To break up the monotony, the scientists began requesting ever more frequent stops, and used every possible excuse to pull gizmos out of the trunk for fiddling and experiments. They’d even started to collaborate on the construction of a new device Professor Armbruster named the “fluorospectrocitor.” The idea, he explained, was to learn more about the strange greenish artifact by bombarding it with exotic light waves not visible to the human eye, thus exciting its molecules into revealing their secrets. The Captain was building it in accordance with the Professor’s verbal instructions, which were frequently shouted: “Focus that lens at six Angstroms, you dimwit, not seven! Are we going to analyze a stone or send semaphore signals?!” To Sonny’s eye, the device looked ridiculous, like a miniature sunlamp with a bedspring attached.
The men were working in a truck stop parking lot, and so far all they’d managed to do was to heat up one rock and turn another one blue. At last they took a break, and strolled into the roadside restaurant to order some lunch, leaving the fluorospectrocitor unguarded beside the car.
* * *
Later, nobody could recall where the children had come from. They looked to be six or seven years old, two little blond boys with an air of utter boredom about them. Attracted by the shiny blue car in the parking lot, they couldn’t miss something as exotic as the scientists’ machine sitting next to it, and while the men ate their hamburgers, the boys found the activation button.
There was a scream, and the sound of a coffee cup shattering. The truck stop patrons all looked up at once to see a pair of bright blue children standing in the doorway, their eyes wide and staring. Their dusty overalls had absorbed the strange light differently from their skin and now shone in a metallic silver hue, while their hair was dark purple... and smoking.
“M-m-Martians!” gasped a drunk at the counter, as he swiveled and toppled off his stool.
The taller boy held up the fluorospectrocitor, setting off a fresh round of screams.
“Look out,” shouted the waitress. “He’s got a ray gun!”
“I read about these guys in Weird Excitement,” yelled a burly trucker from under a table. “They’ll suck out your brains and take you to Venus to become slaves of the Sky Vixens!”
The restaurant exploded into chaos. The blue boys stood in the middle of it all, highly amused, as the cook vaulted over the counter and ran outside, shouting, “Run! Sky Vixens! Save yerselves!”
“My dear Captain,” said the Professor, “I believe that is the first sensible suggestion I’ve heard all day. Let us be on our way.” The adventurers quickly scooped up their device — the Captain gave each of the boys a shiny new half dollar in exchange for it — and made for the safety of the open road at top speed.
The blue tint faded from the boys’ skin a few days later, by which time the Delahaye was far away, speeding over the Sierra Nevada. Until then, the boys played up the “Martian” angle for all it was worth, speaking to each other in a made-up nonsense language and threatening to suck out people’s brains if the earthlings didn’t bring more of their delicious ice cream at once.
The story of the two Martians — or Sky Vixens, as some locals now insisted on calling them — made hay for newspapers as far away as St. Louis, and would be a local yarn for many years. The adventurers were lucky the story did not travel farther, where it might have attracted the wrong sort of attention: the Delahaye was still a hunted vehicle, after all.
But the hunters were not interested in Kansas. Their attentions were focused elsewhere.
* * *
On Monday morning, Hank and the Baroness rose early and went together to the Southern Pacific train depot. The Baroness had scarcely left the hotel since their arrival, but now, five days after the car chase through lower Manhattan, she was beginning to feel safe out in the open again.
The California Coastliner chugged into the depot at 8:47 a.m., only four minutes behind schedule. But Sid and Rosie were not among the disembarking passengers who flooded the terminal, nor were they waiting on the platform. The Coastliner contained six cars, all painted in the red and yellow stripes of the Southern Pacific. There was no car from the Adirondack-Poughkeepsie Railroad in view.
The Baroness marched to the railway office to investigate. It took a few phone calls, but the duty clerk eventually pieced together the story. The private car had left New York on schedule, attached to the Great Lakes Mercury. But there had apparently been some kind of routing foul-up in Chicago, and the car had missed its connection to the California Coastliner, instead winding up with another westbound train, the Juggernaut. The Juggernaut was due across the bay in Oakland at 12:02.
Confused but undaunted, Hank and the Baroness made their way up the waterfront avenue known as the Embarcadero to the Ferry Building, then crossed over to Oakland. As their boat churned the gray water, they passed the long expanse of the Bay Bridge, a colossal engineering project due to open later that year. But they were not in the mood for sightseeing. After three days of relative ease, an ominous tension had suddenly returned.
* * *
The Juggernaut was late. It didn’t arrive until nearly three o’clock that afternoon, by which time the Baroness had lost her trademark cool and was pacing like a caged lion. When the train finally pulled into the depot, she ran straight out to the platform, leaving Hank scrambling to catch up.
The Adirondack-Poughkeepsie car was visible at the tail end of the train, a humorous blue question mark trailing eight cars of red and yellow steel. The train came screeching slowly to a halt, and eight cars gradually emptied of people. Two wheelchairs were brought out to the platform, causing the Baroness momentary alarm, but they were bound for one of the middle cars; the doors of the private coach remained closed.
After a minute, the Baroness strode forward impatiently and opened the door herself.
The coach was empty.
Chapter X
JUGGERNAUT
—
DRIFTING IN THE TWILIGHT between dream and wakefulness, Sid Friedman’s mind went back. It was 1921; Sid was ten years old. His father was taking him to the newly opened Young Men’s Hebrew Association a few blocks from his home. It was a tough neighborhood, with several generations of immigrants all mashed together in seedy tenements that jostled against newer but still very modest flats. The Friedman family had recently moved from the former to the latter, a big step up.
Going to the YMHA had been his mother’s idea: she wanted him to take music lessons. But as a firm believer in freedom of choice, she allowed Sid to choose between violin and clarinet. He chose the clarinet, and Mama’s cherished fantasy of her son playing first chair with the New York Symphony at Carnegie Hall vanished, replaced by a grim image of endless Bar Mitzvahs in cheap rental halls — or even worse, jazz in some whorehouse. The disappointment rained from her eyes. Now, climbing the steps and entering the YMHA’s main hall, Sid could hear the warbly strains of a children’s orchestra coming from the left side of the building, playing something slow and dreary. Papa paused, staring off to the left for a few moments, but then abruptly turned to the right, dragging Sid away from the melody.
They entered a cavernous room just off the main hall. It was a gymnasium, full of brand-new mats, punching bags, medicine balls, and barbells. An elevated square of canvas stood in the center of the room: a boxing ring. Papa walked over to a man standing beside the ring. The man posed heroically, like a statue, with his feet positioned precisely shoulder width apart and well-muscled arms crossed over his thick chest like Hercules incarnate. Sid recognized him. His name was Max Levine, and he was something of a neighborhood hero: a real prizefighter! And more than that: a Jewish prizefighter.
“Max, this is my son, Sidney. He’s had a terrible time with the bullies lately.”
It was true. Sid was scrawny, bookish, with thick glasses. And he was a Jew, and he’d moved out of the tenements. He was easy prey for some of the bigger kids, the ones who knew nothing but poverty and hatred for anyone who wasn’t like them.
Papa gripped Sid’s skinny arm and held it up. There was urgency in his voice as he said, “He’s a good kid, Max, a good kid. But that ain’t enough, is it? You have to fight to make it in this world.”
The big man nodded slowly, his eyes appraising Sid’s meager frame with something like pity.
“I want you to teach him, Max. Teach my boy to fight.”
* * *
The floor heaved and for just a moment, Sid thought he was still on the train. But it was not the floor. It was his head. He reached for his temple, quickly regretting the decision as shooting stars of pain flew behind his eyeballs.
When the red throb had cleared a little, Sid looked around. He was in a dark room. There was a cot, and he was on it. That was as much information as he could handle for the moment.
Gradually, in bits and pieces, he remembered. They had gotten away, he and Rosie, and had four days of opulent comfort ahead of them on a private rail car. He remembered being awash in relief and joy. They may have had too much to drink. They may have done things unmarried couples are not supposed to do. But frankly, that was nothing new.
In Chicago, they had to disembark while the car was decoupled from the Great Lakes Mercury and rerouted to another set of tracks. It was an elaborate operation that required some hours to complete.
There was a man. Sid couldn’t remember what he looked like. The man said they were on the wrong train... no, he said that they had missed the California Coastliner. That was it. He said they could wait three days for the next one or take another train, to Oakland. Same place as Frisco, practically.
Juggernaut. Yes, that was it.
Rosie was suspicious — Rosie! Where was Rosie?! — Sid tried to rise, hit a wall of nausea, dropped back onto the cot. Later, when he could breathe again, he resumed his reconstruction: Rosie was suspicious. Sid called her paranoid. But Rosie was right. It was a set-up.
Sonny walked in — no, that’s ridiculous... never Sonny. Sid struggled to think clearly. Railroad porter. Said he was bringing dinner but they hadn’t ordered dinner yet. Sid began to say something — Too late. The strangers were inside before he knew what was happening. A fight.
He thought again of Max Levine.
Max taught him to fight, and Sid fought like never before. Lost his glasses, but it was better that way. No glasses in the ring. Using all the senses, fighting on instinct. He was a whirling cyclone of fear and rage. Rosie. She went for the thing, the ball... the flamethrower. He saw them knock her down.
After that, nothing; only wisps like a fading dream. Tied up and helpless, gag in the mouth tasting like sweat and blood and futility. Tightness, claustrophobia... bandages? Waking up in another place... then in a wheelchair, surrounded by people. Hank. Baroness. There they were! On the platform, looking right at him. Why didn’t they see him? Unable to make a sound. And now here.
He passed back into welcome oblivion.
* * *
“Okay, Mister Writer Man. Better now?”
Rosie withdrew the cold, damp cloth from Sid’s forehead and handed him his eyeglasses. His temples still throbbed, but not too badly. The lights were on now, and Sid saw that he was in a smallish room with a cot, a table and a chair, and little else. There was a window on the other side of the room, with a heavy curtain drawn over it. No light leaked through the edges; he figured it must be evening.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“I dunno. I’ve only seen this room, my room and the lavatory. The place looks like a regular house. A big one. No telling where, though. It was hard to see much through those bandages they wrapped us in, and I think we were both drugged up pretty good.”
She saw Sid’s uncertain expression.
“That’s how they got us off the train. They made us up like we’d been in some kinda accident, then loaded us into an ambulance. Ironical, ain’t it? That’s pretty much how we got on board in the first place.”
“Yeah, these guys are a laugh riot,” Sid grumbled. “How long was I out?”
She shrugged. “No clocks. But I don’t think it’s been more than a day since we got off the train.”
The door opened and a man walked in. He looked like he’d seen too many James Cagney movies. He held his arms stiffly at his side and spoke in a ridiculously affected manner.
“Okay, youse mugs, you’ve had enough lovey-dovey for tonight. I come to take the mouse back to her room.”
“I ain’t no mouse, and you ain’t Edward G. Robinson,” Rosie sassed back. “What do they call you, anyway? Bugsy? Lefty? Fish Face?”
The gangster flushed for a moment; he hadn’t expected this.
“Why I oughta...”
“You oughta dry up. I’ll find my own way back, thanks. And don’t get any ideas.” She leaned in close. “I’m a nurse, you know. I got ways to put you in pain you ain’t never heard of, boy-o.” Then to Sid, “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow, lover.” And she was gone.
The gangster looked at Sid, confused. Then he looked like he might smack Sid across the lip, just to take it out on somebody. But at last he gave up and slumped out the door.
Sid smiled as he slid back onto the cot. If Rosie could sass an armed man like that and get away with it, they were going to be just fine.
* * *
By the second day Sid had a pretty good handle on where things stood. The house sat on a bluff overlooking San Francisco Bay. From the window he could see the city in the distance, a dense cluster of buildings behind a dense cluster of boats. He could also, ironically, see Alcatraz Island across the water, no more than five miles away. To the left, the massive gray shape of a suspension bridge rose, seemingly from just below his window, soaring and stretching clear across the water to the city. It was almost cruel: if they could only leave the house, Sid and Rosie could literally walk to their rendezvous with the Baroness.
Sid had also developed a clearer picture of the organization they were up against. The Americans — those were the ones with the guns and the swagger — were the foot soldiers. They were a hodge-podge of Chinatown toughs and cartoon gangsters like the one Rosie had insulted. Obviously not hired for their brains.
The “spooks” — the men in black — they were something else. Sid had counted nine of the Americans but didn’t think there were more than three of these fellows. It was hard to tell because they kept their masks on, even inside the house. They never spoke in his presence, but there could be no doubt that they were running the operation: the thugs turned jittery every time a spook entered the room.
Now that he could see them up close, Sid realized that the black suits the spooks wore actually had fine golden threads woven throughout, an elaborate tracery of subtle color that described the figure of a dragon, its eyes and mouth aflame. The suits were not leotards, as Hank had once described them; rather they were form-fitting two-piece outfits with sash-like black belts at the waist and lightweight boots to match. They made the spooks look almost like soldiers.
In the middle of the second afternoon, Sid discovered there was yet another level to the hierarchy. Two spooks entered, taking up stations on opposite sides of the door, and bowed low as a third man entered the room.
Sid did a double take. The man was a tall, thin Oriental with a stern face. He looked just like the one who had delivered the green cylinder! They could have been brothers, the resemblance was so close. He spoke with the same strange accent, and the same high, clipped undertone marked each word.
“Mister... Friedman, yes?” The name sounded alien as he pronounced it. “Yes. You are free to go.”
Sid stared for a moment, open-mouthed.
“What?”
“Free. You are free to go. Anytime you wish.”
Sid stared harder. The man couldn’t be serious. Why would they just let him go, unless... of course. Unless they wanted him to lead them to the Baroness and the cylinder. It was a classic pulp ploy. Doc Savage would never fall for that one.
The tall man smiled, almost imperceptibly.
&
nbsp; “You fear deception. Good. Perhaps you are not so stupid as you appear.” Sid was too startled to be offended.
“I am a simple businessman,” said the visitor. It was a phrase his twin had used a week before, at the mansion. “A man of honor. I offer an honest deal. You are free to go. Now, if you wish. You bring the singing stone to a place we name and give it to us. And then you go home, Sidney Friedman, and live a long life. Your Baroness as well. All of you.”
“You expect me to believe that? After you tried to kill us all, after you kidnapped us, you’re just going to let me and Rosie walk out of here?”
“You misunderstand. That is not the deal. You are free to go. Not the girl. Insurance, yes? You give the stone, we give the girl. A simple deal.”
It was tempting: a chance to walk away alive, to forget the whole thing. But no. Sid shook his head slowly. “Not without Rosie. You let us both go and maybe we have a deal.”
The tall man glowered, his rising voice suddenly acquiring a hard edge. “We are not negotiating, Mister Friedman. You were coming here, so they are coming here, yes? It is simple. You give us what we want, you all go home. A good deal. If not, we shall find your friends as easily as we found you. We still get the stone, but now you are dead. Bad deal.”
The man watched Sid for a moment, then declared: “I see you are stupid after all. You have one day to become wise.”
And with that he turned on his heel and strode away.
Sid’s head had begun to pound again. He was sweating.
He had one more day to live.
Chapter XI
THE SHADOW ORDER
—
THE SOUTHERN PACIFIC railroad terminus in Oakland sits at the end of a long wharf, jutting into San Francisco Bay like an accusatory finger. Trains run in and out twenty-four hours a day, while a vast fleet of ferries, also run by the SP, connect passengers to San Francisco on the far side of the bay. The bustle is constant, as thousands of people come and go... or, sometimes, disappear.
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