by Harold Ward
Before him a cascade of water tumbled from some point far above him, apparently down the side of a precipitous cliff.
He had come out behind a waterfall.
Through the mass of falling water he could see a big room filled with several dynamos and generators. The rocky shelf on which he stood was at a higher level than this subterranean power-house; by looking downward he could catch a glimpse of the water wheel by which this natural power was captured. This was the source of the electricity running the diabolical engines of destruction with which Doctor Death sought to reduce the world to a state of chaos.
Several men were working about the machinery in the power plant. Because of the curtain of water, he was unable to see whether they were Zombi or Russians.
THERE seemed to be no escape from the spot in which he found himself. To go back meant but one thing—capture. It would be impossible for him to scale the smooth, glassy sides of the perpendicular shaft into which he had fallen. Ahead of him was the great water wheel. To fall into it meant to be ground beneath its ponderous weight or swept into the seething whirlpool into which the water fell.
The rocky shelf on which he stood was narrow—less than a yard across at the widest place. Yet he followed it, hoping against hope that it would eventually lead to some outlet. Instead, it narrowed to barely a foot in width. He was forced to flatten himself against the smooth wall at his back to keep himself from being sucked down by the cascade of falling water little more than an arm’s length away.
The shelf curved, the falls being in a sort of horseshoe formation. As he rounded this curve, he saw ahead of him another dark opening larger than the one through which he had emerged.
Then the shelf suddenly ended. Between the opening and himself was a gap fully ten feet in width. Under ordinary conditions the leap would have been easy for a man in splendid physical condition.
But there was no place to catch himself on the opposite side. To make the jump, he would be forced to land squarely on all fours in the smooth opening on the other side of the gap or drop into the churning whirlpool below.
A woman screamed.
“Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh!”
It was Nina Fererra’s voice. It came from that opening on the other side of the gap. The words were cut off as if a hand had throttled her rounded, white throat.
Jimmy Holm whirled and stepped back a pace or two, measuring the distance with his eyes. In the middle of the smooth, rocky floor of the opening on the other side was a little protuberance. If he could land just beyond that, he could catch himself if he slipped backward in recovering his balance.
He hesitated only long enough to get his bearings and to dash the mist from the waterfall out of his eyes.
Again that despairing cry:
“God! Oh, God!”
Over the noise of the failing waters and the purring of the dynamos came a snarling, maniacal laugh.
It was the laugh of Doctor Death.
Then Jimmy Holm leaped.
Even as Holm leaped, he knew that he had jumped short. His feet touched the smooth, wet edge of the slippery rock, then dropped off into space. He fell doubled over as he had planned to do, his arms outstretched, so that his stomach was across the rounded edge.
As he slid backward, his fingers came in contact with the little protuberance he had noticed in the rocky floor. For an instant be hung there by one hand. Then, slowly he caught the tiny outcropping with the fingers of his other hand and pulled himself forward a bit. The toes of his rubber boots caught against the smooth walls below and helped to steady him.
Then, edging forward inch by inch, he squirmed into the opening.
He heard Nina shriek again. Her voice seemed muffled—barely audible. He sprang forward, running through the darkness doubled over to avoid striking his head against the low ceiling. Occasionally he was forced to strike matches in order to find his way.
Again he saw a light ahead of him. Now be was able to make better time. Finally he came to the end of the fissure. He paused, hugging the wall, his eyes fighting to accustom themselves to the change from darkness to brilliant light.
It was a vast room into which he gazed—a room which seemed to stretch on and on. He was standing far above it, looking down on it, into it, while in the distance, almost on a level with his own eyes, was a great eye, the pupil of which was slowly rotating in both directions simultaneously.
Just below he caught a glimpse of a mass of machinery—of huge tubes. A cylinder seemed to be rotating, throwing its light upon the eye that gleamed at him.
Beside the machine stood two Russians.
Upon the floor lay Nina Fererra—bound. In front of her stood Death, his cavernous eyes gleaming.
“Holm is near by!” he snarled. “I can sense his presence! The death I prepared for him—the mental torture for both of you—approaches. He fell into one of my traps. You will have the exquisite pleasure of seeing him die.”
Holm prepared to leap. Yet something held him back. It was the eye. It seemed to grip him in its devilish spell. He tried to fight off the feeling of inertia that was gripping him.
It was his love for the girl that finally helped him fight off the hypnotic effect of the ray. He leaped over the machine to the point where Nina Fererra was lying. Stooping, he seized her and threw her, bound as she was, across his broad shoulder.
Then he seemed paralyzed. He felt as if some horrible creatures were dragging him closer and closer to the edge of an abysmal swamp, pulling Nina away... Something was rending him apart... It seemed to go on for hours.
Something snapped inside of Jimmy Holm’s brain. The thought came to him that such things couldn’t happen. Then he realized the truth. He was a victim of hypnosis. It was Death who was hanging to his back, scratching at him, biting—Death in a maniacal fury. It was Death’s cries of triumph that he had heard.
That eye—that revolving eye of light upon the cavern wall! It was that that was hypnotizing him—it was by gazing at it that he had mesmerized himself, superinduced by the powerful brain of Doctor Death.
REALIZATION brought a glimpse of the madman. Death was hanging to his arm. The old man’s cavernous eyes, gleaming with a maniacal light, were glaring into his own, as he stretched his skinny neck around to face his victim.
Carrying the weight of Nina Fererra on one arm and with Death hanging to the other, Jimmy Holm charged forward. That eye! It must be extinguished. That one thought was uppermost in his mind.
Lowering his head, he brought it against the swiftly revolving disc. He felt the glass cut his scalp—felt the warm blood trickle down over his forehead as the pieces tinkled to the stone floor.
Then the eye was gone. The lights were on again.
Raising his head, the blood dripping from a dozen wounds, Jimmy Holm glared around. He was standing in the midst of the big cavern room. Nina was swung across his shoulder and the face of Doctor Death was before his eyes; the bony hands were pounding against his face.
He jerked away from the old man. Death screamed for help. Holm’s fist crashed against the horrible, skull-like mask that danced before him. Death’s face disappeared in a mirage of red as the blood trickled into Jimmy’s eyes.
Holm whirled, and, throwing the dead weight of the bound girl across his shoulders, raced for the narrow exit.
The sinister scientist, the blood running from his face, dragged a gun from his pocket. Holm felt the bullet sear his ribs. He staggered, recovered himself and slammed the steel door in the other’s face.
Ahead of him loomed a narrow flight of stone steps. Where they led to he had no idea.
Yet there was no other way out.
He dashed madly ahead.
Chapter X
Repulsion Ray Attack
LIKE a man in a daze, Holm crashed through a door which opened into another huge room at the top of the stairs. He recognized the machinery which stood before him—the great range finder, the silvered sheet, the horrible apparatus which sucked the moisture out of human
bodies and reduced them to tiny figurines.
The room was empty. He dared not stop to destroy the machines if he would save Nina Fererra. Ahead of him was another flight of stairs. He charged upward and opened the door.
Before him spread a great airdrome. A dozen ships were lined up, ranging in size from tiny, two-passenger cruisers to great cabin planes.
Holm’s heart sang with joy at sight of them, only to drop like a stone at sight of a man working on one of the ships. Holm was unarmed. But his sudden appearance, his face covered with blood, threw the man into a panic. He turned to run.
Holm seized him by the arm, swinging him around, and grabbed the man’s wrench before the fear-paralyzed mechanic could resist. He tossed Nina into the cockpit of the nearest machine.
“The door!” he snapped at the mechanic. “Open it! Quick!”
The frightened man reached for a trip cord which hung from the ceiling. He gave it a quick jerk. That portion of the root of the cave just above the plane slid silently to one side, revealing a glimpse of the bright, sunny sky. It was morning.
“Meaning what?” Holm snarled, pointing to the machine. “How can I get this ship up without a runway?”
“Repulsion rays,” the other stammered, his eyes on the wrench with which Holm gestured threateningly. “The under part of the plane is double and is filled with a certain substance composed of chemicals mixed together with selected minerals. When a current of electricity is shot through it, the substance is in conflict with the minerals of the earth. Like radium, it is necessary to keep it sheathed in lead. You have only to open a slot in the bottom of that leaden reservoir and the compound, agitated by the electricity, develops a tendency to fly away from the earth.
“By pulling the lever back gently the ship rises toward the sky. When you wish to land, you shut off the engine, close this gradually, and sink slowly to the ground.”
He was frightened—horribly so—his face white and blanched at this madman with the wild eyes and the red, bloody face, the waving wrench.
Holm leaped for the plane. At the same moment Death appeared in the doorway, gun in hand. Behind him were several of his Russians.
In a little box in the observer’s seat were several small, cylindrical objects. Holm seized one of them for a weapon.
“Don’t drop it!” the mechanic shrieked, leaping toward the door. “It’s filled with chloride of potash and picric acid! The most deadly combination known to modern warfare.” Holm raised his arm as Death covered him with his weapon.
For a moment it was a case of stalemate. Neither man dared make a move.
Something told Jimmy to replace the bomb in its cotton-lined compartment. He knew that it was the thought waves of the sinister old scientist hurling themselves against his own brain. Again he was being slowly, but nevertheless, efficiently, hypnotized. Vainly did he battle against the surge of command that came to him.
“Put it back! Put it back!”
The words sung themselves into his brain, burning their way into his consciousness. Against them he fought as he had never fought before. He strained every muscle in an effort to throw the bomb. The sweat stood out on his forehead in great beads.
Death was coming forward now. Bent almost double, the revolver pointed straight to the front, the cadaverous monster was gliding toward him. His sunken eyes were glaring like those of a snake. His gaunt face was bleeding from Holm’s blows. His left arm was extended, the fingers moving slightly. And from them tiny sparks leaped as if from an electric wire.
Again Holm’s power of concentration drove back that of the other. He threw off the old man’s thought waves and hurled the bomb.
Whirling as he threw—or perhaps it was due to his weakened condition—for he was nearly exhausted—the bomb went wild. Over the heads of the sinister scientist and his anarchistic crew it sailed, landing squarely through the cavern top in the midst of the death-dealing machinery.
The earth shook from the tremendous force of the explosion.
Holm was thrown backward. He saw Death and his cohorts topple and fall, hurled to the floor by the terrific concussion.
As he fell, Death pulled the trigger.
Something struck Jimmy Holm with the force of a battering ram as he went down, his scalp grazed. He dragged himself back to his feet with an effort. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Death getting up. He leaped for the airplane. A bullet missed him by inches as one of the Russians fired from the floor. The others commenced shooting. It was a fusillade. Through it, save for that scalp wound from Death’s bullet, he came through unscathed.
He climbed into the pilot’s seat with the last of his remaining strength and pulled at the lever which released the repulsion rays.
The machine leaped upward.
Death’s gun was raised.
Holm jerked the repulsion lever back its full length. The machine leaped through the opening like a rocket as the scientist’s bullet ripped through the fuselage a foot too low.
An instant later they were a thousand feet above the island.
Turning with a grim smile, Holm unfastened the ropes with which Nina’s wrists were bound. He felt more secure as he observed that the plane was equipped with death-ray guns.
LANDING near La Foubelle, Holm found himself in the midst of an excited party from the fortress.
Blake rushed forward. Behind him were Milton David and Tony Caminetti. They seized Holm by the hand and shook it warmly.
“What happened?” the Secret Service man demanded, looking at Holm’s battered face and bedraggled appearance. “You look as if you had been run through a sausage grinder. Where have you been?”
Holm grinned in spite of himself as he helped Nina Fererra from the cockpit.
“I have,” he responded. “The question, however, is where have you been? Personally, I’ve been enjoying one of my usual tilts with Death—which is never exactly a pleasure excursion.”
“Death!” Blake ejaculated. “Death—here?”
Holm nodded.
“Within twenty-five miles of us at the present time,” he answered, “and as safe as he would be at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean. But, meanwhile, where have you been? Why didn’t you come in after us as instructed?”
A blank look crept into Blake’s face.
“Instructed?” he said. “I do not understand.”
He waited until Jimmy had explained matters. Then he told what had happened at his end of the line. He had seen nothing of Constable Le Grand. Receiving no word from either Holm or Ricks, he had taken the bull by the horns that morning. Together with David and Caminetti he had flown ashore and struck out for La Foubelle.
AT La Foubelle they had found Ricks babbling in delirium at the home of Constable Le Grand. The constable’s wife could tell them little. There was a strange man lying in the little mortuary awaiting identification. The woman who had been kidnaped.
Two men had come to La Foubelle—the man who was now in her best room sick—and another. Her husband had been close mouthed. He had told her that these men were going into the morass in search of the girl taken by the swamp devil. She had crossed herself and told him not to go. He had promised not to, stating that he was going on an errand for the two strangers, who were, he said, officers of the law.
“And,” she added, drying her eyes on her apron, “he ees not yet return. I seenk maybe dis swamp devil get heem, too.”
Then, only the night before, small boys playing at the edge of the swamp had found the bateau and in it the sick man. She had ordered him brought to her house, thinking that her husband would want to interrogate him when he returned. Meanwhile, recognizing the symptoms of snake bite, she was doing the best she could to ease his sufferings.
It had taken Blake but a few moments to deduce what had happened. Rushing Ricks to the fortress for medical treatment, he had ordered reinforcements. Even now he was preparing to strike into the island at the head of an armed party. A launch was being hastily brought overland; ahead of it air
planes were to scout the morass.
Holm shook his head as he explained what had happened on the island.
“There are three ways by which Death will try to make his escape,” he said. “One is by the way of the swamp, via La Foubelle. The second is by sea, through the little creek that flows out of the morass into the ocean. We should be able to find it. The third, and most likely way, is via airplane.”
“With our force, we can strike at him any time he tries that,” the commanding officer of the air force said grimly.
“Can you?” Holm said, pointing to the plane in which he and Nina had just landed. “With the death-ray guns mounted on the prow of his ships, he can shoot you down at will, extracting the moisture from your bodies just as he did with his other victims.
“And, on the other hand, remember that I am not certain that I succeeded in damaging his machine for creating the invisible barricade against planes. Or he may have another for emergencies. I take my hat off to no one when it comes to piloting a crate, yet out yonder lies my machine, a victim of his invisible rays. And—”
He stopped suddenly, grinning happily in spite of his condition.
“Get back to the fortress, major,” he said. “Our problem will be speedily solved if you can induce the government to rush matters—and I think that they will if the matter is brought directly to the attention of the President.
“Your ships are already equipped with gyroscopic pitching and turn indicators. What you need are ‘robot’ steering devices similar to the one in Death’s ship yonder—the one in which I came. Wiley Post used one, if I am not mistaken, in his ocean-wide flight. There are plenty available in commercial planes; if not, radio a description of the one in the machine yonder and have half a dozen rushed. They should be here by tomorrow.”
As the major saluted and turned to execute his command, he outlined his plan of campaign to the others.
The party was to be divided into three separate commands. The first, with reinforcements from the island, was to remain at La Foubelle to guard the outlet there. The second was to commence a search of the shore for the mouth of the creek which led through the swamp to the island. The third—the air force—was to be equipped with the new controls as speedily as possible and remain ready for action, while extra men were hurried from Washington to assist in patrolling the swamp.