Twin of the Amazon

by John Russell Fearn

  “The idea’s good enough, if we can get aboard a flying saucer in time,” Kerrigan said dubiously. “I don’t think that we—”

  He stopped, gazing into the black “sky”. The Amazon looked too as one of the wing-like ’planes made its appearance. It was moving with tremendous speed—and suddenly it dawned on them that it was heading straight for them, something depending from its belly in the shape of a gigantic letter J.

  “Get down!” the Amazon ordered abruptly. “I don’t like the look of this—”

  But she was a shade too late with her advice. With a noiseless rush of speed the machine dipped low over the roof and, presumably controlled from the cabin, the J-shaped wire— socketed so that it coiled like a snake—wrapped around their waists, tightened into an immovable loop, and bore them struggling and fighting clean off the roof and into the air. Breathing only with effort, Kerrigan and the Amazon found themselves jammed back to back, the crushing loop all but squeezing the breath out of them.

  “I—I can’t stand much of this——” Kerrigan groaned. “I’ll—suffocate—Hard enough to breathe in this air as it is—”

  Had the Amazon been able to see him, she would have noticed that his face was already purpling, but she was too absorbed with her own predicament. Air was slowly strangling in her lungs, too, and there were throbbings at the back of her eyes, becoming worse at the dizzying view below. It all depended on how long the trip was to be whether she and Kerrigan survived. Unless—

  She dragged at her pinned arms, and the effort set her and Kerrigan swaying wildly in the gulf.

  “For God’s sake!” he shouted hoarsely. “What—what are you trying to do—?”

  “Free—my hand,” she gulped back. “If I can get at my disintegrator I’ll smash this cable, and we’ll drop.... Have to risk how far we fall. You willing?”

  “Sure... In this gravity we might make it.”

  Her face darkening at the vast, breathless effort she threw on herself, the Amazon dragged her right hand free of the imprisoning coil, scraping the skin, but not breaking it. Immediately her hand dropped to her belt, and by wriggling savagely she succeeded in dragging the disintegrator from its holster.

  With it in her fingers she stared up at the snaking coil in the flyer’s belly as the machine careered onwards to an unknown destination. Then she glanced below. They were about thirty feet from the nearest roof-tops, heading towards one which seemed to be made entirely of glass. To wait until they were beyond it might mean loss of consciousness—and then death.

  She fired—straight at the wire overhead.

  Blinding flame, a writhing cloud of smoke blown by the wind, and a disintegrated flyer which blew apart, since it was in the track of the frightful streams of energy—Then the Amazon and Kerrigan were free of the coil, its tightness relaxing upon severance.

  Headlong they both plunged downwards, slowly as ever in the Martian pull, with the great sheet of the glass roof below spread like a lake in the glare of the twin suns. To save themselves was impossible, but in the brief time they had they turned their feet downwards and held up their arms over their heads.

  They struck the glass with shattering force and plunged through it, crashing on to a metal floor below in the midst of a wilderness of instruments.

  Instantly there was a rush of feet, but dazed though she was, the Amazon still had her disintegrator in her hand, and she levelled it quickly. The four Martians in laboratory overalls stopped instantly, staring at her as she scrambled up. To her surprise she found that she was not even scratched: nor was Kerrigan. Puzzled, she picked up a piece of the glass roof and examined its edge, none the less keeping her weapon ready.

  “All the better for us,” she commented, tossing the piece away again. “It isn’t glass: more like gelatine, with a blunt edge.”

  “Which saved us being cut to ribbons,” Kerrigan commented; then as he glanced about him he added, “This seems to be some sort of laboratory. I begin to think Mars must be full of nothing else—Look out!” He broke off. “More technicians coming up!”

  The Amazon nodded and kept her weapon steady, her violet eyes glancing at the grim-faced Martians, who obviously knew whom she was.

  “Any of you speak my language?” she asked, and after a long pause one of the men answered.

  “I do—little.” He gestured vaguely. “Am laboratory expert for the Metrix. Helped in—in reading minds of Earth men. So I learned language. Little. That way.”

  “You speak it well enough to suit me,” the Amazon told him. “That being so, understand this: On you doing exactly as I tell you depends not only your life but the life of everybody in this laboratory. This weapon I have here can—and will—volatilize the lot of you if you dare cross my wishes. I’m desperate, and I don’t care what lengths I go to!”

  The man nodded in obvious consternation and translated for his colleagues; then they, too, became alarmed. It was perfectly evident that in themselves they were quite harmless—probably much more inquisitive than actually dangerous.

  “From somewhere,” the Amazon continued, “circular-shaped space-ships are being sent to Earth from here. I want to know the exact spot—and what is more my friend and I are to be taken to that spot in safety. Do you understand that?”

  “You mean—er—the ranicawls?” the Martian suggested.

  “Yes, maybe I do,” the Amazon assented. “Space machines, the colour of”—she touched her head—“my hair....”

  The man nodded promptly. “Ranicawls,” he confirmed. “That—their name. I get you to them.”

  He said something to his comrades, and it was evident they were doing their best to stop him co-operating, until the disintegrator levelled at them.

  “You’d better do as I tell you, my friends,” the Amazon warned. “You’ll not get hurt if you deliver us to the departure grounds for these—ranicawls. If you don’t you can be perfectly sure that I will...”

  She paused, staring at something on the high shelf behind the Martian group. It was a reddish-looking cloud swimming in a tall, transparent tube.

  “Iron-eaters, as I live and breathe,” she whispered, fascinated; then she jerked her gun to indicate the tube. “Ursugas?” she asked, and the man gave a nod.

  “Ursugas cultures,” he answered. “Made—harmless. Dead.”

  “Dead!” the Amazon echoed sharply. “How?”

  The man was silent, obstinacy creeping into his mouth. He met the cold glitter of the violet eyes.

  “How?” the Amazon demanded, going close to him. “That’s one thing I want to know above all others!”

  “I—I dare not tell...” he insisted. “Not—to you. If the Metrix were to find that I—”

  “Never mind the Metrix!” the Amazon blazed at him, and with the flat of her free hand she struck him savagely across the face and then jammed the gun hard on to his stomach.

  “Sound...” he gulped, with a frightened look about him.

  “Sound? What frequency?”

  “Fifteen million a second—in your—er—mathematics.”

  The Amazon’s eyes narrowed. “Ultrasonics, you mean? Mmmm—that’s very interesting. I wonder why I didn’t think of that?” Then apparently banishing the topic, she asked abruptly, “Well, how do we get to the flying grounds?”

  The Martian motioned to be followed, and the Amazon complied, keeping him covered as he pushed his way through the watching technicians. Kerrigan followed up in the rear, his fists ready for immediate action. But nothing was tried. Evidently the scientists valued their own lives too much to start anything.

  Finally, the Martian paused and pointed to two heavy cases of metal, pierced with ventilation holes. The lids were removed at the moment, and inside the cases resembled coffins, with metal clamps which were plainly intended to hold arms and legs.

  “Those—about to be sent with eighteen others—to space grounds,” the Martian explained. “For use on—on your planet. Earth people brought back in them—captives.”

  �
��Which means I guessed right,” the Amazon said, with a glance at Kerrigan. “And you mean,” she added, to the Martian, “that if we are sealed up in these we’ll be carried straight to the space grounds for the ranicawls?”

  “Immediately. We—about to send cases...”

  After a moment’s pause Kerrigan said: “It’s a risk, Vi, but we’ll have to take it. No choice. If we’re not clamped in we’ll be all right. You can blow the lid off with one of your guns if you can’t do it by ordinary strength. And if you’ll reload your second gun I’ll take it to free myself.”

  The girl nodded and reloaded her second gun, whilst Kerrigan took the other one and kept the Martian covered.

  “You keep that gun, Howard,” the Amazon said, putting the reloaded one back in its holster. “Now, you.. She turned to the Martian. “Put the lids on and carry out orders. Remember that I shall be watching you through these airholes, and if you do anything wrong you know what to expect.”

  The Martian nodded and motioned to the cases. The Amazon stood in one, and the lid was placed in position, followed by a clicking as clamps were snapped into place. Through the airholes she watched the lid being fastened on Kerrigan’s case—then a huge, trolley-like affair was wheeled into position, controlled by a motor in charge of the cooperative Martian.

  With his colleagues he laid the eighteen other cases on the trolley and added the two containing the Amazon and Kerrigan on the top. Lying flat on their backs, they peered out through the holes as they were wheeled from the laboratory.

  The journey proved to be a long one. It took them through vast corridors, in elevators, through busy streets outside, in three different types of vehicles, until the third and last vehicle drew up in a wide, open area where ordinary wing-planes were standing, together with an array of twenty of the giant circular-shaped space-machines.

  As she waited for something to happen—her gun in her hand ready for instant use if necessary—the Amazon studied the flying saucers interestedly through the airholes. They were, she noticed, quite revolutionary in design when compared with the submarine-shaped craft favoured by Earth’s space engineers.

  In the Martian design the power-plant was in the hub of the craft, and from it radiated “spokes” which were evidently connecting passages to the various control rooms and cabins on the “rim”. Also on the rim were bowed outlook windows, the projecting antennae of radio aerials, and on the part of the rim nearest the ground, an open air-lock.

  Each queer machine was fitted with a rocket-jet system, though the exhaust tubes were cleverly concealed. In this alone did the flying saucers resemble the Earth system—and probably the machines also used atomic power, which secret the Martians had obviously completely conquered.

  So much the Amazon had time to observe, then Martian workers came into view and heaved her case from the top of the pile, carrying it with clumsy carelessness to the nearest flying saucer and then inside it. There was darkness for a space as a passage was traversed, then the case was brought into a metal-lined storage room and dumped heavily on the floor. The Amazon muttered to herself at the jarring jolts she received.

  Kerrigan’s case was placed on top of hers, and the remaining eighteen on top again—then the door closed and there was the rasp of metal bolts.

  Darkness, and silence.

  “You okay, Vi?” came Kerrigan’s hoarse voice, presently.

  “Yes, I’m okay—but we can’t open the lids with all these cases on top of us. I’m going to smash the side out of mine if I can, then I’ll release you.”

  She began the struggle, but the metal was proof against her muscles, so working with a tiny flashlight from a pouch of her belt she cut down the nozzle-aperture on her disintegrator-gun, narrowed her eyes against the fiendish glare, and started to carve a hole with the needle-thin, white-hot jet.

  In three minutes she had kicked away a small circle of metal, leaving an aperture large enough to permit of her body. She scrambled out when the metal had cooled, still holding her flashlight. To move the piled-up cases and unclamp the lid of Kerrigan’s “coffin” was only the work of a few moments—then they stood together, holding their guns, looking about them as the Amazon flashed her torch beam about the storage room.

  “The door’s bolted too,” she announced, going over to it and pulling. “And from the smell of the air in here there’s no ventilation system. We’ve either got to get out of here quickly—or else suffocate.”

  “And suppose that by this time this craft is full of crew, or something?”

  “We’ll have to risk it. If I can only get this machine to myself to control the rest will be easy. It’s jet-driven, so I ought to be able to handle it.”

  The girl levelled her flame-gun again, cutting a circle out of the bottom of the door. She had to risk the noise it made as she kicked it and it fell with a metallic clang into the corridor outside.

  The moment the aperture was cool enough she scrambled through it—just in time to find herself in a yellow light with three armed guards pointing their guns at her.

  Indeed, they were more than guards. The foremost she recognized immediately as Thraxal—and so, too, did Kerrigan as he slowly stood up beside her.

  CHAPTER IX

  “I really do believe,” Thraxal said slowly, regarding the girl in snakelike fixity, “that the Metrix greatly underestimated you, Miss Brant! You escaped captivity, reclaimed your body—even if it is a duplicate—destroyed the Metrix’s body, and have slain our three master-surgeons! You might even have escaped entirely by using this vessel, but for the loyalty of one of our laboratory workers.”

  “He told you, then, what happened?” the Amazon asked, hedging for time.

  “Of course. He reported what he had done—or rather what he had been forced to do—and so I immediately decided to take charge of operations myself. So far my guards have made a very poor show of trying to capture you. Even my orders to sweep you and the Commander from the roof of the radio building and drop you to the rocks outside the city failed—thanks to your strength and ingenuity, Miss Brant.... Naturally, all that is at an end. In the absence of the Metrix I am in complete control, and since you no longer use her body I am at liberty to kill you, as I am the Commander. That is what I intend to do.”

  The Amazon plainly saw what was coming, and there was not a second in which to whip out her gun and fire. Instead, even as Thraxal pressed the button of his gun, she ducked, the flame shooting over her head. In ducking she scooped down her right hand at blurring speed, carrying it up again with the disk of heavy metal from the door. Edgewise, it hurtled straight at the cold-faced Martian and struck him across the forehead.

  His second aim with the gun went wide, tearing a livid flame in the metal wall of the passage. Simultaneously a mortally deep gash welled blood across his forehead and his knees gave way. With one mighty blow the Amazon knocked the right-hand man sideways so that he fell across his third companion as he was about to fire. Then their weapons were gone and in the girl’s hands.

  “Out!” she ordered savagely. “Get off this ship—and take the corpse of Thraxal with you! Hurry!” she yelled, as they dared to hesitate.

  It dawned on her that perhaps they did not understand her words; but her actions were plain enough. They seized the dead Thraxal between them, dragged him along the passage and out at the air-lock. The Amazon swung it shut and clamped it. Farther back up the corridor Kerrigan was motioning urgently.

  “Here’s the control-room, Vi! And there’s a horde of Martians on our track outside.... We’ve got to move!”

  She hurried to where he was standing, and together they entered a wide chamber where all the instruments of navigation were fixed, surrounded by bowed windows looking on the departure-grounds outside. Speeding across them were armed guards in queerly shaped vehicles, several of them equipped with projector-like devices which looked anything but healthy. They came to a halt when they reached the two Martian dignitaries who had been thrown out with the dead Thraxal.

>   The Amazon watched the scene for a moment in grim amusement, then she flung herself in the control-chair and contemplated the various switches used in the handling of the flying saucer. Finally, she nodded to herself, switched in a power-unit, and then transferred the energy to the rocket jets with what she assumed was the correct lever.

  Silent, like a gigantic wheel, the flying saucer fled from the departure-grounds and left the guards below shielding their heads and faces from the scorching torrent of underblast.

  “Done it!” Kerrigan breathed, wiping his hand over his face. “Beaten ’em hollow!”

  “Not yet,” the girl warned him, staring down on the roofs of the city hurtling away from them. “To know how to control this weird thing is only half the battle. How do we get out into the void with the valves all shut? I was hoping that we’d be on the way to Earth with a Martian pilot in command before it became necessary to take over. In that way all the machines would have been in the void; but as it is...”

  “I never thought of that,” Kerrigan admitted blankly. “We’ll just have to cruise around until one of the valves does open—”

  “What makes you think one ever will?” the girl snapped. “You surely don’t think they’d let us get away with that, do you? And don’t forget that they have negative electricity which can cut out the power if they wish—same as they put the Ultra out of action. Look around, will you, and see if there’s some kind of gun anywhere—preferably on the disintegrator principle. We’ve got to blast our way out if there’s no other way.”

  Kerrigan nodded and turned to commence a search.

  Gradually getting the “feel” of the astounding craft as it moved in swift silence, the Amazon kept cruising in a wide circle, only a quarter of a mile from the black, lowering mass of 96 which was the metal lining of the underworld. Far below, the Martian landscape kept apparently rotating like some weirdly patterned picture inside a crystal ball.

  “I can’t find anything,” Kerrigan grumbled at length, scratching his head fiercely and gazing around him.