“And you are being more factual, searching for Imhotep’s Tomb?”
“Actually,” Indy smiled, “that and his Ibis Stick. Empowered by Thoth, himself, it is said.”
“Empowered to do what?”
“According to legend, the Stick possesses the power to levitate gigantic building stones, like those used here and later at Gizah… that the wane could create city-wide force-fields, and cause images to appear and disappear at will.”
“I see. Nothing fanciful.”
“No,” Indy answered with a straight face.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred voice filtered into Bruce’s consciousness before the latter could ask a follow-up question relating to Jones’ quest, and turned to his friend, who added: “If you are not presently occupied, I have a gentleman who wishes to meet you.”
“I shall be there momentarily,” Bruce said, turning back to Indy to say they would talk later.
Entering the excavation’s main tent, he spotted Alfred standing next to a tall, handsome man, with a timeless quality about him. “Master Bruce, may I introduce you to Monsieur Leo Saint-Clair.”
“It’s an honor, Monsieur,” Bruce said in stilted school-book French.
Saint-Clair smiled, wondering again why Americans always felt it necessary to tell a person they are honored to merely meet him? He shrugged it off; he should be used to it by now.
“Leo and I have been chatting-up old times, and I am at liberty to inform you of his true identity and work,” Alfred stated as he poured tea. The three men had settled in canvas camp chairs. The butler filled his employer in on some of his adventures during the Great War, dealing with a score of espionage missions with the Frenchman. Bruce was amazed, but not surprised.
The whole time, he studied Saint-Clair: medium-height, quite broad-shouldered and thick-chested, a handsome man with striking, penetrating greenish-blue eyes which reminded him of the almost hypnotic eyes of a pilot named Allard he had met once. Bruce had to break his glance; the man seemed to have the ability to force his personality on others…
“Are you aware of a Doctor Hugo Strange,” Saint-Clair began, after a sip of tea, “formerly employed by Wayne Enterprises? And a Professor William Omaha McElroy, who is funded through the Wayne Foundation’s Oriental Studies Museum?”
“Yes, of course,” Bruce replied cautiously. Even before reaching his majority—and inheriting 51% of the vast Wayne holdings—he has tried to keep current with the running of the vast empire. With the help of advisors and, of course, Alfred Pennyworth.
Wayne Enterprises, in conjunction with Wentworth Works, sponsored Hugo Strange’s experimental research into the practical applications of “concentrated light,” based on work theorized by Nikola Tesla. The goal: a polyphase system to power and direct an elevated monorail through Gotham City. By the end of the project’s first year, the outlook had been promising. Yet, clandestinely, Strange had adapted the polyphase system into a primitive “ray gun”—like something out of Amazing Stories—and embarked on a crime spree. He was eventually defeated and imprisoned, but his invention and research papers had been destroyed in the process.
“Yes,” Bruce repeated, studying the Frenchman: there was something about his eyes… something he couldn’t put his finger on… “Yet, how does Strange tie-in with Professor McElroy? Sure, he’s a little eccentric…”
McElroy had recently been referred as the “Tut Nut,” due to his almost fanaticism over the Boy King—especially since Howard Carter’s discovery of the almost intact tomb of Tutankhamun seven year before—and total antipathy toward his predecessor, King Akhenaten, the “Heretic.” A dreamer or a madman, Akhenaten had erected his capital city half-way between Memphis and Thebes, and upset the ma’at (The Divine Order of Things) by elevating his personal God, the formally obscure solar disc Aten, to the One and Only, outlawing the worship of all other gods and goddesses. And the Glory which was Egypt was in jeopardy. The “renegade” king was disposed of, Tutankhamun was elevated to Pharaoh, and the priesthood was restored. Alas, the damage was done and—except for the reigns of Seti I and Ramses II forty years later—Egyptian known-world domination had ebbed, soon to be over-run by a succession of foreign powers.
This much Bruce had learned from reading abstracts from papers presented to Wayne’s Oriental Studies Museum, and also that—even though he felt antipathy toward the “heretic”—McElroy was preparing to resume digging at Tell el Amarna, looking for evidence that Tutankhamun had resided there before becoming king and returning the capital to Thebes. Bruce believed that the professor was a professional, and that he put his science before his personal beliefs.
Leo Saint-Clair listened, nodding, noting a slight hesitancy when the young American mentioned Howard Carter. A look from Alfred confirmed the Frenchman’s thoughts of Bruce’s parents’ relationship with the Carter dig and their…
“In fact,” Bruce said, “my next planned stop is Amarna. I still don’t see how Professor McElroy figures in your scheme of thing… with Dr. Strange.”
Leo smiled at the American’s naiveté, his inability to connect the dots. He had found that most, if not all, opinionated intellectuals are blinded by their own brilliance, failing to see any other interpretation or even consider other facts, even to the point of falsification and open hostility to any opposition. And the Frenchman’s file on McElroy had been getting thicker by the day, especially his rants since the opening of the Boy King’s tomb, and his questionable activities. This young man Wayne didn’t realize how much in the dark he was… as blind as a bat…
“You will not find Professor McElroy at Amarna, nor anywhere near,” Leo said matter-of-factly.
“What?” Bruce said incredulously. “But I received a cable from him… just before we set sail from America.”
“Perhaps…”
“A forgery?” Alfred offered.
“Or a ruse,” the Frenchman replied.
“But why?” Bruce was confused.
“To deceive you. To make you believe he was going to the dig, so you wouldn’t become suspicious of his actions. He didn’t figure on your trip to Egypt.”
“Why? What’s he hiding?”
“For one thing, we believe he’s trafficking in illegal antiquities. Most notably, a suspicious group of pillow-shaped clay tablets from the razed administration office of King Akhenaten at Amarna have appeared on the market. Also, a brown quartzite bust of Nefertiti… not as fine as the limestone bust in the Berlin Museum, but valuable, nevertheless. Your McElroy has been raising a great deal of money.”
“For what? He never struck me as a greedy man. Oh, of course, in a scholarly way… always promoting himself. For the fame. But never for financial gain.”
“It’s always about money,” Leo said to Bruce, a young man who never had to worry about where his next meal—or million—would come from; in fact, the whole Tut-mania and talk of a curse was nothing more than greed. “In answer to your question, I believe that McElroy has been trafficking in antiquities to finance the construction of a polyphase weapon based on Dr. Strange’s designs. That, in some manner, he has obtained copies of Strange’s supposedly destroyed blue-prints.”
Bruce’s head was swimming. “You believe McElroy has perfected Strange’s device, and that he’s using it here, in Egypt?”
“There has been fahddling—rumors—of ‘fire-sticks’ in the outlining villages, of the Fire of the Prophet.”
“Yes,” Bruce said with a glance at Alfred, who just lightly traced the edge of his mustache. “On the way out here, I saw a mention of this in the newspaper. An Anubis Gang, if I’m not mistaken… Strange’s polyphase device?”
“It would appear.” Leo paused for a sip of tea. “And we have a lead.”
“I want in,” Bruce said without thought.
Getting a glance from Leo, Alfred said: “Just as I told you: If you tell Master Bruce the whole story, he will want to take part.”
“So you did.”
They made plans.
/> Sipping tea, Bruce watched the Great War veterans discuss old times, old adventures. Yet, he couldn’t help thinking that, at the turn of the last century, the British (especially under Admiral Horatio Nelson at the misnomer “Battle of the Nile”) had defeated Napoleon’s forces. Not too far from where Bruce sat, a treaty was signed, in which the 167 French Savants were forced to cede to the British their collection of antiquities, including the Rosetta Stone; though the British had showed some magnanimity: they had allowed the French to keep their animal collection and plant pressings.
The world has come a long way, but in other ways, it was drifting apart…
Ra’s Solar Barge had settled in the West long ago as the trio made their way pass the Giant Sphinx, beyond the Great Pyramid of Khufu, and in amongst the tombs of pre-Empire Egypt. Leo Saint-Clair and Bruce Wayne were dressed entirely in black, and as point-guard was Indiana Jones, dressed in tan slacks, bomber jack and brown fedora. Coiled on his belt was a bull-whip; holstered on his hip a Welby Mark VI .455 pistol.
“You appear prepared, Indy,” Bruce whispered, nodding at Indy’s bull-whip and pistol.
“I was a boy scout.”
“I never had the time.”
Indy nodded. “Plus, the tomb might have snakes. I hate snakes.”
“I feel the same about bats.”
“Great, kid. Snakes and bats just love dark, warm places. Like tombs.” He shrugged. “We’re OK on scorpions, right?”
Though Bruce hated being called “kid,” he had to grin at Indy’s obviously sardonic remark and turned his attention to Saint-Clair, who led in only the ambient light of a waxing moon, without the benefit of a map or of an electric torch (almost as if he could see in the dark), appearing to know where he was going, even if he and Indy were constantly tripping over every tiny rock or stone in their path.
Perhaps what Alfred had told Bruce was true. He was The Nyctalope, the champion of the French Republic and its waning Colonial powers. The reality of the man was fantastic enough, but then, there were the rumors that he could see in the dark, that he had an artificial heart, was perhaps immortal… Yet, the man leading them looked no more than 30, at the most, and, save for his uncanny eyes and obvious strength, there was nothing to suggest he was any sort of ubermensch. No doubt, like Lawrence of Arabia, there was some exaggeration at play. The public did love to embody its mystery men with almost superhuman abilities, and no doubt Saint-Clair used that to his advantage. Then, again, Alfred himself had been known to exaggerate, especially over late-night milk and cookies in the kitchen when his master was younger.
“We’re here,” Saint-Clair said sotto, coming to a stop. His intrepid companions managed not to bump into him.
“You sure?” Indy asked, studying the structure as best as he could in the dim light. It was an offering niche with a statue of the deceased. “Doesn’t look like much. In fact, it looks just like all the others we’ve passed.”
Without comment, the Frenchman pushed against a stone slab and it swung inward on silent hinges, revealing nothing. Just blackness. Or so it seemed to the Americans. The Nyctalope’s eyes adjusted to shifting shadows, the lights and darks and grays, searching the heat emulations for any hidden traps, literal pit-falls. His intelligence had been accurate: there were none.
Satisfied it was safe to proceed, Leo motioned for his companions to follow, switching on a mini-torch to lead the way.
“Let us proceed… vigilantly,” he said.
The passageway was of claustrophobic granite. Yet, the two older men proceeded unfettered as if it was a walk in the park. Perhaps it was, to them, Bruce thought. Fortunately, his fear of enclosed space was cured some years back, after a fall into a cave on the manor’s back lot. He noted that there were no bats here, or snakes… with probably put Indy at ease.
The Nyctalope’s eyes detected heat registers and followed them south, which brought him to a chamber, the interior naked light flickering on the passageway’s stone walls. He motioned for his companions to halt. A quick glance revealed a long, rectangular altar, piled high with a cornucopia of electrical and mechanical parts, dominating the chamber. Also he saw the backs of three burnoosed men hunched over what appeared to be a set of blue-prints. Turning to warn his companions, he realized it was too late, even before Indy whispered: “What do you see?”
The answer to his question was obvious when the three burnoosed men turned and ran at the intruders, screaming: “W’Allah! Ferenghi!” [By God! Foreigners!]
The ferenghi reacted.
Quickly, Leo stepped to the side and brought down his hand against a man’s carotid, dropping him to his knees. Bruce was backed up against a wall, his fists balled at his sides, trying to remember everything boxing champ Ted Grant had taught him in the sparring ring. His fist shot out, landing a haymaker across his attacker’s jaw. But the man did not go down. He just grinned at the young American, trying to shake the sting from his bruised knuckles. Gloves were preferable to bare knuckles, but he had to make due with what God had given him. Still shaking his fist as the man grinned and inched forward in a hunch, Bruce forcefully brought up his steel-toed booth and rammed it into his attacker’s jaw, sending him into a back flip.
Indy was making headway with his attacker until Bruce’s henchman slammed into the back of the archeologist’s opponent, propelling both men into Jones, sending them all to the hard stone floor, in a snarl of arms and legs. In the entanglement, a hoodlum got the upper-hand on Indy, grabbing his Mark VI and waving it from one intruder to the next. When he turned to make his escape, a crack! echoed through the chamber and the tip of Indy’s bull-whip lashed around the man’s ankles, crashing him to the floor, dragging the struggling man toward him.
“Here, kid, hold this,” Indy said, retrieving his pistol and handing it to Bruce, who wasn’t sure what to do with it. Indy hauled the man to his feet and stared into his eyes. “I don’t like your looks.” Then landed a haymaker across the captive’s jaw. As he fell unconscious to the stone floor, Indy shook his pained fist. “Ouch! That hurts.”
“”I could’ve told you that,” Bruce said, grinning.
“Thanks, kid,” Indy replied without conviction.
The three burnoosed goons were bounded and gagged; later to be picked up by the proper authorities.
“Hey, kid,” Indy said, removing the tarp off an object on the altar, “remember what we said about snakes and bats?” Bruce nodded as Indy continued: “Well, here’s the scorpion. I wonder if it has a sting.”
“I would say, yes,” Saint-Clair said, studying the three-foot long pewter sculpture of a scorpion, with eight-segmented and flexible legs ending in semi-circular claws, which when brought together formed four in-lined lens-holders of diminishing sizes. “No doubt a prototype for a polyphase device. Too bulky for practical use.”
“Why the scorpion motif?” Bruce asked, “It seems rather bulky… impractical.”
“Who can truly understand the working of the criminal mind?” Saint-Clair said, adding: “Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot.”
“Perhaps to strike fear into the hearts of men?” Bruce offered.
“I think I’ll stick to this,” Indy opined, patting his Welby.
“Obviously,” the Frenchman continued, pointing, “when the claws are brought together and the lens in place, an energy harvester is created.”
“Like the Ark of the Covenant is alleged to have been?” Indy asked as he dusted away the dirt and soot from the wall hieroglyphs, studying them.
“Yes, but impractical,” the Nyctalope stated as he unrolled a set of blue-prints. “Now, this is more practical. It explains the ‘fire-stick’ rumors.”
Gracing over his shoulder at the blue-prints, Indiana Jones decided they had no archeological value and went back to the wall. But Bruce was interested in the schematics. He had studied many just like these as he had busied himself over the last few years with the workings of the varied Wayne enterprises, including trying to grasp the scientific imp
lications of a myriad of details. He listened as Saint-Clair indicated the drawing of a long tube, with two trailing wires, labeled “R” (red) and “W” (white) to a bulky metal “nap-sack.” A cut-away of the “nap-sack” revealed a series of vacuum tubes, wires and piezoelectric quartz arranged in a zigzag configuration. Flipping through a few more blue-prints, the Frenchman said: “Yes, this design is a polyphase arrangement of non-centrally symmetric crystals.”
“And this,” Bruce said, jabbing a finger on the diagram, “is based on the work of Dr. Hugo Strange? It doesn’t look the same.”
“No. It’s been adapted, adjusted from linear oscillation. It’s an energy harvester similar to the one employed by the Martians, except that those manipulated heat, while this instrument converts mechanical stress into a potential current of electroplasmicized concentrated energy.”
“A ray-gun?” Bruce asked, which got Indy’s attention.
“A crude analogy, yet correct.”
Saint-Clair returned to studying the blue-prints, while Bruce turned to a tap on his shoulder. Indy asked: “Did he say Martians?”
Bruce smiled. “I think he was referring to The War of the Worlds. That these ‘fire-sticks’ or ‘ray-guns’ are different than the ones in Wells’ novel.”
“Good. Because I don’t want to wake up 30 years from now and find out the Earth has become the playground for space aliens.”
“Perhaps they will be benign.”
“More likely some super-race with powers and abilities beyond those of mortal men.”
“No such thing,” Bruce stated plainly, turning back to the altar as the Frenchman ran his finger under the lip of the slab top, an amused look on his face in relation to the Americans’ talk of Martians.
The Nyctalope Steps In Page 19