by Don Wilcox
“It vas vun good argument you must have gif dot Ambassador,” she said sleepily, “to let us fly avay, after all dot trouble.”
“The Ambassador is a square shooter,” said Stupe. “All I had to do was prove to him that none of us could have been mixed up in anything wrong.”
He might have added that he had grave suspicion that some of the party were less innocent. He had decided that whatever had started the trouble, it must have begun locally.
“It wasn’t our excursion over the Divide that did it,” he said to himself. “And there weren’t any signals flashing back over those thousands of miles to spark off the violence.”
The more he thought, the more certain he became on this point. Someone at the capital must have crossed the wingmen’s path somehow. And the Ambassador must have known it. Twice in his after-dinner talk, Stupe recalled, the Ambassador had started to make a direct charge against some member or members of the expedition.
Putting two and two together, he decided that Selma’s illness had been feigned. She must have been afraid of something the Ambassador almost revealed.
Selma’s narrow escape from death was a matter that weighed upon Velma’s mind.
“I can’t understand why they wasted any shots on her,” Velma said, now looking off through the darkness, searching for the first streaks of morning light. “A whole roomful of us and they nicked her twice. What’s she got that I haven’t got?”
“You were under the table,” said Hefty. “I remember distinctly.”
“How did you know, Smarty? You must have been there too.”
Hefty admitted that he would have been if he hadn’t landed that right hook at the crucial moment.
Dawn was just over the horizon. Breakfast, too, Stupe thought, although by now Gypsy Brown was sleeping in earnest.
Sunrise began with a narrow rim of the red sky over the level surface of the ocean, from south to southeast to east, there to widen into a flaming banner.
On to the northeast the silhouette of dark mountains rose to black out the line of red. Now the plane was crossing the thirteen fingers of land that extended out into the sea. Stupe remembered them from the previous day’s exploration. He was already beginning to feel at home in this world.
The map which the Ambassador had supplied was much more detailed than the crude sketch which Mr. Vest had drawn for J.J. Wellington. In comparing the two, Stupe and Hefty had noted in each the slight resemblance of the shore line to the profile of a man. A rather freakish man, to be sure.
The two hands extended from the chest, which was in reality a high plateau. The thirteen very irregular peninsulas spread out into the sea like fingers from these hands.
Farther east the contour of the shoreline curved northward in a round shoulder. This had proved to be a sloping plain extending from the sea northward miles to the backbone of the mountain range.
“That’s where we landed yesterday,” Hefty said to Stupe, pointing to the Ambassador’s map.
Stupe sniffed. It had been a tense hour crossing those rugged fingers the day before, wondering whether there would be a suitable landing place beyond. The southern curve of the plain would be the perfect site for their camp today. What sort of terrain lay beyond?
According to the two maps, the mountains came down to the sea again east of the “shoulder” to form the face of the silhouetted figure. That would be rugged country, no doubt. Mr. Vest had believed, though his memory had not been clear on this point, that the sea-dwelling beauty would be found in that region. It was Stupe’s purpose to locate another landing base on the “chin” if possible.
Velma brought them down to a three-point landing on the solid gravel within a few yards of the water’s edge.
“Breakfast!” Hefty shouted, striding back through the plane to Gypsy Brown’s seat. “Everybody out for breakfast . . . Well, what do you know, the cook’s still sound asleep.”
Gypsy Brown raised her eyebrows but could not quite open her eyes. “Vot’s all der noise aboudt? Vare’s der fire?”
“Right under the skillet, sister. Are you mixin’ the flapjacks or will I have to do it?”
Gypsy turned away from him, yawning, one eye opened.
“Sleep, sleep, sveet sleep. It’s vunderfil.” The eye closed again.
“Tell me what to do and I’ll mix the dough for you,” said Hefty.
Gypsy was talking in her sleep, no doubt about it. “Pourteen cups of flour, mix up mit fife quarts uff milk, pour in two gallons uff gasoline. Den beat vell mit der vings of four wingmen, und if der vings don’t stop beating, crawl under der table und shoot to kill.”
Hefty chuckled. “Sleep, it’s vunderfal, she says.”
Ambassador Jewell glanced at his watch. It was high noon. The Venus Clipper would leave for the earth in just an hour.
“Are you ready to dictate that letter now?” his secretary asked.
“Come back in ten minutes, please.”
The Ambassador looked out upon the landing field. A few items of freight were being loaded into the huge brown hulk that would soon rocket off into the sky. The most important package would be the mailbag, of course. Each week, two or three thousand pieces of mail flew back and forth between the planets. No doubt Mr. Wellington of New York would expect an official communication when this ship landed. But Ambassador Jewell was not ready to give his whole-hearted endorsement of the Wellington expedition. Not yet. Too many things had gone wrong during these first two days.
The Ambassador went to the telephone.
“Any news from Captain Meetz?”
“I am sorry, sir. Doctor Jabetta says that he is still in a coma.”
“Thank you.”
The Ambassador rang for one of his assistants.
“Have you anything to report on the young man who entered the arsenal?”
“They’re keeping a close watch on him, sir. He has been with the rest of the party most of the time. A few minutes ago he was admitted to the captain’s room.”
“Who admitted him?”
“Doctor Jabetta.”
“Oh?” The Ambassador frowned. “That is all.”
Again he rang for his secretary.
“All right, I will dictate that letter. ‘Dear Mr. Wellington—Your party, under the leadership of Captain Meetz, arrived two days ago without mishap, I am sure you will be pleased to learn. According to the statement of Mr. Smith, the purpose of this expedition is to locate and procure for purposes of entertainment one particular curiosity from this land of ours which abounds in curiosities. A sea-dwelling girl. Whether or not this project will pay you from a financial point of view I cannot say. That, however, is the least of my worries. You have asked for my official approval. In answer, let me state that I have no objection whatever to this declared purpose. However, I am puzzled over certain aspects of the request. Do you believe it necessary to the success of your expedition that Captain Meetz and Mr. Smith be accompanied by so large a party? Also, do you consider it essential to your success that such a large store of equipment be brought? I have asked Captain Meetz for the privilege of inspecting this equipment. So far he has not replied. In fact, in his present state—”
The secretary waited. “In his present state—”
“No, no, no. That won’t do.” The Ambassador began to pace the floor again. “No, Wellington will have to wait. I have got to get more information—” He waved the secretary out. He put on his coat and hat. The hotel where the party was staying was only a few steps away.
“Which is the Captain’s room, please? Is the doctor there too? What about visitors? Never mind, I am going up anyway.”
The door of Captain Meetz’s room was closed. The Ambassador hesitated. The voices from within could be heard dimly. The captain and his young assistant were talking in low tones.
“Have you checked the equipment carefully?” the captain was saying. “Here’s a list of what I found.” This from Dick Bracket. The Ambassador remembered the voice.
“If y
ou’re sure—” The captain broke off. He changed his tone. “It isn’t safe to talk here. Come back.”
The Ambassador was in a quandary. He would not like to be found eavesdropping. Yet he was consumed with curiosity over what was very evidently a guarded conversation. He rapped at the door.
Silence. Then footsteps. The door opened a few inches. Dick Bracket looked out, his eyes showing the faintest gleam of surprise. He spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper.
“Oh, it’s you. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you. I’d like a few words with the captain,” the Ambassador said gravely.
“I’m sorry,” the young man said. “Doctor Jabetta advised me that he is in a coma. I’m afraid he’s sound asleep just now. You’ve come at a rather bad time.”
“Yes, a very bad time.” The Ambassador edged into the room, though Dick seemed to be blocking his path. “Sound asleep, isn’t he? If he were awake I would tell him that I have not written the official letter to Wellington. The Venus Clipper leaves in a few minutes. But there will be no official communication from me—not until I have had a chance to inspect the equipment you have brought. Too bad the captain is asleep.”
The Ambassador looked for a long moment at Meetz lying there. He was a sick man all right. And his eyes were firmly closed. But if he had his wits about him the Ambassador’s words hadn’t been wasted.
CHAPTER IX
Stupe persuaded his four companions, much against their wishes, to leave him to his solitude. For a few days he wanted to camp here alone. Hefty had objected almost violently to this plan of action.
“It don’t make sense, Stupe,” he had said. “Do you remember that white skeleton with the wings? When we come back in a week that’s what we’ll find here in this cave. Only there won’t be any wings attached to your back. There’ll just be your bones, picked clean. And your Venus wristwatch—unless those wingmen are in the habit of gathering trophies.”
“We’ll take that chance,” Stupe had said. “There are many reasons.”
For one thing, Stupe knew that Velma was greatly worried about her sister. For another, Stupe himself was worried about the remainder of the party. Those unexplained remarks of the Ambassador’s kept tantalizing him. Something had happened that he didn’t understand. Somehow he would feel safer if Hefty were back there keeping an ear to the ground.
“I’ll stay with you,” Frenchy had said.
Gypsy Brown had also volunteered to stay. But in the end Stupe had refused.
“The four of you know the lay of the land well enough that you won’t have any trouble finding me. I have a feeling there is far more chance of discovering something if the denizens of this region, who may be watching us, see our plane return. For all we know, they may be spying on us this minute.”
“They—Who?” Hefty demanded.
“Wingmen. Two-ton snails, Dwellers of the sea. Or any of the curious forms of life we’ve heard about. After the plane goes I’ll stay in here—and maybe they’ll come out of hiding.”
And so the plane had departed.
Stupe had not intended to sleep. He had hidden himself in a shallow cave in the side of the thirteenth finger. Here he could look out upon the plain which he had designated as the shoulder.
He had spent an hour studying his maps. The warm forenoon sun had brought the relaxation which had been denied him during the tense hours of the night. Finally, he had succumbed to drowsiness and had spread a blanket for a mid-day nap.
Fleeting impressions raced through his mind—scenes that he had only half observed during the recent flights. To his mind’s eye there returned the deep blue of the ocean, its slow waves sloshing lazily against the points of the giant fingers of rock. The bright yellow of the sandy beach blazing in the sunlight. The curious reflection of light off the surface of water five or six miles beyond the tenth finger. Strange that he should have seen that reflection twice. Once yesterday noon at the beginning of the flight back to the capital. Once this morning as they were flying into the sunrise.
Could a morning sun and a noon sun cause the same bright yellow reflection from the surface of water?
Almost asleep, Stupe opened his eyes with a start. His colored pencils—here they were, lying on the cave floor beside his maps.
He drew a small circle of yellow on one of the maps, a short distance off the coast of the tenth finger.
“It probably won’t appear again in a hundred years,” he said to himself. “But it will help me remember the lay of the land at that point. Like the clouds over that certain peak in the Andes . . .”
And then he drowsed away again. His last thought before he fell asleep was of Gypsy Brown and the comical way she had mixed wings with flour and water in her dream. Strange, what dreams will do . . . Dreams . . .
He tried to awaken. He was sure he was dreaming. He was sure that he had been lying here on the cave floor for two or three hours, for the sun was no longer blazing against his closed eyelids.
He tried to open his eyes, but couldn’t . . . The strangest sensation . . . That soft voice . . . It kept whispering . . .
“Keep on sleeping . . . Keep on sleeping . . . Don’t wake up . . .”
What a strange voice . . . Unlike any he had ever heard before . . . Such a curious accent . . .
“Sleep . . . Keep on sleeping . . . Don’t awaken or I shall go away . . . Sleeeep!”
It was like a child’s impression of some far-off fairyland, Stupe thought. He seemed to be reaching for some unreality, something that was only an image. A mist. A mist of colors that whispered softly and stroked his eyelids. The soft touch of mist upon his eyelids. And that was why his eyelids wouldn’t open. The light fairy touch of this misty image kept stroking them, and the fairy voice with that strange accent kept whispering that he mustn’t wake up or it would go away.
He breathed deeply. The smell of cool rocks filled his nostrils. His bare elbow, over the edge of the blanket, pressed against the floor of the cave. He moved his arm slowly.
“Do not move . . . Do not waken I shall go away if you do. You must not see me. . .”
And then it seemed that he couldn’t move. He could only hear the receding whisper. . .
“Good-bye . . . Perhaps I shall see you again when you sleep . . . Do not waken . . . Not yet . . . Good-bye . . .”
The light footsteps of this fanciful thing of dreams retreated softly. The mist was no longer kissing his eyelids. There were dancing colors, now—a swift series of colored clouds in soft, pastel shades, pink and pale yellow and light blue—blue—deeper, deeper blue—until suddenly his eyes were open and he was looking out at the deep afternoon sky.
“Dreams,” he said aloud. At first he wanted to smile over the curious hallucination. But instead he stared at the blue sky for several minutes. He was almost hypnotized, it seemed, by the vividness of his recent impressions. It was not easy to come back to the world of reality at once. Yet the scene before him was, except for the shifting sun, very much as it had been two or three hours before. The waves were still sloshing lazily against the shore, their rhythmic beat sounding vaguely like horses’ hoofs.
“Dreams,” he repeated, as he shook himself out of his lethargy. “Wouldn’t Gypsy Brown laugh if I told her?”
It was time for him to get to work. There was lots to be done. But as he picked up his maps and began studying them, again he was attracted to the beat of the waves against the shore that sounded like hoof beats. He stood looking out at the sea, deep blue in the afternoon light. He dropped the maps, raised his arms slowly, and with the tips of his fingers touched his eyelids. That strange sensation. He wondered . . .
CHAPTER X
The sky did not turn red with the glow of a sunset that night. Late in the afternoon dark clouds rolled over the mountains, and the sullen roar of thunder echoed down to the sea.
Nestled in his shallow cave in the east slope of the thirteenth finger, Stupe gazed out upon the approaching storm.
“I wish I were on
top of this mountain,” he said, talking audibly to himself. “If I knew there weren’t any wingmen around to see me—”
He would have liked a lookout post from which he could look to the west as well as the east. Tomorrow, if nothing prevented, he would hike back over the mountainous ridges.
“How many fingers could I pass in a day?” he wondered.
Picking up the map, he was at first only half aware that something had been changed. Had some color been added?
“Here’s fifteen miles,” he was saying. “And that’s a good half day’s hike over rough country. Half a day to cross around the fiord to the twelfth finger. Another twenty miles would take me around the eleventh to the base of the tenth. The tenth—”
He stopped, staring at the map. He was looking at the small circle he had drawn, half an inch beyond the end of the tenth finger. He had drawn it with a yellow pencil because it represented a reflection of yellow light he had seen on the waves. But it was changed.
“Now who did that?”
He spoke the words aloud, as if he expected someone to answer. Instead of one circle there were now three concentric circles on the map.
The center one was yellow. Around it was an orange circle. Surrounding it, a circle of red.
“Who—” Stupe reached for his pistol. The action was automatic, a first impulse in answer to this strange situation. He restrained his hand as it pressed against the well filled holster. If someone was nearby, watching him, the danger was at least no greater now than it had been. To reach for a weapon would only intensify any invisible peril.
Was some visitor lurking near the cave? Had someone come and gone while he slept, only to add two colored circles to this map?
Stupe’s eyes combed every detail in and around the shallow twenty-foot cave. There was no one about. Nor could one other clue he found that betokened a visitor.
“I’m groggy from sleep,” he said finally. “I must have put those circles there myself.”