“It’s a nasty business,” he said quietly. “Poor Sanderson! To get that close to Mandalay, and then run foul of the head-hunters.”
Wade’s companion, a small man with blond hair and a curious, innocent expression, sipped lazily at his drink, finished it, and summoned the waiter to order another.
“And the guide, too,” he pointed out. “Whitey Carver. Don’t forget him.”
“They shouldn’t have camped so far from the porters,” Wade said. “Anyway, Tabin Naung put up a pretty good scrap. He kept his head, anyway.” Thunder Jim laughed grimly. “Which is more than Sanderson and Carver did. Nothing left but their headless bodies—and the head-hunters are back in the bush by now.”
“If we hadn’t got that telegraphed message that Sanderson was coming down river, we’d have gone after him,” Marat growled.
That was true. Only a few days before, authorities at Mandalay had asked Wade, ex officio, to investigate Sanderson, who was long overdue from his jaunt up country. But before Thunder Jim had time to move, a wireless from a post on the Chindwin had announced that Sanderson had just passed through, safe and sound, on his way back to Mandalay. And just yesterday Tabin Naung, a bandaged, blood-stained figure, had arrived with the porters, carrying the headless bodies of Sanderson and Carver. The battle in the zayat had ended tragically, and only the Pyu had managed to escape with his life.
“Why not turn this business over to the government?” Marat asked. “It isn’t our affair, is it?”
Wade shook his head.
“For one thing, Tabin Naung got a dirty deal. He was the sawbwa of his country, and this girl—Kamanthi—starts a putsch and takes over. From what Tabin Naung says, the lady’s a hellion.”
MARAT lifted an eyebrow. “I’d like to meet her.”
“You will. It looks like she’s another Messalina or Lucrezia Borgia.”
“I get it. Give a woman power, and she goes nuts.”
Wade chuckled. “She’s a bad lot, anyhow. Her idea of a pleasant weekend is to torture people she doesn’t like. Palinwa-land is in a bad way.”
“I still don’t see why the government—”
“England’s pretty busy just now,” Wade said grimly. “She hasn’t much time to send an expeditionary force into the north. It’d be much easier just to make a pact with the present ruler of Palinwa, and Tabin Naung might get lost in the shuffle. Besides, this business of making gold is plenty important.”
“I don’t believe that stuff,” Marat grunted.
“You saw that bracelet. I checked every point of Tabin Naung’s story, and I’m convinced. Even if there were just one chance in a hundred that the Palinwa priests can make gold, it’s worth investigating. Let the secret of transmutation get out, and the world finances would collapse. Money wouldn’t be any good. If the priests really can make gold, we’ve got to see that this power isn’t misused. It was simple while Palinwa was isolated, but now that Tabin Naung got through the swamp, it’ll be different.”
“Where is he now?” Marat asked.
“Out with Red, seeing the sights—the Arakan Pagoda, and Thibaw’s palaces. Everything’s new to him. He’s a strikingly intelligent chap, Dirk. Wasn’t fazed a bit by Mandalay.”
“The natives must have told him what to expect—and probably that geologist, Sanderson. Too bad about him.”
“A white man’s head is plenty valuable in the back country,” Wade grunted. “The natives must have trailed him for days. They usually don’t come that close to Mandalay.”
He rose, stretching his lean, sinewy body. “Let’s go. Time to meet Red and Tabin Naung at the airport. We can take off tonight, fly by compass, and reach Palinwa by morning. It may take a long time to locate the place, though. The sawbwa may not know it from the air.”
“We can find the swamp. That’s all we need. And the Thunderbug’s ready to go. I’ve checked the equipment.”
Wade tossed a few rupees on the table, and the two walked to the road to hail a taxi. Presently they were being whirled toward the airport.
The setting sun was gilding the white pagodas atop the Sagaing hills. Champac trees sent out their heavy, cloying odor. Wade puffed reflectively on a cigarette.
“It may not be as easy as you think, Dirk. If the Pyus are descended from that fabulous ancient race of scientists, they have some unusual weapons.”
Marat moved his hand slightly, and a sharp, gleaming throwing-knife flipped into view on his palm. He fingered the weapon affectionately.
“I’ll trust Daisybelle,” he said, smiling. “Just sharpened her this morning.”
Wade shrugged. “We’ll take precautions. I’m glad we can fly over the Waters of Death. From what Tabin Naung says, there must be some curious survivals in that swamp.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Marat mused. “For my money, they’re nats. Plain devils. Things with the bodies of whales and the necks and heads of serpents.”
“Plesiosaurus,” Wade explained. “Fresh-water plesiosaurus. They’re supposed to be prehistoric. But they might have kept on existing in some backwater swamp where conditions were just right.”
THE taxi halted at the airport. Wade overpaid the native, who flashed betal-stained teeth in a grateful grin, and headed for the big black plane that stood on the tarmac ready to take off. The small-winged cabin ship was the famous Thunderbug, a super-convertible craft that had astounded a number of engineers who contended it wasn’t possible.
For, by retracting the wings and propeller and pumping out caterpillar treads, the Thunderbug could be almost instantly transformed into a light, fast, and maneuverable tank. It was airtight, and by using a powerful screw to propel the streamlined craft, it could be converted into a submarine as well. Scientists said the thing was incredible, but they had to admit that the Thunderbug existed—and worked.
Only Wade and his two colleagues knew the secret of the amazingly light alloy of which the Thunderbug was made, a metal stronger than steel and lighter than aluminum. And only those three knew the nature of the improvements Wade had made on the engines, hopping them up so that the plane was as powerful as it was versatile. In the past the Thunderbug had proved itself in Wade’s never-ending battle against forces of crime and ruthless evil.
For that was Thunder Jim Wade’s mission. His strange background and history had made him into a perfect fighting machine, and those early years, spent in unknown Africa, had given him a deadly hatred for greed and evil and crime. He was a relentless, avenging Nemesis to wrongdoers, and his organization, built up over a period of years, was as perfect as he could make it. But the brain and sinews of that organization were Wade, his two colleagues, and the Thunderbug. All four of them bore scars that could have told dramatic stories of flaming guns, slashing krises, whistling machete and scimitar, arrow and lance and shrapnel.
Tabin Naung and Red Argyle were waiting for them. Argyle, a burly giant with harsh, craggy features and a mop of flaming red hair, was a man whose pugilistic exterior hid a shrewd and resourceful brain. He and Marat were exact opposites, for Dirk resembled a cat in his smooth, sleek laziness, his sudden awakenings to slashing, furious action, the unerring accuracy with which he could use knives, his favorite weapons. Wade himself, who looked like a rugged, young college student, had his own hidden talents—a mastery of hypnotism, a thorough knowledge of sleight-of-hand, of acrobatics and mechanical skill that made him as good an escape artist as Houdini.
Tabin Naung saluted Wade, pressing both hands to his forehead in an archaic gesture. “We are ready, lord,” he said, and glanced warily at the Thunderbug. “We shall… fly in that?”
Wade nodded. “Yes. But it is merely a machine, Tabin Naung. There is no danger.”
The sawbwa shrugged. “A man from Hell is not afraid of hot ashes,” he quoted.
Red Argyle moved his heavy shoulders impatiently. “Come on, runt,” he told Marat. “It’s hot standing in the sun.”
Dirk saved his retort for a more opportune moment and hurried toward th
e Thunderbug to open the complicated multiple locks that protected the craft against marauders. Presently the four of them were in the small cabin, Red at the controls.
“North?” he asked.
“Due north,” Wade nodded. “The Upper Chindwin, beyond the falls. Take it easy. We don’t want to arrive before sun-up.”
LIGHTLY the Thunderbug took the air, circled, and swept up over Mandalay. The pagodas and walls of the city fell behind them. Rice fields were shining patches below. Tabin Naung said nothing, but his whole body was tense, his face gleaming with perspiration.
“Okay?” Marat asked him.
“Ai… ai! This is magic indeed!”
“It is good magic, then. For it will take us to Palinwa.”
The sawbwa smiled darkly. “True. And to Kamanthi.”
The plane swept on into the slowly darkening north. The sun dropped from view, and the sudden tropic night blanketed the forests below. There was silence save for the muffled droning of the engines.
On and on. The hours dragged past. Presently Wade relieved Red at the controls, and after that Dirk took over. Tabin Naung did not sleep at all. Sometimes he fingered a da-knife that was tied securely to his side, and then a pleased smile would curl his lips.
Dawn broke, pearly and swift. Wade referred to his map, consulted with the sawbwa, and changed the course somewhat. According to their reckonings, they were not yet at the great marsh.
They found it without difficulty, amid a desolate, rocky region sparsely forested. White cloud-billows made a sea beneath. The morning mists concealed most of the swamp, but occasionally, through a rift. Wade could catch sight of the green, lush morass below. Once he saw a black, serpentine head flash up, pause for a moment, and then dive back into the black waters. It was like nothing he had ever seen before. Some prehistoric survival, perhaps.
“Funny no one ever saw Palinwa from the air before,” Red commented.
“Use your head, lamebrain,” Marat told him. “Those mists are plenty thick.”
“The air is seldom clear,” Tabin Naung explained. “Always the white fogs blanket Palinwa and the Waters of Death.” He broke off suddenly. “There!”
Wade peered down. Through a rift in the mists he could see a bare stretch of ground—nothing else.
“We may land there,” the sawbwa said, his face alight with excitement. “It is close to the city, yet hidden from it by a little ridge.”
Wade gestured, and Marat brought the Thunderbug circling down. “Hope we don’t crack up,” he murmured. “I’d hate to try to get through that swamp.”
The plane landed lightly, rolled across bumpy, uneven ground, and stopped. Dirk cut the motors. They died, and complete silence fell.
“Well,” Wade said, stretching his cramped limbs. “We’re here. Toss me that Colt, Red. I’m going visiting.”
Chapter III
Six-armed Goddess
ARGYLE stared at him. “Alone?”
“With Tabin Naung,” Wade said. “I’ll take a portable two-way radio kit with me, and tell you guys what to do. You’ll be more helpful inside the Thunderbug.”
Red nodded. “I guess so,” he admitted doubtfully.
The sawbwa broke in. “You can remain hidden here. None of our people enter this valley because it is too close to the swamp. Sometimes monsters come up from the Waters of Death and crawl inland a short distance.”
“Nice prospect,” Marat said grimly. “Well, if any of those giant snakes try to swallow the Thunderbug, I’ll use a machine-gun.”
Wade was busy at the controls. The plane’s short wings were pumped in to vanish, as did the propeller. The under-carriage shortened, and simultaneously caterpillar treads were pumped out. In a matter of minutes the plane had been transformed into a squat, dangerous-looking mobile tank.
“Can’t very well fly efficiently, with ceiling zero,” Wade explained. “From what Tabin Naung told me, we can accomplish our purpose best with a tank. I’ll keep sending messages back, and if I yell for the Thunderbug, start rolling!” He was strapping a light, portable radio unit to his chest, buttoning his shirt over it so that the compact kit was hidden. “I’ll need a few things.”
Wade ransacked the cabin, stuffing various gadgets into his pockets. Besides his Colt, in a shoulder holster, he took a bulky, odd-looking gun—a flame-pistol, chemically activated, designed to hurt and frighten rather than kill.
“I’ll put on an act,” he grunted. “Remember, Kamanthi’s never seen a white man before. And I’ve got plenty magic. A few sleight-of-hand tricks, maybe some hypnotism.”
“Will you be able to understand our language?” the sawbwa asked anxiously.
“I think so. You taught us some of it, and we’re pretty good linguists. Ready?”
Red scratched his flaming hair.
“Let me get this straight,” he grumbled. “You’re just going to walk in with Tabin Naung and tell Kamanthi to take a powder. Like that. Ye gods!”
“Psychology, bonehead,” Marat told him. “Ever hear of a war of nerves? The lady will start wondering what Jim’s got up his sleeve. Kick a tiger on the nose and he’s apt to sit back and yell for help.”
“What an optimist,” Argyle grunted. “Well, keep sending on the beam, and we’ll trail along when you give the signal.”
Wade buttoned his shirt. “Most of the city’s underground,” he commented. “From what the sawbwa said, there’s a big ramp leading down to the palace. Big enough to bring the Thunderbug down. Once there, toss out a few anaesthetic bombs and the job’s done. But first we palaver. We want to break Kamanthi’s prestige as well as her power.”
“She’s a devil,” Tabin Naung warned. “Queen and priestess of Tama, the six-armed goddess. Ai! But I have my steel.” He caressed the da-knife, that two-foot blade which could be used for cutting down a tree or sharpening a pencil.
“You’ll do what I say,” Wade said sharply. “I don’t want you running amok and messing things up. Sound dog shouldn’t fight mad,” he quoted the Burmese proverb, and the sawbwa grinned and nodded.
“Very well, Lord. I shall obey.”
“Then let’s get started.”
THEY slipped quietly out of the cabin, leaving Argyle and Marat quarreling in an absent-minded fashion, and started toward the ridge where the mist hung white and heavy. The air was stickily damp and hot. Out of the concealing fogs came the distant lapping of water, and, once, a high-pitched, hissing shriek. Tabin Naung jerked his head back.
“A demon of the swamp,” he said. “That is why we live underground, where the monsters cannot reach us.”
Wade didn’t answer. Deep within his mind a warning bell was clanging, the sixth sense that warned him of danger. So this was Palinwa-land, last stronghold of the forgotten Pyu race—a race perhaps descended from an incredibly ancient civilization in the days before Buddha lived, even before mighty Angkor Vat had been built in the jungles of Indo-China. Mists hid that unknown past, as they hid the island in the swamp. What strange things would he find here?
There was no way to tell. But soon he would know, Wade thought. Very soon now. He followed Tabin Naung, watching the lithe muscles slide sleekly under the skin of the giant’s bronzed back. The pair topped the ridge.
Drifting clouds blanketed the valley below. But structures of stone were visible here and there, surprisingly small. Wade remembered that most of the city was underground. A primeval equivalent of bomb-shelters.
The buildings were plain and featureless, eroded by dampness and the heavy rains of the monsoon. Superficially, the city might have been built by savages. Yet, as he came nearer, Wade realized that the builders had been excellent architects. The stones were planed and leveled, strong enough to withstand attack.
Farther away Wade could see ploughed fields, herds of cattle, and a stream that flowed down into the swamp, bordered by swampy acres of rice. Figures were visible moving about here and there, half-naked men and women, and brown, active children who wore nothing at all. It was like any on
e of a thousand similar villages in Burma, and the people might have been Kachins of the northwest, Tamans or the Nagas of hilly Assam. Yet the scanty apron-like garments, red, yellow, or blue, were different, and there was something almost disturbingly ancient about those squat, blocky buildings. Superficially, the expected. But what lay hidden underground?
Tabin Naung no longer moved with stealth. His bearing regal, he strode down the slope toward the largest of the structures. Wade walked beside him, alert and ready. One of the natives paused, stared, and shouted. Others saw the newcomers. They came running.
None of them carried weapons. They kept at a respectful distance, wide-eyed, following the pair in a crowd. Tabin Naung ignored them completely.
The largest structure had double doors of bronze, twenty feet high and correspondingly wide. Soldiers on guard sprang to attention, their jaws dropping at sight of the returned sawbwa. One of them lifted his spear hesitantly, and Wade’s hand moved imperceptibly toward his holster.
ABRUPTLY Tabin Naung stopped, his jaw jutting forward. “Open the gates,” he commanded. “I have a message for Kamanthi.”
The guard lowered his spear, blinking. “Tabin Naung! Are you a nat! You were sent into the Waters of Death.”
“I have returned, bringing great magics with me. Open the gates!” the sawbwa snapped.
The guards exchanged glances. One said, “Aye! But we must tell Kamanthi first.”
“Then tell her.” Tabin Naung’s voice held contempt. “I shall wait, but not for long.”
The guard who had threatened them with the spear opened the gates a crack and slipped within. Time passed. The throng of jostling villagers grew larger, but none approached closely. Wade improved the moment by switching on his concealed radio apparatus and telling Argyle and Marat what had happened.
“Break out the recordings,” he finished softly, speaking in English. “We want to make our entrance impressive. When I give the word, switch on Wagner.”
The guard reappeared, and swung the doors wide. Wade looked down a sloping ramp that slanted into the depths of the earth for a hundred feet or more before it ended at another metal door. The passage was big enough to accommodate the Thunderbug, he saw. Good!
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