. The dog was wet, and a short length of rope hung from his neck. He started to whine softly, and his brown eyes were filled with tears.

Paddy loosened his service pistol from his holster and drew it out. He balanced it carefully on one knee.

"Sorry, Shad!" he said. "I've been waiting for Pat. If he hadn't come back by himself, I'd have had to find him. As it is, things are a little easier."

Shad Waller sat very still, eyes narrowed. His eyes never wavered from the drawn gun.

"I don't know what you're aiming at," he said hoarsely. "You'd think I...."

"I'm aiming straight at your heart," Paddy answered coldly. "You killed Richard, Shad. If you move out of that chair I'll fill you with lead so quick that Saint Patrick will roll over and cheer for the Irish all over again."

Shad was motionless, jaws tight set.

"Prove it," he challenged. "They ain't many as know Richard and me didn't get along. I didn't have no reason to do away with him. You gotta say a lot more than that to put a scare into me."

O'SHEEN'S neck turned violent red. His trigger finger jumped with the nerves.

"You planned to kill Pat first," his voice was like ice. "You asked Richard if you could hunt Pat because that was the only way you could get him out of the house. Maybe you should have shot the dog after all."

Paddy went on. "You tied Pat in the woods and came back here to face Richard alone. You shot him in the chest at six feet and he never had a chance to fight back."

"You ain't talking sense," Shad growled.

"Did you ever try to hold a shotgun with the end of the barrel in your chest and the trigger where you could fire it?"

"Nope," Shad Waller grinned crookedly. "I ain't as big a fool as Richard was."

"You're a bigger one," O'Sheen said evenly. "It's possible to hold a shotgun that way, by pressing the barrel tight against you. The shot would leave a small hole the size of the end of the barrel. Shad, you blew a hole the size of a small dish. He couldn't have shot himself that way."

Shad staggered to his feet suddenly realizing the terrible manner in which he had betrayed himself. His eyes darted toward the still open door. Pat was up, hair stiff and fangs bared.

"Go on, Shad," O'Sheen said. "Run for it. I'll shoot you down before you take three steps."

Shad hesitated and sank back into his chair. His breath was coming out jerkily.

"I ain't running," he watched the dog as it stood there, waiting to spring.

"I shot Richard, but if it wasn't for the dang bullet hole...."

Paddy O'Sheen chuckled.

"It's true, it is, that when I saw that wound I knew it couldn't be suicide. I couldn't be sure you did it, Shad, until I remembered that Richard keeps Pat in the house during hunting season, and that no one ever hunts Pat except Richard and you. I guess Pat himself had a little to do with catching you, after all. You tied him somewhere while you killed Richard, then you went back and set him loose."

O'Sheen stood up, the big gun loose in his right hand. With his left, he stroked the fur around Pat's heavy neck.

"That's where he made his mistake, eh, Pat?

____________________

10: Valley of the Black Sun

Amazing Stories, April 1943

THE Gypsy girl's soft fingers traced the delicate lines in the palm of Gloria Duncan's hand. The Gypsy's forehead wrinkled slightly and when their eyes met across the table, there was a look of fear in them that made her lips firm and white. An expression of bewilderment that mirrored itself on the faces of Gloria Duncan and the tanned young man at her side.

"Well?" Gloria said. "I came to have my fortune told. What do you see in my future that's bright? Any tall, dark young men?"

She turned to blond-headed Ray Walters, and the deep love in her eyes betrayed her innermost thoughts. At the expression on his face, she hesitated. Walters looked as though he had seen a ghost. His dark eyes were on the Gypsy. Slowly, Gloria Duncan faced the Gypsy girl once more. The thing that had started as a lark for the two of them, had for some reason beyond her ken become dark and sinister.

"I-I don't understand," she didn't know why dread welled into her heart. "Please, what is the matter with you two?"

The Gypsy girl beyond the table stood up slowly. She moistened her lips.

"I'm sorry, Miss Duncan. You— have— no— future!"

Gloria Duncan laughed. Somehow, there was nothing else to do. They had come here, Ray and she, because Ebon Vale had gained no mean reputation as a foreteller of the future. Contrary to the world's usual picture of a fortune teller, Ebon Vale was lovely. Even as she stood before them now, swaying against the table, her wide-set blue eyes, the mass of golden hair piled in curls atop her head, made her more a queen than Gypsy.

Gloria had laughed because Ray believed in these silly things the readers of the palm could tell. Now, she laughed again, but the hysterical, frightening ring of her laughter mocked her from the curtains of the little room.

"Everyone has a future. I've paid to find out. I know this is all a joke, but after all..."

She stopped, waiting for Ebon Vale to explain herself. Ray Walters stepped close to the table that separated the couple from the strange girl with the golden hair, chilled by the look on Ebon Vale's face. There was too much fear there. Too much certainty. Her words had the ring of sincerity that frightened him.

"Look here, Miss Vale," his face was quiet and earnest, but pale. "Miss Duncan came here because we thought it would be fun. Gloria and I plan to get married next week. With all the emotional strain she is now under, I hate to worry her with foolish things. Be a sport and give her a good future with three kiddies and a cottage with roses, will you?"

He smiled at her, waiting. Ebon Vale's expression did not change. She drew away from them and her head lifted with that slight touch of haughtiness that characterizes true faith.

"You came here because you wished to laugh at me," she answered. "You thought me the dirty, tent-show fortune teller who would take your money and tell you lies. I will not take your money and I cannot lie."

"Then you mean...?"

"Exactly what I said," Ebon Vale answered through tight lips. "No one is more sorry than I that Miss Duncan has no future."

She tossed two coins on the table, turned her smoothly-clad young back to the bewildered couple and walked through the curtains. They stood alone, staring at the two half-dollars they had paid.

Gloria Duncan's fingers groped out and into Ray Walters' big brown palm. She looked up at him, smiling.

"Let's get out of here," she urged. "The darn place gives me the creeps."

There were tears in her eyes as she spoke. Gloria Duncan, for the first time in her carefree life, was deathly afraid.

SCAR VALLEY, Ray Walters had often thought, was the nicest bit of scenery he had ever had the pleasure of driving through. Nearly sixty miles from town and several minutes from the state highway, the rugged walls of Scar Valley were seen by few. They had often come here in the past, Gloria and himself to sit for hours along the Scar River, admiring the sharp, clean-cut cliffs and the green lushness of the valley itself.

There were tales in the little Pennsylvania towns about the "Scar." Simple hill people told their folk-tales of the whimsies, little round-bellied, flame-shaped people who darted up and down the cliffs at night, trying to lure travelers over the steep walls. All these stories made the Scar a more interesting place to visit.

Today, as Walters felt the hard firmness of the steering wheel once more in his grasp, he breathed a sigh of relief. Gloria had settled quietly into the soft leather cushions and was staring over the top of the cliffs and at the sun beyond.

"What a horrible girl," she shuddered suddenly. "It's— it's good to be out in the sun again."

Walters turned carefully, looked at her. Gloria Duncan was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. In three days they would be married. All the freshness of those cool chestnut locks of hair, the warm gray eyes would be his. Every inch of her from slim ankles to the laughing lips would be his treasure.

They rode in silence for several minutes. The valley was nearly three miles long and another five minutes would take them through the high gap that closed it from the world. In spite of himself, the Vale girl troubled Walters. He knew that Gloria was thinking of her also.

"You have no future."

He shivered, remembering the words and what they implied. What in the name of common sense could happen to Gloria? She was a picture of health.

Although the Pennsylvania sun still burned high in the sky, a slight haze came in slowly and darkened the valley. Without realizing it, Walters drove a bit faster. Something tense and shadowlike was dropping down over Scar Valley. He switched on his parking lights, he might meet another car on the road.

The haze grew thicker.

"Ray?"

"What is it, sweet?"

"That haze? I've never seen it this way before. It's getting quite dark."

He sat forward on his cushion, eyes glued to the darkening road. Still a mile to go. He switched on the headlights and they cut ahead through the gathering darkness. Ray Walters shook his head.

"I don't like it," he said worriedly. "Almost like an eclipse. There aren't any scheduled, are there?"

She snuggled closer to him in the broad seat, her fingers seeking his arm.

"I don't read the papers," she laughed nervously.

IT was getting to be a nuisance now.

The darkness had settled completely, making a world of blackness with them in the center of it, a world that something other than common sense told him consisted of Gloria, himself, and that queer girl back in the old house.

"I wish we hadn't come," Gloria's voice was becoming hysterical. "There's going to be a storm. Maybe— maybe this is what Ebon Vale meant."

Ebon Vale! Walters' fingers tightened on the wheel and automatically he pushed harder on the accelerator. His fingers were wet and white beads of perspiration started from his face.

Ebon Vale— black valley! One and the same. The girl's name meant black valley. Why hadn't he thought of it before?

The Scar River came in tight beside them now and the road plunged into the last mile. The canyon was close, twisting out toward daylight and safety. The girl at his side, overcome with terror, clung close to him. High above him on the blank walls of the canyon he thought he saw sudden flashes of flamelike light. They darted up and down against the black curtain of rock.

Far ahead around the last curve, daylight filtered in—the sunlight that he was fighting to reach. One more curve, high above the roaring chasm of the Scar's swirling bed...

A lonely pine marked the curve. Ray Walters spun the wheel around, felt the tires spin in six inches of loose sand. He realized with a curious chill that he had been going too fast! They started to turn, to twist toward the edge of the sand- covered rock. He jammed down the foot brake, pulling the wheel around as far as it would go. Gloria screamed. It echoed against the stone walls, hurtling back to them with all the pent-up fear that was in her heart. The car tipped crazily up on two wheels and spilled over the edge of the canyon. It fell end over end into the deep swirling water below.

Through Ray Walters' head, as they poised that one second in mid air, one message pounded home a million times.

"You have no future! You-have-no-future! You... have... no...

"YOU are safe now. There is no cause to worry." Ray Walters heard the voice seemingly from far away, and recognized it at once. It was Ebon Vale. He tried to sit up and was surprised to find that no river water soaked his clothing. Rather, he felt as though he had been long and refreshingly asleep. Nothing in Ebon Vale's room had changed.

Ebon Vale, cool and lovely, was standing over him. She was clothed in an ankle-length robe of shining, translucent material. It wrapped smoothly around her body leaving the wealth of long hair, the smooth shoulders free. As he stared up at her from the couch, she smiled. Something far-away and haunting in that smile brought him upright, frightened for Gloria.

"Gloria... where is she?" He tried to stand up, felt her force him backward with a light touch of her hand and realized that his body was without strength to resist. It was as though a strange spell had been cast over him.

"I told your fiancee that she had no future," Ebon Vale said swiftly. "She was killed when your car went over the cliff."

He forced himself upright, staring at her with angry eyes.

"You lie," he shouted hoarsely. "You— you..."

Ebon Vale's expression didn't change. The same look of patience was there. He allowed himself to fall back against the brocaded pillows of the couch.

"Believe me," she said. "It was not my choice that you stay in the Valley of the Black Sun. I am not in control..."

"Wait a minute," Walters got up from the couch, stood over her. She shrank away from him as he looked down at her. "The valley of what?"

"You were left alone in the Valley of the Black Sun," she explained. "Those who see the sun fade here, can never see it arise again elsewhere. Gloria Duncan is dead, but of the two, perhaps she is the most fortunate."

He clutched the softness of her arms above the elbows and shook her.

"You've done something to Gloria! The black sun business, the wreck. They were your doing."

"No! Please release me. I only predict. I cannot force the decisions of the Whimsies."

"Whimsies?" Walters released her, letting his arms fall hopelessly at his side. "Either I'm crazy or you are. What in the devil are the Whimsies?"

Ebon Vale stepped away from him, rubbing the red marks that showed on her arms where he had gripped her. Her head dropped forward humbly.

"Perhaps in your world I am crazy," she admitted. "When you hear the story of the valley you will believe me. They will convince you."

Ray Walters, feeling that he was about to lose the last bit of remaining sense he had, sank back to the edge of the couch. Could this be happening in the center of Pennsylvania on the banks of a normal river encased by the granite walls of a natural valley? But there was no mistaking Ebon Vale's sincerity. At least to him, she was being honest.

"All right," he said finally. "Tell me the story and what part I'm to play in this crazy business."

"You play no part," she answered simply. "The Whimsies have chosen you to be my mate. You will live here away from the sight of normal man and act as figure-head ruler of the Whimsies, even as I will be their Queen."

"THERE are tone scales and light scales," said Ebon Vale, "that are not audible or visible to human senses."

She sat on the low rock wall of the garden behind the great house, her fingers toying with the stem of a queerly blackened daisy. Ray Walters sat at her feet, conscious of the intense blackness of everything about him. The valley looked the same as it had before, with the difference that everything was in black and white. The trees, the land, the cliffs that towered in a distance, were in fine shades of black and gray. His eyes saw no color, even in the girl. She was like a figure cut from black paper and placed there on the wall before him. He listened patiently, trying to find some clue to this insanity.

"Most people consider the Whimsies are part of a fairy tale," Ebon Vale went on. "For many years people have seen them here at night, bright flaming beings, and gone away thinking that they could not actually exist.

"Yet, the Whimsies are very much alive. Some say they are imps of hell, sent here to practice their mischief."

"And you?" Ray asked. "How did a girl like yourself get into this black mess?"

She leaned back against a stone that was higher than the rest.

"The Whimsies chose me because I had come here to live. They changed my vision so that I saw their world in this valley, not my own. Just as, in a like manner, they have changed you.

"The Valley of the Black Sun is as it is, because in your eyes as they now are, a vast curtain of cloud hangs over it. The sun filters through that screen changing it to a light that is not visible to the human eye. If you do not believe, look up."

Walters studied the sky above them. Far to the west a vast ball of blackness was sinking over the cliff. The sun turned black as night. Yet the valley seemed to responds to its light, sending shades of gray and black across the opposite wall.

"It will be night soon," Ebon Vale said. "Then the Whimsies will come to take their place here."

The blackness of the sun was gone. The girl stood up, looking pale and lovely against the wall.

"It's all wild— impossible," Walters confessed, "but I'm beginning to believe it. What of the Whimsies? I still know little of the part I am to play."

Ebon Vale's face grew tense. She stepped close to him and her hair, blowing in the dark air, swept from her neck and against his coat. Her arms reached up and around his neck.

"I am alone with you, a girl who is to be your queen," her lips were warm against his. He pulled his head away, startled.

"You still wish to know the part you are to play?" she asked, drew his head down again.

This time he did not force her from him. With the warmness of her pressed to him, lips soft against his own.

For a moment he forgot Gloria and the world he had lost only this afternoon. He closed his eyes tightly.

The depths of his eyeballs suddenly shot white hot fire into his brain.

There was daylight; bright, flashing sunlight in his eyes. He wasn't holding Ebon Vale. In the flashing intensity of the light that cut into him, he saw Gloria. She stood, arms about his neck, staring up at him beseechingly. Her expression of humiliation and sorrow sent him reeling backward. With effort he opened his eyes again.

Ebon Vale was still there, several feet from him, staring with fright at the man before her.

"Gloria!" he shouted. "I saw her. She was here, in my arms."

He was sure now, that Gloria was not dead. Whatever the spell that was upon him, Gloria was alive and suffering. He would for the time being, do as he was told. Later, when he knew something of this wild fantasy he faced, there would be time. There was the small comfort that when he wished, his longing could for a minute erase this world in black and white and regardless of its terrors, bring back his own colorful surroundings.

"Okay, my Queen," he said with a touch of sarcasm in his voice. "I'll behave myself from now on."

Did he fancy it, or was there a sudden look of intense hatred in the eyes of the girl who took his hand.

"We must go now," she said. "The Whimsies will be waiting."

THE queer black sun was gone. Scar Valley seemed asleep under a black drape of night. As Ray Walters followed the girl down the incline from the old house, he wanted to close his eyes once more; summon that vision of his own world. He thought of Gloria and that look in her eyes of horrified anguish. Ebon Vale had said she was dead. But she wasn't!

The road was short to the cliff. He followed Ebon Vale quietly, depending on her as he would a staff. He had been here before. He and Gloria had sat beneath these very trees, feasting their eyes on the green of the valley. It was changed now... dark and dead, like a flat photo in black and white.

He stumbled forward like a man in a deep dream. Ahead, on the face of the cliff tiny flashes of red flame flickered up and faded against the rock. There were more of them now, seeming to fly inward toward the rock wall&mdash converging in a group around the large hole of a cave.

The girl turned, a smile on her lips.

"It will not be long," she whispered. "You need not be afraid."

At that moment fear was far from Walters' mind. Only a curious, dull feeling of distrust. A feeling that Ebon Vale, her body swaying ahead of him like a white torch in the darkness, was planning his destiny alone. The feeling that this world of black was of her making and hers alone. But in spite of every attempt he made to hate her, there came that overpowering attraction to her body.

The forest cleared and across a short stretch of black meadow a great hole opened into the face of the cliff. Through it poured a steady, darting stream of the red flashes he had seen against the wall.

"We are here," she stopped, took his arm and held herself close to him. "You may lead."

Walters crossed the meadow like a man led to his own hell and went down the sharp incline into the cave. Ahead was only blackness. It was broken by the steady flow of the fire-like Whimsies who darted through the air on all sides of them.

From below, warm air and the steady chatter of tiny, musical voices drifted up. He went down, Ebon Vale's hand still tightly clenched on his arm.

Then the cave opened wide and a huge chamber confronted them. Walters stopped short, his eyes wide with what he saw. The Whimsies -were alive! They had sharply pointed little faces, tiny horns and paunchy bellies that appeared to have absorbed more than their share of food.

They were tiny folk, hardly more than eight inches tall. Their bodies were for the most part, feathery and brightly red. Long, arrow-pointed tails twisted behind them as they swirled through the air.

EBON VALE went ahead of him again, across the open cavern to a huge rock that was carved roughly to seat a human figure. She turned her face to him, sank back into the rock chair and motioned him toward her. The cavern was alive with the light of the Whimsies now. He went forward and sank down beside her.

"You need not fear for your safety or your sanity," she said quietly. "Some would call these people my brain children. They are harmless."

The Whimsies seemed wildly excited now. They swirled into a tight circle around the pair and one of them settled to Ebon Vale's knee.

He was slightly larger than the others and his tail spread across her lap and dropped over the edge. He spoke, and his voice was loud and shrill, like a small child's.

"Our queen brings a visitor?"

She reached down and stroked the sprite's head gently.

"I bring you a ruler," she corrected gently. "He will stay with me and help with our affairs."

At once an angry shout went up around her.

"We need no king. Our land is well ruled by you. The affairs of the Whimsies are not for humans."

Ebon Vale held her arm aloft. Anger flashed in her eyes and for the second time, Ray Walters could swear he saw cruel sadism there.

"I wish this man to rule," she shouted. "My wish is not to be questioned."

The Whimsie on her knee turned to the flashing horde behind him.

"The valley of the black sun will be ruled as our queen sees fit," he squealed. "You will remain silent."

Returning his attention to Ebon Vale, he continued.

"There are affairs for our queen tonight," his tiny eyes flashed devilishly.

"Hearts to be mended— fun to be had— worries are over— the Whimsies are mad."

The word mad— mad— mad went bounding around the cavern on the lips of the tiny throng.

"It's all a damned nightmare!" Ray Walters whispered to himself. "A crazy, insane dream."

His head was pounding with the shrill shouting in his ears. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to escape the sound. Then it happened again...

At once Ebon Vale was gone. The Whimsies were gone. In the girl's place, seated on the cave chair was Gloria Duncan.

HE wanted to speak to her, but he couldn't. She sat there before him, in the empty black cave. Her lips moved and he knew she was begging him to free her.

"Take me home," the lips moved freely. "Please, take me home before it's too late."

"Too late for what?" he wanted to scream. Something bit sharply into his shoulder. His eyes snapped open with pain. The Whimsie had jumped from Ebon Vale's knee and plunged his hard, arrow-like tail into Walters' shoulder. The girl seemed to be waiting for him, still angry from her quarrel with the Whimsies.

"You are tired?" she asked. Her voice was edged with sarcasm. "I suggest that your eyes remain open."

"Yes," the Whimsie settled once more on her lap. "You'll be much more contented."

Something within Ray Walters rebelled.

He wondered suddenly why he had not fought his way out of here long ago. Why he had succumbed so gracefully to Ebon Vale's every wish? He was still sure that somewhere Gloria was waiting for him alive. If he could not force himself from the dream in any other manner, he'd fight his way out.

He stood up quickly, wondering what the reaction would be.

"You grow bored so soon?" Ebon

Vale arose, to stand before him with flashing eyes. "I suggest you cause me no further trouble. It was difficult enough to obtain you."

"Obtain?" Blind anger came over him. "I don't understand. Did you plan all this deliberately?"

He wanted to turn away. To go from the cave in spite of all she could do to prevent it. The slumberous passion that arose in Ebon Vale's eyes held him as though he were tied. She pressed against him and the warmth of the entire place seeped into his body. Her eyes seemed to drink from his own and as she stared, Walters realized that he was being hypnotized as surely as though he stared into the eyes of a cobra.

The intense desire to sleep came over him. The cave flashed bright with the flame of the Whimsies, and grew black before his eyes. In his sleep nothing troubled him. No visions of Gloria. No black sun.

LIKE a broken record, the voice said over and over:

"I am Akimba— I am Akimba— I am Ak..."

"Go away Akimba and let me sleep." Walters rolled over on the rough floor, felt a sharp twinge of pain in his shoulder and sat up. Rubbing his eyes he looked about.

He was still in the cavern, but the place was deserted. Or was it? What about Akimba, the troublesome voice?

He stood up and brushed the sand from his trousers. Yes, Akimba was there. He was the Whimsie who had sat on Ebon Vale's knee. The little red sprite who had ruled the works. Akimba fluttered down from his place on the cave shelf, hit the floor with a thump and strutted across the sand. Now that Walters had time to look him over more closely, the little chap wasn't half as hard to believe. He had legs that were feather-covered, and a small bare stomach. As he walked, he wobbled a little under the weight of his load.

"Too much honey," Akimba said wryly, rubbing his stomach. "Can't leave the stuff alone."

As insane as it seemed to talk with something one couldn't even believe existed, Ray Walters had no choice.

"Where is the girl, Ebon Vale," he asked. "The rest of— of you. Why are we alone?"

Akimba grasped his stomach and pulled it up to the position of an inflated chest.

"They're gone," he announced proudly. "I've been assigned to guard you. Three black suns have passed since you slept first. We are to go to our queen now that you have awakened."

The thought entered Walters' mind that here was an opportunity to escape. What possible chance would the tiny Whimsie have to hold him, once he decided to go?

"If you're looking me over with any thought of me being helpless," the sprite said suddenly, "perish the thought or it will perish you. My tail can get mighty poisonous when I want it to."

Walters chuckled.

"Smart little fellow aren't you?"

Akimba snorted.

"None smarter," he agreed. "I even had ideas of being king until you came along."

Hold everything, Walters thought. Perhaps there is a chance.

"Just what does this kingship consist of," he asked. "Now that I'm here, I'd like to know my duties."

"It ain't the job it used to be," Akimba's face darkened. "There was a time..."

He stopped suddenly, as though fearing to go on.

"There was a time..." Walters prompted. "Go on, tell me about yourself." Akimba settled down comfortably.

"If she finds out," he said with a glance toward the door, "I'll lose my neck. Well! What the heck, why not?"

AKIMBA talked fast, his tiny voice sounding like a badly tuned flute.

"The valley of the black sun was our home long before Ebon Vale came here," he started. "People have seen us for centuries. We do no harm in our cave and at a distance we just look like fireflies."

"But where did you come from?" Walters broke in. "What do you do here?"

Akimba's eyes twinkled.

"Ever hear of Rip Van Winkle and the dwarfs?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Well, we're like the dwarfs," Akimba went on. "We were here from the beginning, and there just isn't any reason for us. We like it here. No one troubled us until Ebon Vale came.

"You see, she learned the magic of the black sun."

Walters was growing interested.

"How," he asked, "am I able to see your world and the black sun? When I came here before, I never suspected."

"That's a simple story," Akimba answered. "Ebon Vale is a strange woman. No, let me say she is the complex personalities of many women. She came here many years ago and in her heart was the secret of seeing things no other could see."

Walters sat down and crossed his legs. For a moment they were silent.

"Why?" Walters asked, "do you say she is a part of many women?"

Akimbo grinned wisely.

"Ebon Vale would have died a hundred years ago, were she not able to utilize the minds of younger women to preserve her own body."

The Whimsie's words left Walters thunderstruck.

"A hundred— years...?"

"Ebon Vale came here two hundred years ago. She came from an eastern country across the sea. She remains invisible until she wishes to regain more youth. Then, with her secrets, she draws young girls to her side and takes from them what she wishes."

In Walters' brain there surged the memory of Gloria Duncan. How, at times, when he closed his eyes, she and not Ebon Vale was before him.

Then this was the explanation. It was not Ebon Vale at all that was beside him, but Gloria Duncan, imprisoned within the Gypsy's body.

Akimba was growing impatient with the pause.

"Well," he asked, "what more does the mighty, but helpless king wish to know?"

"The black sun?" Walters begged. "Tell me about it. Why do I see it?"

Akimba shook his head sadly.

"That I do not know. It is some sort of spell that Ebon Vale casts upon you. I think you humans call it hypnosis. I understand little, except that without it we Whimsies would be rid of all you humans, and could dance about the cliffs to our hearts' content without bowing to a queen and king."

He spat the last words out as though they were very distasteful to him.

IN Ray Walters' mind a plan was slowly formulating. A plan that might be wild, but not nearly as fantastic as the things he had just listened to.

"How would you like to be free?" he asked suddenly. "How would you like to be rid of both your queen and myself?"

Akimba's eyes danced with joy, then his face darkened.

"Can't be done," he said. "We've tried."

"Give me a chance," Walters begged. "I'd do anything to get out of this nightmare myself."

Akimba thought for a long time. His tail danced about restlessly.

"All right," he said finally. "Go ahead, and welcome. What do I have to do?"

"Just get me out of this place," Walters answered quickly. "Show me the way back to Ebon Vale's house and I'll do the rest."

"You can't find out her secret," Akimba cried. "She'll kill us all."

"How?"

"With her magic." Akimba was truly distressed. "She makes us bring her food, clothing. She makes us frighten all people away so that she may have the valley to herself. If we don't do it, she'll destroy the screen that brings the black sun and we will all perish."

"Listen to me, little man. This valley protects you and her, because your eyes are tuned to the screen that makes it dark and safe. To us humans who come here every day there is no black sun. It is the bright sun, splashing down on green and brown and all the colors of the universe."*

* Let no thought of fantasy enter your minds so far as the "black sun" is concerned. There exist, beyond the approach of the human eye, certain light rays that are invisible. Experiments create artificial black light. Yet there can be no doubt that it is possible for black light to exist in a natural state; in other words, light that we cannot see with the eyes we now have, and yet would be clearly visible with some other type of eye.

Watch a dog some time as he stops suddenly in his track and starts barking loudly at some object that in our eyes does not exist. Is there any proof that it does not exist in the dog's eyes? —Ed.

Akimba was properly startled with this statement.

"You don't mean that Ebon Vale has been lying to us That she has no power over our world?"

Walters nodded.

"I mean exactly that," he said. "If you existed for centuries before she came, why should you depend on her now?"

Akimba stood up, stomping his feathered feet angrily.

"What are we waiting for?" he shouted.

RAY WALTERS was almost upon the old house before he could see it through the black mist that covered his eyes. Akimba, anxious and worried, he left behind at the cave door. Once, just before he opened the door to the old house in the valley, Walters closed his eyes. Sun flashed in them and the valley was green again. Daylight blinded him and he opened them quickly.

Somehow Ebon Vale's spell only partly worked on him. It Was on her failure that he must depend. If, when the struggle came, could he close his eyes tightly enough?

The door opened protestingly under his hand. The huge room at the front was empty. He could hear a silvery voice, singing somewhere beyond the door. Opening it slowly he saw Ebon Vale as lovely as ever, standing with her back turned to him. She turned, as though sensing his presence.

He went to her, clenching his teeth. She tried to catch his eyes with hers, but he looked straight at her throat and riveted his gaze there. Her arms went about him, holding him close to her. For that next instant he fought off the desire to look at her face; her smooth cheek, her deep eyes.

A shiver ran through him and he remembered that this was not a girl, but a creature who ruled the valley with youthfulness stolen from others.

Closing his eyes tightly, he concentrated on seeing Gloria Duncan. He heard her gasp with surprise as his arms went around her waist. Then, as she screamed her hatred, he pressed his lips tightly to hers.

The brilliance of a thousand suns seemed to strike him directly in the face. Light tore through his head, pounding against every nerve in his body. He opened his eyes.

He saw Ebon Vale, as lovely as she had ever been. Her body, tense and fighting at first, gradually relaxed against him. Her eyes were vague in his sight. He could only see lips and soft, waving hair. The face changed. The pain went from his head and it was as though he was gradually awakening. Coming through the darkness into the light, and the light felt good once more.

He knew she was drawing him back and that she was no longer frightened, but determined. The couch was behind them, but before he reached it the face close to his began to change. The features of Ebon Vale faded. In their place were the blurred, lovable dimples, the faithful eyes of Gloria Duncan. He held her closer, breathing a prayer for what was taking place. Suddenly they were falling, together, through space.

WHEN Gloria Duncan awakened that morning in City Hospital, she was radiantly happy once more. She looked around her at the clean curtains, the spotless walls.

"Ray!" She raised her voice gently.

Walters sat beside her smiling. His eyes were covered with a bandage.

"Yes, Sweet. Feel better this morning?"

She sighed, stretching back comfortably on the smooth pillows.

"Much, Ray. I'd like you to tell me something."

For a moment fear ran through him. Fear for what she might know. He steeled himself.

"Go on," he urged. "Ask your questions."

Gloria sat up, leaning on one elbow.

"Doctor Saunders says they found us lying unconscious in each other's arms, on the river bank," she said. "How did we escape?"

"I think in the excitement I must have pulled you out of the water and then passed out," he answered.

She smiled at him tenderly.

"Doctor says I'll have these bandages off my eyes in a couple of days," he said. "I can't understand what happened to my eyesight. He says that I was stone blind when they brought me in. A film which he can't describe, is already fading away."

Ray Walters took her hand in his, after fumbling for it.

She said: "We're safe, the fortune teller was wrong, I have a future. That's all there is to it."

"I wish that was all there is to it," he said softly. "They couldn't locate Ebon Vale when they went for her. There was some talk about finding the body of an old, woman in the house where she had been."

Walters held her tightly against him.

"It's like the old fables of the firefly Whimsies," he said. "You can't believe the things the old timers say about Scar Valley. It's a breeding place for myths."

"It was odd," Gloria breathed as he released his hold on her. "I had sure a mess of conflicting dreams until I regained consciousness here. You know, I saw those Whimsies you mentioned..."

__________________

11: These Shoes Are Killing Me

Mammoth Detective, May 1943

INSPECTOR JAMES HALL was, like his office, a classical example of unadorned simplicity. Hall didn't like puzzles and he didn't like details. Puzzles troubled his solid head, and right now, as he slammed down the phone, the toughest problem he'd faced in months sent three thick fingers scratching over his bald head. He sat very still for a few minutes, shaking his head back and forth like an angry bull. Then his thick fist crashed down on the desk top in sudden decision. When he picked up the phone once more there was a suggestion of a twinkle in the dark, deep set eyes.

"Hello! Sergeant? Listen! Send in Robert Case. Yes, the little wonder boy of the detective squad."

He listened impatiently as the receiver chattered back at him. His jaw hardened into set lines.

"Yes! Well, I think we've got something here that will keep little Robert Case busy for a while before he solves it. Quite a while!"

Inspector Hall dropped the phone and buzzed the main desk. Over the communication set he ordered a squad car to stand by. Tall and homely as a bald eagle, Hall unfolded himself from the chair and jerked on his overcoat. He was just pulling the battered felt down where it would conceal his lack of head shrubbery when a light knock sounded on the door.

"Come on in, Case," he shouted.

The door opened and a small, dapper individual entered. Robert Case had an innocent face that made him look like a choir boy who had just left church. He approached Hall with short steps and Hall was suddenly conscious of how carefully polished Case's shoes were in comparison to his own well worn boots.

"Bob," Hall began before Case could open his mouth. "I got troubles."

Robert Case was slipping into the soft overcoat he had carried on his arm. He smiled.

"Man or woman? Knife, gun or poison? Your troubles are mine, Inspector. Let's share them."

Hall leaned on his desk, extracted a Havana from his pocket and started to chew the end of it.

"Murder," he said shortly. "Murder by strangulation."

Robert Case seemed to deflate. A pained expression crossed his face.

"Look Jim," he pleaded, "I'm not cut out for this rough stuff. Go get your man, convict him and burn him. I'll stay here and play bridge with myself."

He started to remove his coat.

"Wait a minute," Hall said. "I'm willing to get the murderer all right. There's just one point I thought might interest you."

Case said nothing. He was accustomed to Inspector Hall's build-ups.

"The man choked his victim and tossed her into the swamp just outside the city limits on Route 6. He left a raft of footprints all around the body. Bob, every damned one of those prints were made with a shoe from the left foot."

Case watched him silently, but his wide, gray eyes narrowed.

"That would point to a one-legged murderer hopping around, fighting with the girl and finally killing her?"

Hall nodded hopelessly.

"For a while I was almost ready to believe that," he admitted. "But, by the saints, Case, it's impossible."

Robert Case grinned. He slapped a spotless hat over well combed hair, and turned abruptly toward the door.

"That's what I thought," he said. "What are we waiting for?"

ROUTE 6 crossed a section of muddy, reed grown swamp land just west of the city limits. Beyond the drainage canal, Inspector Hall saw the usual line of press cars, two squad cars and the death wagon. He pressed the brake pedal down gently and they rolled to a stop at the rear of the line. Down the steep bank a crowd had gathered at a respectable distance from the body. He opened the door, stepped out— and slipped on the clay bank. Robert Case, following at a more sedate speed, watched Inspector Hall take a complete turn on his back and land in the slime at the bottom. With no visible emotion on his face, Case went down the bank carefully. Hall was on his feet, face red and angry. Mud covered his overcoat.

"Jumping into this murder case with more gusto than usual, aren't you, Jim?"

Hall muttered darkly under his breath and the men who waited parted to form a straight line between him and the girl on the ground. Hall, head down, approached the body and walked around it in a wide circle. His eyes were on those footprints. The first phone report had been accurate. The girl was dressed in a white evening gown, low at the neck and covered by a short fur coat. Her dress was torn up one side, revealing a left leg. The throat was marked and bruised. Footprints were visible in the mud all about her. He went to his knees to study them, and felt rather than saw Case standing above him.

Robert Case's face was a study in dull anger. When he spoke, his words were low and choked with feeling.

"Yes! I see the prints. They're all from a left shoe. They're a damned clever start to what the murderer thinks is a perfect crime."

He paused, as though to catch his breath.

"Jim! I think the man must be a maniac to think he can get away with this. He's tried so hard that he'll trip himself into our arms by himself; and when he does..."

Hall stood up and tried to clean the mud from his clothing.

"That's all," he said quietly. "I knew when the boys called me that this wasn't the usual murder."

Case nodded.

"Tell your blood hounds to clean the place up. I want to know who the girl is. Make sure that strangulation was the real cause of her death."

He turned away from the figure on the ground and climbed carefully back up the steep bank to the side of the car.

Away from the body, he seemed to relax. Hall followed him, and reached the small man as he painstakingly scraped the last bit of mud from the highly polished shoes. Case looked up at the disgruntled inspector and the old smile came back.

"Just one thing, Jim," he suggested. "Don't look for a one-legged man. If you couldn't get down that bank with both pins under you, he could have never managed to force the girl to go down there."

ROBERT CASE had a headache. For a man who made his living tracking down killers, his heart was much too tender. He sat across from Inspector James Hall's desk, one knee crossed carefully over the other, his eyes glued to a two-page report. The details in black and white were even more horrible than the sight of the body itself. He read steadily for some minutes, then dropped the paper on the desk and stared steadily into Hall's puzzled eyes. The Inspector returned the stare.

"So she was Helen Kane," Case said slowly. "Helen Kane, age twenty-six, came from a decent family, worked in a down town office and lived for nights like last night when she could put on the only nice things she owned and go stepping out among the bright lights."

Hall said nothing.

"That still leaves us without the right foot to stand on," Case added. He stood up, brushed out the wrinkles on his trousers and folded the papers carefully into an envelope.

"If I'm not mistaken, Jim, we'll get along quite nicely by waiting for a few hours. These things never stop after the first round. Let me know if anything comes up that seems to link with Helen Kane."

Hall seemed to awaken from his trance suddenly, switched the unlighted Havana to the far corner of his lips and grunted.

"Sounds good the way you put it," he admitted. "Unfortunately the department can't wait for murderers to hang themselves. We've got to go after this thing while it's hot. Every hour we wait will make the trail that much harder to pick up."

Case hesitated at the door, turned half around and slipped into his coat.

"I wouldn't be too sure of that if I were you," he said. "Being small the way I am, I've learned that sometimes pretty big things come to those who wait long enough for them."

The door clicked softly and he was gone. Hall swore aloud and slapped an impatient hand on the call bell. In three minutes he was dictating orders at high speed. Inspector Hall believed in action, and stressed it in every move of his impatient hands. To wait was to worry and worry could make him a driving maniac inside of twenty-four hours.

"I THINK we've got something here," Robert Case said, as the squad car lurched under them and slipped out into the foggy, rain spattered court. "You say the policeman found Helen Kane's picture on the wall of his room?"

Inspector Hall nodded grimly. In the rush from the office he had forgotten his hat. Under the pale light of the car interior, his bald head shone.

"Yeah. Sergeant Graves reported ten minutes ago that a man had been found dead in his room at the LaGrove Hotel. He didn't think much about it until he found this framed picture of Helen Kane on the wall. It was signed, 'With love to Glenn.' He called me at once, thinking I'd be interested."

"Are you?" Case's voice was innocent enough. "I mean, do you suppose there's a connection?"

"Connection?" Hall studied the smaller man at his side with eyes that questioned Case's sanity. "Good Lord, man, it's as plain as the nose on your face. This guy got rid of his sweetheart, and then committed suicide himself. I'll bet you..."

"I wouldn't!" Case held up a restraining hand. "Don't bet a cent, Jim. You've lost every bet we've ever made, remember?"

Hall stopped talking abruptly but the twinkle in his eyes grew more pronounced as they approached the downtown section. This time, he decided, Bob Case could pack up his bag of mysteries and jump in the lake. The case had been simple and to the point. He liked them that way. No headaches.

The LaGrove Hotel was a small, neat building sandwiched between two theatres. The night clerk took them up at once, beating a hasty retreat after he pointed out the door to the dead man's room.

Hall shouldered his way through the half dozen reporters and uniformed men who stood silently inside the door. Case, taking advantage of the Inspector's interference, followed in his wake.

They stood close to the edge of the bed, staring down at the figure sprawled across it. The coroner, young and impatient at his late visit, looked up from his job of emptying the dead man's pockets.

"Good evening, Inspector Hall. Suppose you want the details?" He held out a handful of trinkets, started to talk like a well-trained machine.

"Name's Glenn Halliday. Got that from his pocket book. Age about thirty-two. Was in good health. Died from a gunshot in the head. He held the gun close to his temple and fired it after stretching out on the bed and removing his shoes."

He stopped abruptly, and watched Robert Case go to one knee at the side of the bed. The little detective reached under the draped blanket and drew a pair of shoes into the light. Hall's breath sucked in quickly.

"I'll be damned," he said.

Case stood up, drew a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully removed dried clay from his finger tips.

"From the looks of this," he admitted, "that's exactly what you'll be for some time— damned."

The shoes were of average material, low cut and sporty. The left shoe was covered with mud, dried and flaking from the instep. The right shoe was clean and polished. It had not been worn enough to soil the bottom of the smooth sole.

THE men in the room were silent. Hall's eyes glued themselves to the shoes on the floor, then swept up suspiciously to the still, wax-like body stretched across the bed. The lips were cold and sealed tightly. He would never learn from them the mystery of the clean right shoe. A low whistle escaped the coroner's lips. He stood up, passed the handful of trinkets from the dead man's pocket to Inspector Hall and put on his hat.

"He's been dead since last night," he said.

"I'd set the time sometime between eight and ten o'clock."

Hall's head ducked mechanically, his eyes still staring at the body on the bed.

"Could it be possible...?"

An audible chuckle escaped Robert Case's lips.

"Jim," he begged, "don't say it. You're getting to the place where you actually believe the man hopped all over town on one leg."

Hall pivoted, facing the diminutive Case. His face was red with anger.

"Sure," he admitted shortly. "I'm crazy. The man has a muddy left shoe, there were left shoe prints all around Helen Kane's body, he has her picture on his wall, but he couldn't possibly have murdered her. If that's what you're trying to tell me, suppose I admit you're right. Just one point, Mister Case. How did he do it?"

Case shrugged his shoulders.

"Damned if I know, Jim," he admitted coolly. "But if one of the boys will hold the door open for a quick escape, I'm going to suggest that one of his legs might be short enough so it never touched the ground. I was never meant for this all-night murder business, and I'm going home right now and get a decent night's rest."

Inspector Hall's answer fell on unappreciative ears. Robert Case was beating a hasty retreat down the long corridor toward the single elevator.

PERCY WALLACE was a sincere, earnest young man. Attired in a neat brown suit, plain silk tie, and juggling a nervous Adam's apple, he awaited Inspector James Hall's pleasure. Percy Wallace had announced his presence in a rather meek voice, asked to see Hall about the Kane killing and now sat on the edge of the hard bench in the waiting room.

Somewhere in the hollow halls of police headquarters, Percy Wallace heard a voice thunder:

"Well! What are you waiting for, you pinhead? Send him in! Call Case and get him in here. Start moving before your legs rust off!"

A very red-faced police sergeant appeared before Percy Wallace. Some of Inspector Hall's wrath carried itself with him.

"Come on," he growled. "The Inspector says you can come in."

Mr. Wallace arose, stroked his Adam's apple tenderly and cleared his throat. "Th— thanks."

He followed the blue coat of the law down a short hall, and found himself facing an open door. The door was very large and the room behind it did not look inviting. Percy Wallace stepped inside and faced the huge, baldheaded man behind the desk.

Inspector Hall stood up slowly, feeling stiffness in his bones. He scratched his head rather thoughtfully at the sight of his mild visitor and motioned him to a chair by the desk.

"Mr. Wallace?"

Percy Wallace nodded. Hall's great hand came across the desk top and folded over Wallace's hand. Percy Wallace winced and wriggled his freed fingers experimentally.

Robert Case came in silently, acknowledged an introduction and sat down. He picked up a law book from the desk, never bothering to take a second look at the slim young man with the bobbing Adam's apple.

Inspector Hall started chewing carefully on his cigar.

"Well, Mr. Wallace?" his voice was a little impatient. "I understand you have information concerning the murder of Helen Kane?"

At the mention of the girl, Robert Case's eyes darted up and over the newcomer, then returned to the open book.

At last Percy Wallace had something to grasp. Something he could talk about with interest and personal knowledge.

He nodded his head slightly and leaned forward in his chair.

"I'm a shoe salesman at the Regent Shoe House," he started. "Saturday I sold Mr. Glenn Halliday a pair of shoes."

"Halliday?" Hall shot forward, his hands outspread on the desk top. "You mean the man who committed suicide at the Hotel LaGrove?"

Wallace swallowed his Adam's apple, looked quickly at the little man still buried in the law book and turned back to Hall.

"Y— yes sir!" His voice was strong and determined. "I saw his picture in the morning paper and I read all about the shoes and I have a confession to make."

"Confession? You mean you're the murderer?"

PERCY WALLACE gulped in alarm, and Robert Case chuckled ever so slightly. He didn't look up. Hall's face turned red, and Wallace hastened to explain.

"Oh, no sir!" He would have to explain everything now, and in a hurry. The big man behind the desk frightened him badly.

"You see, it was like this. This man, Glenn Halliday, came in Saturday afternoon to buy a pair of shoes. He tried on a number of them but Mr. Halliday didn't seem easy to fit."

Hall nodded impatiently.

"Never mind the shoe business," he said. "Tell me only the things that have something to do with the murder."

Wallace looked surprised.

"But everything has to do with it."

Hall groaned aloud; and behind his book, Case suddenly turned red and started to read with renewed interest. Percy Wallace went on with his story.

"As I told you, Mr. Halliday had trouble with his feet. Well, at last I managed to find a perfect fit. The shoes were wrapped and he paid for them and left. As is customary, I took his name and address for my sales slip. It wasn't until closing time that I discovered the ghastly error."

Percy Wallace stopped talking, took a deep breath and swallowed his Adam's apple once more. Hall's face was livid.

"Discovered what?" he roared.

"Why, the two right shoes," Wallace explained. "By mistake I had given Mr. Halliday two left shoes. As soon as we closed, I packed away the opened boxes and found two rights with no lefts to match. You can imagine how I felt?"

Hall shook his head.

"I can't," he admitted, "but go on."

"Of course there was only one thing to do. I rushed straight to Mr. Halliday, and took the correct shoe to him. I will say he wasn't a gentleman about it."

Robert Case emerged from the book and listened quietly.

"Mr. Halliday was in a rage. He said he had had to go out on a special errand and had no choice but to wear the two left shoes. I told him how sorry I was and although he had made both pairs useless, I insisted on leaving the other right shoe and taking the muddy one back to the store."

A deep sigh escaped Inspector Hall's lips.

"That's the song I've been waiting to hear," he said in deep satisfaction. "Well, Case, I guess that settles it."

Case smiled pleasantly.

"Never mind, Mr. Wallace. Drop in anytime." He went out swiftly, never looking back to where the slim shoe salesman stood shaking hands with a completely self-satisfied Inspector James Hall.

"NUTS!" Hall shouted. "That's the trouble with you, Case. Every time I get a murder all sewed up, you go digging up the pavement and upsetting the apple cart."

"Just the same," Robert Case answered, "ninety per cent of the time you're wrong."

Hall walked around the edge of the desk deliberately, fists clenched. He strode across the room to where the unprotected Case had seated himself carefully, deep in the protecting seat of Hall's only comfortable chair. For a split second Hall wanted to lift the little detective by the scruff of the neck and toss him out the window. Then he remembered how many times Case had been right.

"Okay! What have you got on that pintsized mind of yours?"

Case stood up.

"Nothing," he admitted. "It's just that easy way out you took. The simple explanation usually turns out to be the wrong one. I want to take another look at Halliday's apartment. There's something..."

Hall's fingers went unerringly to his smooth scalp. He shook his head.

"Let's go," he said. "The sooner you get this thing off your mind, the sooner I'll get some rest. Why I ever let you in on the deal, I'll never be able to figure out."

Robert Case dropped his book gently on the desk top and looked up with mild surprise.

"You don't?"

Hall chuckled.

"Come on, Sherlock," he teased good naturedly, "give up the ghost. This settles the whole thing. Halliday went out with these two left shoes on because he had made a date with Helen Kane. He knew he'd have the perfect chance to kill her and get away with it. He came back to his room and was going to commit suicide when Wallace came up with his other shoe. That would explain his anger at being walked in on. After Wallace left, he took the gun and shot himself. Open and shut case."

PERCY WALLACE was beaming.

"I— I hope I've been able to help you," he said.

"Help us?" Hall was on his feet, pumping the shoe salesman's hand. "All we've got to do is produce those other shoes and put your story on record. The whole thing is finished."

Robert Case arose and crossed the room to Wallace's side.

"What time did you leave Halliday's room?" he asked.

Percy Wallace looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I reached the hotel at nine-fifteen. It must have taken about fifteen minutes to go up, leave the proper shoe and come down again. Yes! I'd say I left about nine-thirty or slightly later."

Case nodded.

"It all adds up," he admitted. "Well, Inspector, guess you won't be needing me. Nice meeting you, Mr. Wallace. If you ever need a job..."

Percy Wallace shuddered and drew away.

"Oh! No thanks. The Regent people treat me very well. I'd never care to leave."

Case smiled up at him in wide-eyed innocence.

"Because you needed my help, remember?"

THE clerk at the LaGrove Hotel did not welcome their return. The LaGrove couldn't stand much publicity of the type the Kane killing had given it. They were ushered to the elevator and into Glenn Halliday's room. Once inside, Case started a systematic search of the dead man's belongings. The bed was as it had been left the night before. Halliday was fastidious and evidently had lived a comfortable life. Helen Kane's picture was the usual portrait of a charming young girl, very much in love. Case took a quick look at it and turned away. The gleam in his eyes wasn't pleasant.

The shoes had been removed for evidence.

In Halliday's closet Case found four more pairs hanging in a shoe bag, a half dozen neatly pressed suits, hats, and the usual attire of a man interested in life.

"Nothing here but clothes, a bed and a picture," Hall grumbled from his post by the door.

Case went on, searching the carpet, behind the dresser and finally with great reluctance he lowered his body and crawled about under the bed. At last, apparently satisfied, he returned to the door.

"The great Robert Case admits he's crazy, that the murderer wasn't hiding under Halliday's bed and that he's ready to pay up or shut up," Hall recited in a monotone.

Case went through the opened door and down to the lobby without answering. Outside, he turned and forced Hall to halt with him.

"Like to take a ride to the morgue?" he asked.

Inspector Hall maintained his usual uneven temper and a string of oaths escaped his heavy lips.

"What in the name of Saint Peter are we going to do at the morgue?"

Case started for the car.

"I'd like to take another look at Glenn Halliday," he replied calmly. "If you don't want to come..."

Hall hesitated, and then climbed in. He sat back silently as Case shifted the gears and pulled away from the curb. For a time they rode in silence. Finally Hall could contain himself no longer.

"Bob, for Heaven's sake, let me in on it, will you? I'll go crazy if you don't stop this silence strike and talk."

Case no longer smiled. His eyes were on the road ahead, and it wasn't the sun's glare that made them slitted and stone cold.

"Sorry, Jim," he said. "I don't know myself. It's just a feeling I get about these things. That girl didn't deserve to die. I just want to make sure we've got the right man."

With no more than the necessary delay they entered the cold death chamber of the city morgue. With the attendant, a dried up man of fifty, they went down the line of ice boxes set into the wall.

Hesitating before one of them, the man compared tickets, loosened the handle and opened the door to the ice box. Cold, odorless air swept out into the room. The dull, hollow scraping of metal on wood, a white sheet drawn back and Case started quickly to examine the stiff body of Glenn Halliday. He worked swiftly. The job wasn't a pleasant one for the mild little man. The head, neck, chest, the whole body was unmarked by any wound, except the bloodless hole in the side of the head. Hall stood by patiently until Case reached the up-turned feet.

"I told you you'd find nothing here," he growled suddenly. "Stop looking at his feet. The man doesn't even have a corn, not that it makes a hell of a lot of difference."

Case turned away. He held his hands at his side as would a doctor who is anxious to reach hot water and soap.

"That's just what I was afraid of," he said bitterly. "Not a mark on his body other than the wound in his head."

PERCY WALLACE, Regent Shoe House's best salesman, expressed pleasant surprise as Inspector James Hall and Robert Case opened the plate glass doors and strolled in. Hall saw Wallace standing beside the cash register and approached him, smiling pleasantly.

"Good afternoon." Wallace held out his hand. "I don't suppose I can sell you gentlemen any shoes?"

The question was meant to be humorous, but from the expressions on his visitors' faces, he knew it had fallen flat.

"Mr. Case would like to talk with you," Hall said. "Just a few details to be straightened out."

Percy Wallace smiled pleasantly at the little man he had seen behind the law book at Inspector Hall's office.

"I'm very glad to help all I can," he said. "Shall we go into the back room? I'm not needed right now."

Case nodded shortly and the three men passed through a narrow aisle and into what seemed to serve as combination office and stock room. There were two chairs against the wall, evidently removed from the front of the store. Wallace motioned to them and Hall sat down. Case remained on his feet, walking up and down along the wall of shoe boxes. He seemed interested in them.

Wallace remained standing, saw that Case didn't intend to use the chair meant for him, and finally sank into it himself.

Case whipped around suddenly, looked straight into Wallace's weak eyes.

"You knew Helen Kane, didn't you?"

Wallace squirmed uncomfortably. This wasn't the question he had expected but with a quick gulp he managed to stammer an answer.

"I knew Helen— er— Miss Kane several years ago," he admitted. "That is, I knew of her."

Case didn't relax his steady stare.

"I think you knew her, not several years ago, but several weeks ago. In fact you knew her and were in love with her up to the time of her death."

Wallace tried to control himself. His hands on the arms of the chair were white and bloodless from the grip they had taken.

"You— you're wrong," he said. "It's true that Helen and I were friends. That's all it amounts to. I never met Halliday."

Case was relentless.

"What makes you mention Halliday?" Wallace sprang to his feet, his face pale.

"I don't know. That is— you're trying to make it look as though I was mixed up in this case. I told you all I know. You can't rightfully accuse me..."

Robert Case was sure of himself now.

He pushed his argument as a well-trained lawyer would fight for ground.

"Wallace, you've got something on your mind. Something that's going to haunt you straight to the electric chair. When I came down here I had a pretty good idea that you were the murderer. You've given enough away for me to prove it."

Wallace stood stiff and alert, eyes wide with terror.

Jim Hall was at his side, puzzled but ready to back up Robert Case when the little man needed him.

"Sit down, Wallace," Case said suddenly. "Sit down and let's see just how good a shoe salesman you really are."

His voice was silky, soothing as a snake charmer's.

LIKE a man in a dream, Wallace sank backward into the chair. He sat very still, his throat knotted and jumping.

"Take off your right shoe." Hypnotized, Wallace reached down, managed the knot and removed the shoe from his foot.

"And the stocking."

Hall stood by, a completely bewildered man. He forgot to rub his scalp and his fingers jerked nervously at his side. Case was close to the shoe salesman now. He reached down suddenly and jerked up Wallace's foot.

"Look, Inspector," he said. "The man who killed Helen Kane was wearing two left shoes.

Wallace claims Halliday did it. What happens to a man's foot if he wears an opposite shoe for an extended period of time?"

The room was dead silent. Wallace's breath was coming hard. Hall scratched his head and sudden understanding flashed into his eyes.

"Good God, man, you've got it! Halliday's feet were as smooth as glass."

Case nodded grimly, still keeping his hold on the shoe salesman's foot.

"And Wallace, who makes a business of perfect fitting, has a raw blister on his big toe and his whole foot is red and creased."

Wallace jerked away suddenly with all his weight.

"You're making a fool of me!" he screamed. "I had nothing to do with it. Nothing, you understand?"

His voice was high pitched and hysterical. Before Inspector Hall could reach him, Wallace dodged to one side and tried to dash for the door. There was satisfaction in Robert Case's eyes as he put out a quick right foot and caught Wallace. The shoe salesman went sprawling. Like lightning he was on his knees and trying to stand again. Case reached his side and with unholy delight planted a haymaker on his chin. Wallace's head jerked suddenly to one side as though hit by a truck. His Adam's apple bounced up and sank down again slowly and a groan of pain split his lips. He sank to the carpet with blood oozing from his mouth.

"Nice going," Hall said admiringly. "You may be a half pint, Bob, but what you can reach, you can kill."

Case rubbed his throbbing fist, flexing the fingers painfully.

"I wonder if it was worth it," he asked ruefully. "I won't be able to hold a book for a month."

PERCY WALLACE was safely in his cell before Hall and Robert Case retired to the warmth of Hall's office. The Inspector had been rubbing his classic dome for several hours now and as no closer to an explanation than before. With the door safely locked, he brought out a tall bottle of rosy, transparent liquid, and two glasses, and placed them on the desk before him.

"Fifteen-year-old stuff," he said lovingly and fingered the cork of the bottle. "Never get it out for anything but special occasions."

Case flopped wearily opposite him, crossed his legs and straightened the crease in his trousers.

"This is special, isn't it?" he admitted. "In a way, I'm sorry it's over."

Hall grinned broadly.

"You won't get lonely," he answered. "People get murdered everyday."

He filled a tall glass and handed it to Case. The little man touched it to his lips and said soberly:

"Yet, if I could drink a toast that could be reality, I'd say, 'a toast to murderers. May they always murder their own kind.' That's what gets me, Jim. The innocent ones have to take it."

Hall was thoughtful.

"How about it, Bob? Shoot the works, will you?"

"The works?"

"Yeah! How did you first find out that Wallace was involved in the crime? "

Case drank deeply and placed the partly emptied glass on the edge of the desk.

"I didn't have a thing to do with it," he admitted. "Wallace convicted himself."

Hall's eyes were steady.

"Go on."

Case smiled.

"Remember I told you that if you left a murderer alone long enough, things would start happening? I wasn't satisfied with the whole thing. When Wallace came here, he was finishing his plan for the perfect crime. He made it so perfect that he walked into his own net. Wallace was clever. He even figured out a new way to kill and he based it on a trade he was accustomed to. He knew that Glenn Halliday had a date with Helen Kane. He picked up Helen and convinced her with some wild story that she should take a drive with him. He probably pretended that he was sorry for the trouble he'd caused her."

"Trouble?"

"Wallace loved Helen Kane. She turned him down for Halliday. Surely that's an old story?"

Hall nodded.

"Go on," he urged.

Case leaned back in his chair.

"Quite simple," he said. "Wallace met the girl and took her out Highway 6. He was wearing two left shoes. He murdered the girl, made a lot of confusing tracks around her body and returned to town. He already had two right shoes in his car. He went to Halliday's room, shot him in the head and made it look like a suicide. Then he planted a dirty left shoe and a clean right under the bed. Returning to the store, he turned in the shoes he had left and reported the transaction as he explained it to us."

For once, Hall forgot to bluster. "Case, I've got to hand it to you. All that on guess work, and because Halliday didn't have any bruises on his feet."

"Not quite," Case admitted. "To begin with, when we visited Halliday's room the second time, he had a whole shoe bag of practically new shoes hanging in his closet. That's the first definite clue I had. A man doesn't rush around in the afternoon buying shoes, then go out to murder a girl wearing two lefts, when he has several perfect pairs in his closet."

INSPECTOR HALL poured a second glass, stoppered the bottle and placed it gently away in his desk.

"I guess we don't have to worry about smart shoe salesmen as long as our men are just a little smarter," he said softly.

"When did you find out that Wallace had been in love with Helen Kane?"

"When Wallace told me," Case admitted. "After I figured out who killed Helen Kane and Glenn Halliday, it wasn't so hard to figure out why. Our friend Percy Wallace is going to spend a lot of sleepless nights wondering just how his perfect crime went astray."

Case stood up, tossed down a last drop and passed the empty glass to the man behind the desk.

"I've got to be running, Jim," he said, and glanced hurriedly at his pocket watch.

"Relax," Hall urged. "We both need a rest."

Robert Case slipped quickly into his coat. "Sorry," he said, "my feet have been killing me for the past week. I'm going out and pick up a new pair of shoes!"

______________________________

12: The Garden of Hell

Fanstastic Adventures, May 1943

THE booth was by far the most attractive along the line. A Mexican girl stood behind the high-banked roses, her deep brown eyes raised to him questioningly. Jeff Flynn wasn't aware of her at once, so absorbed was he in the lush, blood-red flowers. Then, raising his eyes, he saw for the first time the shapely oval face, full lips, and the long flowing brown hair that framed her features so beautifully.

"I beg your pardon." Flynn's hat came off in a quick gesture of admiration. "I didn't see you. Your roses are superb."

A flush of color spread over her face and the long lashes dropped shyly.

"They are not mine," her voice was low and husky. "This booth belongs to Trujall."

As though answering to the name, another head appeared over the top of the display. Involuntarily Jeff Flynn stepped back a pace. He had opened his lips to compliment the owner of the booth, but no words came. The eyes into which he stared were black as swamp pools. Trujall was an old man. His head was hatless and a thick, black stubble grew from it. The skin of his cheeks stretched tightly over high cheek bones. He was smiling, but the smile was a grimace that showed rotten, toothless gums.

"You like my pretty ones?" The words were sharp and high- pitched.

Flynn controlled himself quickly and a smile lighted his face.

"They're the finest I've ever seen," he confessed.

A claw-like hand swept up and plucked one of the largest blossoms.

"A gift to a rose lover," Trujall's smile was set and vacant. "It is not often an American stops here."

Flynn took the flower, noticing the long, dirt-blackened nails on the hand that offered it.

"Thanks," he said. "I'd like to see your gardens. Are they near here?"

Trujall's smile vanished. He stared straight at Flynn.

"No one visits Tipico," he growled. "It is a far journey."

Taken aback by the unfriendly tone in Trujall's voice, Flynn fumbled for words.

"I'll be around in a few hours to buy some of your roses," he said.

Was it his imagination, or did a fleeting look of fear suddenly darken the girl's face?

"We will be gone within an hour," Trujall answered. "My flowers fade quickly here."

Trujall's ox-cart was drawn up close to the adobe wall behind the booth. It was covered with a coarse cloth, but under the cloth, a half-dozen bulging objects were visible. Flynn's eyes caught a movement there, and as he stared, two long octopus-like tendrils dropped over the side of the rough boards and wrapped tightly around the wheel. They were perhaps two feet long and covered with brown scale.

Flynn stared. What sort of plant was that? The bulge under the cloth moved. Trujall wheeled around, noting the direction of Flynn's gaze. He was across the booth swiftly, grasped the tendrils with both his skinny hands and yanked them from the wheel. They withdrew suddenly and the movement stopped.

Trujall turned, his face hateful.

"You will go at once," his words were a command.

Flynn caught the wide-eyed expression of horror on the girl's face, hesitated, slightly angered by Trujall's attitude, then turned on his heel and crossed the street.

That Mexican girl had been badly frightened. Jeff Flynn, strangely disturbed at the knowledge, made an effort to thrust it from his mind. After all, it was none of his business. But what was it that was in the ox cart that Trujall was so anxious to conceal? Some forbidden plant he was smuggling?

HERBERT ROSS was no fool. Fat and passing the age where romance held sway over logic, he could appreciate a woman of Gwenn's ability.

The plane was hovering over Oaxaco when Gwenn turned to talk to him for the first time during the trip down. Gwenn Hamlin, only a few hours divorced from Ross, was pretty in a heady sort of way. Her green eyes, tall slim body and luxurious red hair made men half insane. Herb Ross knew. Gwenn had given him no peace during the two years they lived together. Brainless and brittle was his description of her; the willing plaything of any man who had money.

"Herby," Gwenn said. "Why don't you go home?"

Ross smiled.

"Chicago has a meat packing plant for me to go home to," he answered. "Why should I forsake you for a line of frozen beef?"

She sniffed, but a badly repressed smile flitted over her face. She was secretly flattered that he still pursued her.

"You'll get the cold shoulder down here," Gwenn said warningly. "Besides, Herby, it isn't right."

"What isn't?" he asked shortly.

"Why— when a girl's divorced, she doesn't just go about with her ex-husband. What will Jeff think?"

Ross snorted.

"Jeff Flynn is a good boy," he said. "But Jeff's young and spoiled by money he hasn't any use for. Gwenn, you only like Jeff's money. You'll be tired of each other in a week."

Gwenn's face sobered. She intended to marry Jeff Flynn, and Ross would never keep her from it.

"Look," she said. "I've been square with you..."

He interrupted her with a short laugh.

"You've never been square for a minute," he said quickly. "That's the part you don't understand, Gwenn. I'd have been willing to give you your head if you'd have held to the bridle just enough to impress my friends and business associates."

Gwenn was angry. She turned her head away and hunched her shoulders down into the seat. They were coming down for the landing. Ross fastened his safety strap.

"You want me to act as a front for you," Gwenn said. "I was playing second fiddle to your business."

"In a manner of speaking," he answered, "that's not what I want. I love you, Gwenn, but you won't return my affection. I took the best bargain I could get."

The plane came down smoothly and rolled across the field.

"You've lost me, Ross," Gwenn said. "Jeff will be at the airport. After that, we'll get married and you can pack your bag for the next plane home."

Ross was silent. Waves of blood swept up around his thick neck and colored his cheeks. The plane stopped before the small hangar, and he stood up.

"Flynn is a good kid, but he's got some crazy ideas," he said. "You're not going to marry him, Gwenn. Be sure of that."

She was standing before him, her eyes blazing into his. She stamped her foot impatiently.

"And what can you do to prevent it?"

Ross bent his heavy face close to her.

"I'll kill you if I have to," he said in a hoarse whisper. "But I won't have to. You're going back to Chicago with me."

SPEECHLESS with rage, but frightened by this new Herb Ross, Gwenn followed him from the plane. A half-dozen passengers had gathered outside and a dilapidated station wagon stood by the road. The words Oaxaco Hotel were printed across its side.

She saw Jeff Flynn, tall and dust-covered, a pipe in his mouth. She went toward him quickly, relieved that he was here to meet her.

Gwenn was less sure of herself than she had been when they last met. Herb might be right after all. Jeff was young and looking for adventure.

Her ex-husband filled her with foreboding over what his next move would be. She had never seen him pursue anything in this manner. He was frightening with his huge body and bullying voice, following her thousands of miles, never letting go the bull-dog grip he had on her past.

She went across the field quickly and into Flynn's arms. His kiss was on her cheek, rather cool she thought. Her ex-husband came up quickly, his hand held toward Flynn.

"Hello, Jeff," Ross' voice was friendly enough. "No doubt you wonder why I winged all the way down here under the circumstances. Well, I couldn't leave Gwenn in a wild country without friends. Acted as her personal bodyguard."

Flynn took the pudgy hand with mixed emotions.

"It does make an odd situation," he looked at Gwenn questioningly. "With your approval?"

Gwenn's face clouded.

"I tried to leave him in Reno," she said. "But I can't choose my flying companions. He's tried to make trouble all the way down."

Flynn clamped the pipe tightly between his teeth and picked up Gwenn's bags. Ross followed them across the dusty, cactus-grown field to the station wagon. He sat with the driver.

They were silent on the way to the hotel, and Flynn's hand drew away as Gwenn's fingers closed over it. He pretended to adjust the pipe, but she noticed that he carefully avoided her contact.

Gwenn was a lonely, shallow woman. The adventure of this new project was gone. There were two men for her, and she felt suddenly as though both of them had seen through her shield of glamor and were tearing her real self apart under steady scrutiny. She wished fervently that she had never seen Jeff Flynn, nor Reno. She wished for Chicago and the big mansion that Ross had kept for her. Gwenn felt tired and old and the mascara started to run on her lashes. The town was hot and airless and she had a dull, painful ache in her head.

Flynn arranged with the sleepy Mexican at the desk for a room for Gwenn opposite his own. Grinning, complacent Herbert Ross took the next room. The three of them climbed the worn stairs together and at his own door, Ross hesitated.

"Good luck, Jeff," he said, "you'll need it."

Before Flynn could reply, he was inside and the door closed with a slam. Flynn tried to smile reassuringly at the girl but it was no good. Away from soft lights and low music, she was a tired woman.

"You'd better rest," he said. "I'll be waiting on the sun porch when you're ready to go out."

ALONE, Flynn took off his clothes and stood under the shower. The cold water felt good against his dusty skin.

He thought about Gwenn. From the first it had never been right. Gwenn had seen him first at the Chez Paree. They had met on the dance floor and she was alluring and lovely in that setting. They had seen each other for a month, always at night and always in quiet, restful places where lovers talk.

She had waited to tell him of Ross. Waited purposefully, he realized now. A quick divorce had been arranged and they were to meet in Mexico City. Flynn knew now that he had lost any love he might have had for Gwenn.

Flynn left the shower, dried himself quickly and dressed in gray flannels. He went along the hall to the second floor porch and sat down in a cane chair to wait for Gwenn. The sun was warm and the heady sweetness of roses drifted from the flower booths down the street. His head relaxed against the back of the chair and he slept.

HOW long he had been there, his face baking in the sun, Flynn did not know. When he awakened the sun was slanting low across the red tile roofs and a slight breeze came from the west. He rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes and stretched.

Odd that Gwenn hadn't called him. She had plenty of time to bathe, apply new makeup, and look for him. Considering that she was eager to impress him favorably, she would have never willingly remained away from him so long.

A feeling of alarm entered his mind. Herb Ross wasn't a man to give Gwenn up after following her from the States to prevent her from remarrying. Flynn entered the hall with some misgivings and walked toward Gwenn's door. He knocked. It was quiet. He pushed inward. The door opened.

Herbert Ross sat on the single chair, his head lowered on the palms of his hands. He looked up, and his eyes were dull and cold.

"She was dead when I came in," he said.

Flynn went to the bed.

Gwenn's body was stretched out across the sheet, her legs hanging over the side of the bed. Her neck was twisted and thrown back at an odd angle. Her lips were swollen and blue and the eyes stared up at him, glazed and sightless. The skin of her neck was bruised. Her dress was torn.

Plynn wheeled about.

"You fool," he spoke in a low, tense voice. "You damned fool. You didn't have to do this."

Ross arose slowly, steadying himself with one hand on the back of the chair.

His eyes were red and his shoulders slumped forward in despair.

"I didn't kill her, Jeff." His lips quivered. "Honest to God, Jeff, I loved her. I came to plead with her again. She was lying here— like— this..."

Flynn wanted to believe him. The fat man seemed sincere enough, but the evidence was damning. No wild stretch of imagination would put another person in Oaxaco who hated Gwenn.

"You choked her," Flynn said. "No one would ever believe that you didn't."

Ross sat down again, looking away from the body. He tried to gain control of himself.

"I knew you'd say that," he looked Flynn straight in the eye. "That's why I've been sitting here, waiting for Heaven knows what. I couldn't come and tell you."

"When did you find her?" Flynn asked.

Ross was eager to talk.

"It was right after we came up," he said. "I decided to have one last talk with Gwenn. I found the door open and came in. I can't expect you to believe me, Jeff, but it's the truth."

Flynn walked to the window and looked down the street toward the flower show. The carts were gone. The street was dark and deserted.

"Jeff," Ross was close to him, his eyes low. "I want you to see something before you call the police. I— I can't think straight yet."

Flynn turned and Ross walked to the opposite side of the bed. He shuddered, reached out and touched the neckline of the girl's dress.

"Above her heart," he whispered.

Flynn watched as Ross drew the dress away. There was a circular hole in the white flesh over the girl's heart. It was the size of a silver dollar, clean and deep. No blood soiled the flesh around it.

Ross drew the dress up again quickly.

"What did it, Flynn?" he asked in a hushed voice.

Jeff Flynn shook his head. No bullet or instrument that he could imagine would have left the deep bloodless wound he had seen on Gwenn's body.

"I'm damned if I know," he answered slowly.

Flynn put a firm hand on the older man's shoulder.

"I'll do everything I can," he said. "I don't believe now that you killed her. If it helps any, I didn't intend to marry her when I saw how much you cared for her. I was a fool I guess. We'll tell the police that we found her together."

Ross turned and grasped his hand. The grip was warm and grateful.

"Flynn, you're tops. You'll never know how much..."

He stopped talking and bent down over something on the floor. He started to pick it up, a shiver passed through his body and he dropped it again.

Flynn picked up the small object and held it between his fingers. It was about three inches long, fleshy and covered with brown scales. He had seen a thing like that before.

The thing in his hand was the cleanly chopped end of a feeler, like the one he had seen creeping from the wagon of the rose gardener, Trujall.

"We're going to get out of here," he said sharply. "This is a clue I can follow. We'll call the police and leave before they get here."

"But they'll hunt us down and convict both of us," Ross protested. "I can't let you take the rap."

Flynn's eyes were icy.

"They'll lock us up and we'll never have a chance. If we escape now, perhaps we can find the murderer."

"But where— how?"

Flynn looked doubtful.

"I'm not sure," he confessed. "But we're going to visit the valley of Tipico."

"Never heard of it," Ross answered.

"You'll hear a lot from now on," Flynn said grimly. "It's a garden of roses, and I think—a garden of hell."

COUNT AVON BICARDA owned the valley of Tipico; owned the roses that grew in rank profusion within its warm borders; owned the souls of the people who straggled from the village each morning to tend the thorny, green plants on which his roses grew.

Since the Spaniards had come and gone, the Bicarda family had lived within the protected valley of Tipico and their power had not been questioned.

True, in the village there was one small group who kept to themselves. They neither toiled in the gardens nor slaved on the roads. But they were few and they did not trouble the Count.

He stood beside his horse on the hill above Tipico, staring first across the vast sweep of blood-red roses beneath him and then anxiously toward the road that came from Oaxaca.

His dress was the dress of a Spanish nobleman. The flabby, weak face, the dreary eyes confessed weakness of character. A casual onlooker would have thought the Count on a movie set, attired as he was in the silken trousers, long silk stockings and tightly-buttoned white cloak of past centuries.

Closer study might betray the wrinkled stocking and the broken garter that hung at his knee, the torn cuff of his shirt that someone had forgotten to mend. Science would brand Avon Bicarda as mentally unbalanced.

His eyes brightened suddenly and the hand on the bridle tightened with excitement. An ox-cart rolled toward him from over the hill. On the board seat, a young girl and an old man sat side by side. Trujall, the gardener, was returning from Oaxaca.

The Count mounted his horse clumsily and galloped toward them. At the side of the wagon, he stopped and dismounted. Trujall tapped the oxen with his staff and they halted. The girl watched the Count with surprise and distrust.

Ignoring Trujall, Count Avon Bicarda rounded the cart and bowed low before the girl.

"It is a pleasure to welcome Leona, the daughter of Textan, home once more," the Count said. His lips were set in a leer. "Will you allow me to take you to the village?"

Leona Textan's face paled with disgust.

"My father knows not of my journey to Oaxaca," she protested. "I must hurry straight home to him."

A sneer made the Count's face more simple to read.

"You may as well know that you will not return to the town," he hesitated. "Now or ever."

The girl turned to Trujall, her eyes pleading.

"You begged me to brighten your booth," she accused. "It is your duty to see that I am taken home safely."

Trujall'S head came around slowly. His eyes were amused. Planting the heavy butt of his staff in her stomach, he pushed with all his strength. She toppled into Count Bicarda's arms, and a scream of terror escaped her lips. Trujall poked the oxen and the cart rolled away.

Holding her tightly with one arm, the Count called after Trujall and the wagon halted.

"Your task," the Count shouted. "It was again successful?"

For the first time real satisfaction showed in Trujall's eyes. He turned, lifted the cover from the wagon and the Count hurried toward him. Leona Textan dropped to her knees in the dust, tears spilling down her cheeks. The Count glanced hurriedly under the cover and smiled.

"Bigger and stronger," he licked his lips. "You do well, Trujall."

Trujall smiled.

"Thank, you, master," he answered humbly. He turned to the oxen again, to conceal a sneer that was etched on his face.

"Master?" he whispered sneeringly under his breath. "Fool!"

He moved forward along the road into the valley.

Leona was on her feet, running toward the timber that bordered the upper valley. Count Bicarda mounted his horse and galloped after her.

Once she fell, scratched her knee and the blood ran from the wound. Looking back quickly she saw that he was almost upon her. She arose and limped forward, too frightened to call out. She reached the trees and ran in among them.

The man jumped from his horse and pursued her. She could hear his heavy footsteps on the soft earth and knew he was close. His arm reached her shoulder and jerked her roughly to a halt.

"Please— my father..." she gasped.

"Your father can't do anything," he snarled and tried to press her lips to his. She kicked and clawed him, fighting like an animal.

"You are going to my palace," he said. "It is useless to fight."

Suddenly Count Bicarda felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He was whirled around, and a fist smashed solidly against his jaw. He went down in a heap, gouging one shoulder into the earth. It stained his white coat.

Jeff Flynn turned to the girl, who had slumped to the ground, wide-eyed. He helped her to her feet. "Are you all right?" he asked. She nodded.

"Where did you come from?" she asked in bewilderment. "Seeing you here is so... so unexpected. No one comes so far off the beaten path..."

Flynn smiled at her.

"I came to get some of those roses. Remember, I said I'd be back to buy some?"

He turned to the fallen Count, who was sitting up, rubbing his injured jaw and rather foolishly trying to brush the dirt from his coat.

"Who is he?"

A look of terror crossed the girl's face.

"You shouldn't have hit him. He's Count Bicarda. He rules all of Tipico. He will make plenty of trouble for you."

Flynn shrugged.

"Not much more than we're in now, eh, Ross?"

Herbert Ross came forward, nodded glumly.

"This the fellow we're looking for?"

"No. We want a fellow named Trujall."

Flynn turned to the girl.

"Where is Trujall?... And by the way, what is your name?"

"Leona Textan," she answered. "But what do you want with Trujall?"

"We'd like to ask him a few questions," said Flynn grimly. "Where is he?"

There was terror in the girl's voice.

"You must go away! You must not go to him. It will not be wise..."

"It will not be wise not to!" exclaimed Flynn. "Will you take us to him?"

Leona stared at his intent eyes a moment, then nodded.

"Yes," she whispered. "I will take you to him."

THE valley of Tipico had a strange effect on Jeff Flynn. He had been vaguely worried since he first saw the fat Count pursuing the girl in the forest. Everything in Tipico went wrong. They were hardly out of the forest, Ross riding his horse beside that of the glowering Count and Leona Textan sitting before Flynn on his horse, when the odor of the roses started to penetrate Flynn's brain.

Tipico was one vast rose garden, stretching red as blood along the ten-mile floor of the valley. He felt the first rich fumes of the blossoms drift up to them as they went down the dusty road. The perfume filled his head and made him drowsy.

"I'd hate like the devil to live in this place," Ross said suddenly. "Those flowers are like opium. The smell is so sweet it deadens my brain."

Flynn could see a change in the girl also. She relaxed against him in the saddle, her eyes widened and her lips parted, almost like rose petals themselves. Her breathing was soft and she looked at him through half-closed lids.

"It is always like this," she said. "The valley is so pleasant that we who live here could not stay long in any other place. It is like a spell that casts itself upon us, making us happy where we are."

The horses jogged on slowly. The sun was bright above and they entered the boundaries of the town. Tipico was small—barely a dozen houses, a store and a few warehouses.

Count Bicarda began to bristle, and he grew truculent. Obviously, now that he was in his own bailiwick, he was losing his fear of the Americans. He glared at Flynn hatefully.

Leona saw the glare and she turned pale. She turned to Flynn and whispered in his ear.

"Please," she begged. "Run away now! While there is time. Take me with you!"

Flynn blinked.

"Take you with me... Good Lord, girl, aren't you being just a little..." Flynn had intended to say "dramatic" but his lips closed on the word. The fear in her eyes, the tenseness of her body beneath his encircling arm, spelled the sincerity of her convictions.

"No," he said grimly. "No two-bit local emperor is going to scare me out. I've come for a purpose. I want to see Trujall!"

"You will see him!" snarled Bicarda. "And you will see something else... Halto!"

They came to a halt before a building that Flynn took to be a general store. In the doorway stood a little man, not over five- foot-three in height, with a fierce black mustache that gave him an oddly friendly appearance. Dark, serious eyes hinted at their own ability to twinkle with humor. Right now they were sober and puzzled, and a frown wrinkled the skin at their corners.

"General Harzo!" snapped Bicarda. "Arrest these people!"

Harzo stared at Bicarda. He seemed somehow contemptuous, but at the same time there was an unwilling respect in his eyes. Something that was not fear, but yet was compulsory. Obviously, Flynn thought, Bicarda did have power in this valley— enough even to make this pseudo-general respect his commands.

"What is the charge, Count?" Harzo asked respectfully. But he made no move to comply with the arrest request.

The Count began to bluster.

"That gringo— he struck me. He attempted to interfere..."

Flynn interrupted.

"Absolutely, General Harzo," he said. "I did interfere. In fact, I pasted the Count in the jaw—where he had it coming. He was molesting this young lady here, against her will, and I did what any gentleman would do— what you would do in the same circumstances. And if I had time, I'd stay to prefer charges and ask you to lock him up."

Harzo turned to the Count.

"What about that?" he asked.

The Count's eyes narrowed.

"I repeat," he said, "this man attacked me. I was merely kissing the girl I have selected as my wife. We are to be married. In fact, we were on our way here to have you perform the ceremony."

Flynn swung down off the horse, lifted the girl down. He looked at her, startled.

"Is that true?" he asked incredulously.

Stark terror was in her eyes. She looked into his a moment, then looked away, tore from his grasp, and ran to stand beside the Count. She uttered no word.

"I'll be damned!" came Herbert Ross' exclamation.

Flynn paled with anger. He wheeled to face General Harzo. He reached forward and clutched the little General's shoulders.

"Listen," he growled in a low voice. "I did the girl a favor, understand? As far as the Count and his two-bit power are concerned, he can go jump in the lake."

General Harzo blinked, but his lips curled into an amused smile. His eyes held a peculiar look of approval.

"Good words, amigo," he said. "Now if you will let me go, I will give you some advice."

Flynn let go of him.

"The Count grows roses here," Harzo said. "The people do as he says simply because they have done so for a thousand years. Perhaps that is why this girl wishes to wed the Count. We shall ask her and see."

The General turned to the girl.

"Do you wish to marry this man?"

She stared helplessly a moment at Flynn and Ross, then looked at Bicarda. His eyes were fixed on her with a glare.

"Yes," she said to Harzo. "Yes, yes!"

"You are not being forced to do this thing?"

"No," she said, face pale. "I am not being forced."

Harzo turned to Flynn and bowed.

"You see, amigo, it is all right."

"All right hell," growled Flynn, staring at the girl, who dropped her eyes before his accusing gaze. "But I guess there's nothing I can do about it."

"Do your duty, General Harzo," Count Bicarda spat out. "Or it will go badly with you."

Harzo's eyes flamed, but he said nothing to Bicarda. Instead he turned to Flynn.

"Therefore," he went on, as though ignoring Bicarda's outburst, "it is obvious that you have attacked Count Bicarda in a criminal manner, and I shall have to arrest you."

Flynn leaped forward, fists doubled. "Why, you...!"

Harzo clapped his hands and a soldier leaped out from behind a corner of the building.

"Arrest them!" snapped Harzo. "Take them over to my office. I will take care of their cases immediately after the wedding—"

He turned to Bicarda.

"—You wanted to have the ceremony immediately?" He waited for a confirmation.

"Yes," said Bicarda. "At once."

Leona Textan nodded dumbly.

Flynn walked across to Leona and grasped her arm.

"I know you're not doing this because you want to," he said. "I know you're afraid of something. Maybe it's the same thing I came here to uncover. Maybe it's Trujall..."

Count Bicarda shoved forward, tried to disengage Flynn's hand from Leona's arm. Flynn shoved him roughly back, so that he tripped over a bush and sat down. He ignored the Count's sputtering.

"It is Trujall, isn't it?" he pursued. "Tell me the truth."

The girl looked at him tragically.

"Go away," she whispered. "Go away, far from here. You will only come to harm in this valley. I am doing what I want to do. You have no right to interfere."

Flynn released her arm in bafflement, noting as he did so that Harzo had made no move, or order his soldier to make one, in assistance to the Count.

"Okay," he said. "But I'll find Trujall, and wring the truth out of him. Also, the truth about what happened back at Oaxaca!"

The soldier stepped forward now and motioned with his rifle. Flynn and Ross walked ahead of him up the stairs and into the general store. At the rear of it, Flynn saw that they were in some sort of office. There was a desk, several chairs, and another door. Flynn noticed with amazement that this inner office was cool; air-conditioned.

They were marched into a room with a barred window. The guard sat down outside the open door and held his rifle across his knees. He didn't close the door.

Ross looked at Flynn soberly.

"Well, we're in the clink. But at that, it's no worse than where we'd be back in Oaxaco."

"No," said Flynn darkly. "But there's something damned fishy in this valley; more than what happened back there. I intend to find it out."

"I hope you do," said Ross despondently. "Because it looks like a murder charge for me, if you don't!"

FLYNN walked swiftly back and forth across the floor, white hot anger burning inside him. Ross sat quietly by the barred window, looking down the sun-swept street. Ross understood Flynn's feelings better than Flynn thought, remembering how he had felt when another man took Gwenn away. He didn't speak of it to Flynn. There was nothing they could do.

Ross watched Count Avon Bicarda's carriage come up the street. He saw Leona Textan sitting at the Count's side, her face drawn and pale. The Count was leaning back in the carriage, his eyes closed, face smug. The Count, Ross thought bitterly, was taking the whole thing quite calmly.

The carriage swept by the house and went down the road toward the far end of the valley. General Harzo walked toward their prison, his boots kicking up dust as he walked. Several minutes later another carriage went by. In the seats, several soldiers sat with rifles carelessly held. Their carriage disappeared down the road also. A guard for the Count and his new bride?

The General came in. He carried a stiff, folded document in his hand. Crossing the room he knelt at a large wall safe and put the document inside. Once he had twisted the knob and locked the safe he rose and faced Flynn.

"You can come out now," he said with a smile. "And if you gentlemen will honor me with your presence, we will go out and dine. Perhaps then you can confide to me the trouble and the mission that brings you here."

"What's that?" asked Flynn, astounded.

"You can come out. You are free. You are not, and have never been, under arrest. I am sorry that I had to inconvenience you, but you will understand that it was the simplest way to avoid trouble all around. Count Avon Bicarda is a power in the valley— although not as great as his mad mind conceives himself to be. So humoring him was the best policy. He will never think of you again."

"But that girl," said Flynn angrily. "She did not want to marry him. She was terrorized."

Harzo shrugged.

"She signified her desires very directly," he said. "Come, we will dine. No doubt you are hungry."

He led the way toward a restaurant and they ordered.

It was one o'clock then. At three, the carriage of soldiers returned from their ride down the valley. They brought with them the news that the carriage of Count Avon Bicarda had been attacked by strange bandits half-way to the palace.

The Count had been shot through the heart and had died at once. The girl was unharmed and being escorted to her new home. The carriage of soldiers had arrived in time to fight the bandits, but too late to save the Count.

GENERAL HARZO, his lips stern and face expressionless, ordered the news to be posted at once. Count Avon Bicarda was dead and the valley belonged to his new wife, Leona Textan.

"Señor Flynn," Harzo said suddenly, placing his half-empty wine glass on the table before him, "I have a question to ask you."

Flynn looked up with moody eyes.

"I'm afraid, General," Flynn said, "you and I have little to discuss. You can perhaps see now the heritage you gave that girl. She's widowed before she reached her home."

"I'm sorry, American, that you think harshly of me. I think it is best that you know the truth. Perhaps you can give me the help I so badly need."

Flynn was watching the mustached man carefully. Ross' head never came up from his food.

"You were angry that I insisted the girl marry," the General went on. "You wonder why...?"

"Insane," Flynn broke in. "I'd like to drag you before the authorities anywhere outside the valley and watch you sober up."

General Harzo rose to his feet.

"It was necessary that, to fulfill my plan, Leona Textan marry Count Bicarda. I had no intentions of letting them reach their home."

Flynn's glass dropped to the table with a crash. Ross stopped eating, mouth open, fork poised.

"You see," Harzo added, "my full name is General Harzo Textan. Leona is my daughter."

FOR some time the three men faced each other, but none of them spoke. Flynn arose, rounded the table and offered his hand to the General.

"Accept my apology," he begged. "I don't know what you've got in mind, but I'm sure you won't allow them to harm your own daughter. If we had known, we'd have kept our mouths shut."

Harzo Textan smiled and took Flynn's hand.

"I know," he said quietly, "I guess I can trust you. Perhaps it will be best if I tell the story of Tipico."

He pushed his chair from the table, crossed to the fireplace and stood before it. A frown passed over his face.

"I have not always lived in Tipico," he started. "Many years ago, before Leona was born, I lived in Mexico City. I was a politico at the time, and held some high offices. My wife died at Leona's birth and I asked for retirement. They wanted to do something for me, in return for my services to the government."

He paused, smiled wearily and went on.

"Some one knew of Tipico, and thinking it a quiet, sunny place, suggested that I come here. Oddly enough I was given the governing power of the valley and the Mexican government will back up my word here."

"Have you ever had to call upon them?" Ross asked curiously.

Harzo nodded and smiled.

"But once," he answered. "Since the soldiers came to the valley and the people realized I was the governor, they have done as I say. There was one exception."

"Count Avon Bicarda?"

"Yes!" Anger blazed in the General's eyes. "Bicarda has lived here since birth. Before him was his father and so back into the years. The family is degenerate and low. They know but one industry. Every year, the petals of the roses are taken to Oaxaca and made into perfume."

"I've noticed an odd thing," Ross said. "The air-conditioning in your office, in this restaurant, wherever you go."

Harzo nodded and smiled slightly.

"Yes, you are right," he admitted. "That is how I remain free of the spell of the flowers. The people here live in a semi-awakened state. The power of the flowers is so great that they have no will to fight. They stay here and work until they die or are murdered."

Flynn's jaw stiffened. He was thinking of Gwenn. Gwenn with that strange round hole in her flesh.

"Murder?"

The General's fists were clenched.

"There are many things one does not mention," he said. "But now I can tell you the whole story. The Count needed men and women here to work in his gardens. He also needed them for another purpose. For the second— he demanded one qualification."

"And that?"

"Death," the General answered in a low voice. "They were found dead in the fields. I am sure it was murder."

"But great God, man," Flynn protested. "Surely you could have stopped it?"

"That is where you are wrong. Every flower-drugged man in the valley would have risen against me; if they had cared. I could not act."

"I'd like to ask you a question, General," Ross said. "You married Leona and the Count for a purpose?"

"I had planned that for years," he admitted. "It was the one way of getting control of Count Bicarda. With Leona married to him, I could go to his palace and find out for myself what was happening there."

"But surely there were other ways," Flynn said. "With your soldiers you could have forced your way in and searched the place."

General Harzo Textan shook his head.

"There was but one way to break the power of the Bicarda over this valley."

Ross looked hostile.

"So you did it by marrying your daughter into the family and then killing her husband. The valley of Tipico belongs now to Leona Textan—and to you!"

The General's eyes flashed. "You are a smart man, Ross," he said. "But I am not responsible for the bandits who killed the Count."

"But it was you who sent soldiers after him as the Count left town," Ross said. "Not more than a quarter of a mile separated the two carriages. There would hardly be time for an outside attack."

Harzo nodded.

"That is all very logical," he admitted, "but not the truth."

"I'm not so sure of that," Flynn interrupted. "There are some things I don't like. General, what do you know about Trujall?"

"I don't know..." began Harzo worriedly.

He was cut short by a loud commotion in the hall. The door to the room swung open and a soldier staggered in. His uniform was torn and covered with mud. He tried to salute the General and fell forward on his face.

Flynn dropped to one knee and turned the man over. The fellow's eyeballs were turned up queerly and he was gasping for breath.

"General... your daughter..." Flynn's ear was close to the quivering lips, "Trujall..."

The voice faded to a whisper. The dying man clutched his heart and a shiver passed over him. He tried to speak further, but his lips gurgled wordlessly and closed.

Flynn stood up quickly.

"You have horses?" he asked of the General.

Harzo nodded.

"I'll get them." He rushed out.

When the General had left the room, Flynn drew the stiff white hand of the soldier gently away from the bloodied shirt. A whistle escaped his lips.

"Look at that, Ross!"

There was a deep, circular hole in the flesh over the heart. "The same thing that killed Gwenn! We're on the right track!"

The General came in and two men were with him. He spoke quickly in Spanish and the soldiers picked up the dead man and carried him away.

"Let's go," Harzo said grimly, "and may the Saints protect my daughter until we reach her."

FLYNN and Ross rode close to each other on the big horses Harzo Textan had supplied.

Harzo rode ahead of them, his eyes focused on the building three miles away, that was the Bicarda palace.

Flynn felt a strange sleepiness coming over him. The valley air seemed warm and muggy.

"It's a fight to keep awake here," he said.

The General spoke to them sharply.

"Breathe as lightly as possible. It is the power of the roses," he cautioned. "In my own town I have clean, cool air and I am not affected. Here, men and women go unprotected. The roses numb the brain like a drug."

Flynn watched the palace ahead of them grow and take shape beyond terraced slopes. It was as lovely as the valley. Roses spread up across terraces and about the lawns. Trellises against the walls were alive with red flowers.

"When we get close enough," Flynn said, "I'll drop off behind. You and the General ride straight in and go to the front door. I'll take a look around before anyone suspects I'm here."

They reached the bend in the road where it turned toward the palace. Flynn reined his horse out of sight behind the bushes. He watched as the two men rode up to the palace, tied their mounts and went to the door. As the door opened the General walked in, followed by Ross. The door closed.

For some time Flynn waited. A gathering storm was hastening the dusk.

He studied the house. In his mind was the image of those plant tendrils under the cover of Trujall's ox cart. Flynn wanted to see that ox cart and its contents again. Perhaps a search of the out buildings...

He crossed the lawn quickly and went behind the palace. There was a small vegetable garden.

He saw the carriage house looming, perhaps fifty yards beyond the garden. The small plot in which he stood was planted with bulb like plants that protruded eight or ten inches above ground. He started to walk among them quickly, caught his boot on the roots and fell.

A tiny, whip-like object snapped out and struck his face. Another wrapped quickly about his boot.

Flynn struggled to his feet only to find that he was trapped. The tentacles had suddenly come alive. More of them were stretching toward him. The tendrils were much smaller and yet he recognized the form. They were small plants of the same type he had seen in Trujall's wagon!

Flynn's feet were solidly held in place now, perhaps a dozen of the tendrils wrapped tightly about his boots. He whipped out his knife, slashed them away. It was a foolish move. Two plants were close to his hands. They flashed toward him and secured his wrists tightly. He jerked with all his strength. Thin, watery stuff oozed from the cut vines. His hands were bloody. The knife fell from his grasp.

One bulb-plant under his body moved. He felt a soft, petal-like substance brush across his shirt and the plant or creature, whichever it was, pushed a round snout against him.

Horror stricken, Flynn strained away from the sharp snout and tried to break away. It was useless.

This was the way Gwenn Ross had died!

THE scaly, eager snout was sucking at his flesh now. His shirt was torn and he felt the thing cutting into him bringing blood to the surface.

Flynn shouted hoarsely.

"Ross, help. I'm behind the house in the garden."

Almost at once he heard a door open and saw three faces over the porch rail above him. The light from the room flashed out across the garden and he could see other plants waving and leaning toward him. The pain over his heart was terrible.

"This is it, Ross!" he shouted. "Trujall's plants are killers. Help me!"

Flynn saw Ross wheel about and send a crashing blow into Trujall's face. A gun exploded; a shot sang through the air. Ross cleared the rail with a leap and hit the ground on his feet. He carried a huge knife; a machete snatched from where it hung on the wall, obviously for just the purpose for which he was now going to use it.

Trujall's curse came from the porch. There was the sound of a scuffle. Flynn could no longer see the porch. His eyes were filled with pain and his body contorted, fighting the awful tendrils.

Ross swore loudly and came wading in. The huge knife swung wildly on all sides. Sometimes he staggered and seemed about to fall. Then, howling oaths at the top of his voice, he tore away a blade covered with wriggling tendrils and came on.

At Flynn's side he reached down and sent the knife shooting into the plant under Flynn's body. The suction stopped and the thing dropped away. He cut the bonds from Flynn's body and dragged him to the edge of the garden. Flynn fell forward on his face and lay still. He was breathing hard.

"Entertaining," it was Trujall's triumphant, but angered voice. "But you have ruined my new crop of plants. For that you will all pay."

Ross helped Flynn to his feet. The General had been overcome in his scuffle on the porch with Trujall. He was covered now by the same pistol that menaced Flynn and Ross.

"Thanks, Ross," Flynn recovered his breath. "I didn't know what I was walking into."

They mounted the porch and faced Trujall. His face held a smile of complete triumph.

"Where is the girl," Flynn faced the dwarf, his fists clenched. "You've done something to her."

Ross took his arm.

"Never mind, Flynn," he urged. "Leona is safe. We've seen her already. We'd better take it easy."

Trujall held his gun ready.

"That is wise," he said. "We have already had enough excitement. To wander around here longer might result in a disaster that could not be avoided so easily. Enter and be entertained."

THEY entered a high, well-lighted room. It was pleasantly furnished and warm. Trujall motioned to a couch at the far end of the place. Leona Textan was there, lying with partly closed eyes. The room was rich with the scent of roses and they were piled about the girl.

A strange mixture of relief and anger spread over Flynn as he stood there, looking at her. She was clad in the same rough dress, but the flowers spread a perfume about her that made the whole room shimmer under her spell.

"You will be seated?" Trujall asked, pocketing his gun. "There will be coffee."

Flynn wanted to go toward the girl, but something robbed him of energy. It didn't seem important.

"She is all right?" he asked the General.

Harzo Textan nodded listlessly.

"The roses," he explained. "They make her tired and restful. Otherwise she is safe."

Flynn felt tired. He wanted sleep very badly. A serving woman brought a tray of coffee and he sipped his while the others drank. Leona closed her eyes and slept. Her father went to her once, and felt of her forehead. He seemed satisfied.

"She has had a hard day," he announced vacantly. "It will be better for us to stay here tonight and go to the village with the morning."

Trujall went to the door.

"There are only myself and the serving maid here," he said. "I am sorry about the incident in the garden. They are but a hobby of mine and I was angry when I saw the plants destroyed. If you stay out of my gardens you will be safe."

He went out and they heard him leave the porch.

The maid came and led them to their rooms. Flynn was worn out. He sank to the bed and was sound asleep before he had time to remove his clothes.

FLYNN awakened suddenly, his body covered with perspiration. It was dark. His head ached dully. Why was he here in this bedroom? He could not remember leaving the lounge where Trujall had faced them with the pistol. Leona Textan had been stretched out before them, asleep on the divan.

He had succumbed to the sweet odor of the roses, and Trujall's insistence that no harm would come to them. Flynn remembered accepting a cup of coffee from the house maid and watching Ross and General Textan do the same.

That was it. The coffee had been drugged. That, and the roses!

Flynn sat up quickly, saw that he was fully clothed. He rushed to the door.

He stepped into the hall and listened. No sound came from the rooms below. It seemed sinister. Trujall was the power behind this garden of hell. He used the people of the valley like pawns, never soiling his own hands with murder. He left that to...

Flynn thought of Leona. The girl had been in the main lounge below the staircase. The thought of her shocked his brain more fully awake.

Half-way down stairs, Flynn stopped short. A high-pitched scream of terror came from the rose garden behind the house. He rushed across the room and out on the high porch. Leona Textan was visible several hundred yards away. She was running between long rows of rose bushes.

The moon made her shoulders glisten. Once she looked back—screamed again and rushed onward. Flynn's boot struck something. He reached down and retrieved the heavy knife that Ross had used earlier in the evening.

Flynn cleared the rail with one leap. He ran swiftly across the lawn and into the rose garden after Leona.

"Stop, or I'll shoot."

Flynn saw the stubby figure of Trujall on the porch with pistol aimed.

"Go to hell!" he shouted and kept on running. Leona had disappeared now. A shot rang out and the bullet whistled over his shoulder.

The second shot hit the bricks of the carriage house close to his head and sang away into the bushes.

"Leona," he shouted. "Leona. Where are you?"

The silence was maddening. Forgetting Trujall, he ran over the soft dirt and down the lanes of rose bushes.

He ran onward, glancing back once to see a light visible on the second floor. Perhaps Ross or the General had finally awakened. He shouted something hoarse and wordless over his shoulder, hoping one of them would hear the sound.

There was a small opening ahead. It was perhaps ten feet square and bordered by the rank, luxurious growths of roses. At the far side he saw Leona, cowering down. Her body was twisted as though she were trying to run—to go farther, but couldn't move. Her lips were opened in a round O of horror and one arm was thrown before her face as she sought protection from her pursuer.

Flynn saw the thing that had caused her panic and stopped short. The other octopus-like plants had been bad enough. Now he knew he was looking straight at the thing that had killed Gwenn and the soldier.

It had the same general characteristics as the others, but it was almost as tall as a man. The thing, plant or animal, walked on nine short feeler-like legs. It moved swiftly, its thick, scaly body vibrating smoothly as it moved. A half-dozen long, root-like feelers protruded from the body. They reached out and wavered in the air, the tips reaching three feet from the body. Its head was a net of muscular fiber with a sharp, cup-like opening at its top.

The cup was the identical size of the wound he had seen on Gwenn's body.

From the edge of this cup a blossom grew. It was a type of orchid, huge and spotted, but unclean. Out of its center came two feelers that evidently gave it a sense of touch and smell that allowed it to pursue its victims.

The thing was crossing the clearing slowly, warily, seeking the girl. It knew she was there. The footsteps had halted and the prey was close.

Flynn went forward slowly, the knife raised over his head. Close to the creature, he brought the knife down in a wide arc. It struck from behind, just below the cup-like neck. The spotted blossom flopped to the ground and the neck fell with it.

The creature whirled around and feelers swept out and around Flynn's waist. Red blood started to pour from the cleanly severed neck. Flynn dropped his knife and tried to release the tentacles that held him. The girl came toward them. Flynn felt the tentacles go around his throat and remembered how easily Gwenn had been strangled.

Leona waited until the feelers were tightly wrapped about Flynn. He was on the ground now.

She clutched the knife firmly and pushed it deep into the creature's body. The movement stopped.

The feelers grew limp one by one and fell away from him. Shaking from the strain, Flynn stood up slowly and kicked the thing away from him.

SHE ran to him quickly, throwing her arms about his neck. For a moment Flynn forgot Trujall and the men at the house. He was conscious only of the frail, lovely girl in his arms.

"You understand now why I married Avon Bicarda?" she whispered.

Flynn nodded.

"Your father told me everything," he said.

She snuggled closer.

Men were coming from the house. He took his arms from her and turned to see Ross, Trujall walking before him, as they came through the roses. Trujall saw the bloody monster that lay at Flynn's feet, and sobbing, knelt on the ground before it. Ross looked down with cold hatred in his eyes. He carried a pistol. Flynn recognized it as Trujall's.

"I heard you shouting," Ross said quietly. "Found Trujall in the garden trying to release more of these things. He's got a whole cage of them behind the carriage house."

"They didn't escape?" Flynn asked.

Ross shook his head.

"Still behind bars," he said. "We'll starve them to death. Trujall had to fool with the door and I took the liberty of kicking him in the stomach and taking his gun away from him."

The ugly face of the dwarf turned up to Flynn. Blood stained the man's hands where he had fondled the dead creature and tears were in his eyes.

"You killed him," he accused. "You killed my pet."

Ross' eyes were flinty.

"And I'll kill you!" he snarled.

Flynn shook his head.

"No, Ross. When the General awakens," he said. "I think he'll take a certain pleasure in sentencing Trujall and putting him before the firing squad."

"Trujall, why in hell did you pick on my wife?" asked Ross.

Trujall had arisen slowly, his long arms hanging at his side. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I had to have a white woman," he said slowly. "She was the only one in Oaxaco. Many Mexican women and men have given their blood to my king-plants. I could give life to the tuber bodies of the plants by shooting certain injections into them. They did not react to natural emotions without the blood of humans in their body."

Flynn was filled with a deep disgust.

"But you," he asked coldly. "What were you gaining by this?"

Trujall shrugged his shoulders.

"I have had everything I wished from the house of Bicarda," he admitted. "The king-plants were my hobby. They drank blood and became things alive and powerful. I raised them to make up in a way, for my own lack of power. You see my body is very ugly. Not at all tough and strong like my pets."

Ross' face was a mask of loathing.

"You murdered these people and gave their blood to these— these creatures of hell, for no reason other than to satisfy your own lust for power?"

Trujall did not answer. Instead he was on his knees again, carefully gathering up the remains of the thing on the ground.

Ross turned to Flynn and his eyes were pin points.

"You'd better take the girl away from here, Jeff," he said.

Jeff took Leona by the arm and led her up toward the house. They were hidden from the two men in the roses.

"What is he going..."

Her lips remained parted, but her voice was broken by the sharp crack of the pistol. Two more shots sounded behind them. Jeff stopped, standing very quietly. He thought he heard a groan of pain, then quick footsteps in the dirt.

Ross caught up with them, and walked toward the house without a word. They reached the garden and Flynn looked away across the peaceful rose gardens and then back at the strong, handsome house. He took Leona close to him in the darkness.

___________________________

13: All Kinds Of People

Fantastic Adventures, April 1945

SAMUEL S. BLACK stopped reading the script through which he had been proceeding at leisurely pace, and reached for the phone.

"Yes! What is it?"

Tillie Compton, the switchboard girl for Black-Publications, Incorporated answered in what was meant to be a fresh young voice:

"A Mr. Flitt to see you, Mr. Black." This was all very formal on Tillie's part, because usually she called Samuel S. Black by his nickname. "Pinky" and even sat on his knee if the occasion seemed to demand it.

"Flitt— Flitt? Do we know anyone named Flitt?"

He heard Tillie sigh. Samuel S. Black's memory was dulled at times by the reams of "slush" he was forced to wade through to locate a presentable story for Horrible Tales.

Tillie's voice was gentle but flavored with a tinge of sarcasm.

"You have encouraged Mr. Flitt to submit material to our magazine."

Samuel Black knew that Mr. Flitt must be listening to Tillie's end of the conversation because Tillie carefully referred to the book by its full title and continued to use her best guest manners. Though still unable to remember Mr. Flitt, Black back-watered hastily.

"Oh yes, yes of course. Send Mr. Flitt in at once."

He discarded the phone as though it Were a distasteful thing. He sat back, felt the sun on his back and it reminded him that the small office was very warm. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a hairy arm.

"Now who in blazes is Flitt?" he asked himself and searched his mind for an answer.

Suddenly he had it. Roscoe Flitt was the full name; and as Samuel Black remembered, his neck turned the color of baby pink and he swore softly. He had first met Mr. Flitt on the Ridge bus. That gentleman had been engaged in reading Horrible Tales through incredibly thick-lensed spectacles? The specs plus the fact that he had found someone reading his magazine had fascinated Mr. Black. Although the circulation department showed fifty thousand copies of Horrible Tales on the "sold" side of the records, this was the first time a reader had been caught in. the act, as it were, of actually devouring the contents.

A conversation had been born, with a very unfortunate result for Mr. Black; Mr. Flitt felt that he had a message for the readers of Samuel S. Black's splendid little magazine.

A relationship had thereafter grown between them which Samuel Black tried at every opportunity to discourage. He had sent ten of Mr. Flitt's efforts back to him neatly enveloped and marked, "Not for Us! " Now Mr. Flitt was trying again. This time he had come in person.

THE sound of footsteps came from outside the door and a nervous hand was placed upon the. doorknob. Before his guest could.enter, Mr. Black shouted a hurried: "Come in."

This authorized an entrance which was going to take place anyway, and Black felt better for having stamped his approval on the act.

Mr. Flitt came in. He was a small gentleman with sloppy gray hat and a gray suit that had been cleansed partially of many contacts with soup and eggs. Mr. Flitt had a very thin face and an adam's-apple that seemed to do about as it pleased. He walked to the desk and tendered his manuscript, wrapped as usual in brown paper from the corner butcher shop. He also offered his hand. It was a frail, very white hand, and Samuel Black dropped it as soon as he could do so without appearing finicky.

"I've— I've tried again," Mr. Flitt said in a voice worn threadbare by long use. "I think this— might be nearer what you want."

It was evident that he expected an immediate examination of the atrocity wrapped in butcher's paper, for he sat down primly on the edge of the visitor's chair, removed his hat and started to play with the creases in it. Mr. Black spoke a few words on the subject of how glad he was to see Mr. Flitt and asked if he had mastered the task of putting "living breathing characters" into his fiction.

Mr. Flitt thought he had. Yes, in fact he was sure that he had done so. This left nothing for Mr. Black to do but unwrap the script, to study it hurriedly, make sure it had sentences and that it was written in the accepted English language. It met these simple requirements, so Mr. Black started to read.

For perhaps three minutes Mr. Black continued to scan the story, working from page one through seven. There the pink bloom of his neck darkened a shade, and he stopped reading. This was far enough. He had made an effort. He had a right to stop when he wished. Who did Flitt think he was? He couldn't force...

"I hope it suits your needs," Mr. Flitt said, evidently having read a writer's magazine to find the correct method of approaching the editor.

Mr. Black sighed. He looked very sorry. He was, but not for Mr. Flitt.

"I'm disappointed," he said gently. "The characters aren't realistic or plausible."

Mr. Flitt seemed distressed. However, he said nothing and this left Samuel S. Black on the spot. He sat back, replaced the pages in their proper order and took a long breath.

"I take it that this is a story about a man who finds that by pressing a certain nerve behind his right ear, he can disappear entirely from sight; and materializes once more by repeating the process."

Mr. Flitt nodded gravely.

"You have captured the mood of the thing entirely," he admitted. "I worked very hard to produce something your readers would appreciate."

MR. BLACK sat in silent contemplation for some time. He stared out the window across town toward the cool blue sweep of Lake Michigan. He dreamed of a boat that would take him far away from people like Mr. Flitt.

He dreamed so vividly that when he came once more to his senses it gave him quite a start to see that Mr. Flitt was still present.

He had nothing to say, but had to say something. He would use the old line again. It would do ho good, but. it would get rid of Mr. Flitt and at this moment, that was most desirable.

"I must repeat," he said sternly, "that your stories must contain characters in whom one can believe. New ideas— new situations. The idea of becoming invisible is very old. It has been published a thousand times. Not even the method is new. In fact, I seem to recall a comic strip based upon the same idea."

Mr. Flitt nodded eagerly.

"I realize that," he said, "but I worked very hard to tell a story about people like the ones who live next door. People who eat, sleep and act as you and I. For that reason, when the disappearance of my hero occurs, so suddenly, it creates a shock that will surely carry through to a convincing climax."

Mr. Flitt knew all the rules. He knew them because Samuel Black had repealed them for him a hundred times. Mr. Flitt was a splendid student, so far as learning words was concerned. Samuel Black scratched his nose again and wondered what he could say. Mr. Flitt just didn't know enough to leave impossible situations alone.

"I can believe every character in the story with the exception of your hero, Mr. Frozzy," he admitted. "Mr. Frozzy is a dilapidated, unconventional person from the first. He goes around getting himself into trouble until it seems impossible for him to escape death. Then, by pressing this— this nerve behind his ear, he escapes and solves everything. I tell you, Mr. Flitt, it's not the way to write a story."

Mr. Flitt arose slowly, turning his hat in his hands and clearing his throat as little men do when they feel like crying and don't dare to because they weren't brought up that way.

"Then I'm to understand that you don't wish to purchase my effort?"

Samuel Black nodded ever so slightly never taking his eyes from Mr. Flitt's narrow, disappointed little face.

"Unless you take out that antiquated business of pressing the nerve, and give your character Mr. Frozzy a more logical manner, of reaching his end, I'm afraid I can't accept the story."

Mr. Flitt seemed to go into conference with himself. He made queer noises in his throat. He placed his hat upon his head, removed it with nervous fingers and placed it on his head again. Color mounted to his cheeks and changed them from dead gray to a mild tone of brown. Then he seemingly reached a decision. ,

"I can't change Mr. Frozzy's habits," he said firmly. "Mr. Frozzy acts as any one would under the circumstances. He'll have to remain as he is."

This gave Samuel Black the opportunity he had been praying for.

"Then," he said, and passed the script to Mr. Flitt, "I'm afraid I have no choice. I can't buy the story."

There was no mistaking the look of genuine disgust that flashed into Mr. Flitt's pale eyes.

"Very well," he snapped, and snatched the script with both hands.

He backed a few steps away from the desk; pressed a bony finger into a spot behind the lobe of his right ear, and vanished.

End

Table of Contents

- Introduction
- 1: Death Rides at Night
- 2: Oliver Performs a Miracle
- 3: Corporal Webber's Last Stand
- 4: Louie's Cat Eye
- 5: One-Way Ticket to Nowhere
- 6: Queen of the Flaming Diamond
- 7: Bridge Of Banishment
- 8: Freddie Funk's Madcap Mermaid
- 9: O'Sheen Goes to the Dogs
- 10: Valley of the Black Sun
- 11: These Shoes Are Killing Me
- 12: The Garden of Hell
- 13: All Kinds Of People