by Don Wilcox
“Thirteen?”
“That’s unlucky. They forget to send us our supplies, and we starve to death and the wingmen find us and laugh themselves sick.”
The rain beat heavily against the panes. The thunder was swallowed up by the general roar. The captain groaned sleepily and settled down for a night’s sleep. It was plain to Dr. Jabetta that he did not feel very optimistic over his prospects on this planet.
So the true purpose of Wellington’s expedition was to lay the foundation for an empire. It was a big and daring enterprise for any financier, this dream of remaining on the earth while gathering Venus into the palm of his hand.
“Your thirteen points may not be so far off,” Jabetta muttered just before the captain started to snore, “but personally, I wouldn’t care to die for J.J. Wellington and have these wingmen laugh at me.”
CHAPTER XXIII
“Dot tunder is getting verse effry minute,” Gypsy Brown declared. She was rummaging around in the dark room. Velma, rousing up, was aware that the rain had been beating against the window.
“Who’s scared of thunder?” Velma murmured sleepily.
“I am,” said Gypsy. “I’m scared of Venus tunder and I don’t care who knows it.”
A prolonged flare of purple lightning revealed Gypsy in her red robe bending over a suitcase. Velma sat up in bed with a start. Was Gypsy packing? Where did she think she was going?
“If it’s Venus thunder you’re scared of,” Velma said, “that will be gone in the morning. Maybe you’re scared of Venus, period.”
“Dot’s vat I might be,” said Gypsy. Velma went to her and tried to persuade her to come to bed.
“We mustn’t waken Selma. She needs her rest. Come on.”
“Vare do you suppose Thelma is on such a night?”
“We won’t talk about that,” said Velma firmly. There had been endless hours of fearful speculations since the night that five members of the party flew off on an unauthorized jaunt. “I could worry myself sleepless, but I’m not going to. Now, you forget your fears, Gypsy, and tomorrow you unpack your suitcase.”
“Tomorrow is der regular Venus Clipper to der earth.”
“Stop that talk, Gypsy.”
“I’m homesick,” said Gypsy with a heartrending groan. “Already I’m so-o-o homesick.”
“S-s-sh!”
“Honest, crossing my heart, der lightning and tunder, it does someting to me. And der vingmen—do you know someting, Felma?”
“I know you’re scared silly about all these wingmen rumors. Listening to your foolish talk anyone would think that the whole city was about to be attacked by winged invaders.”
“Do you know vot I saw out der vindow under der lightning?”
“What?”
“Vlip, vlop, vlip-vlop—der vings was skiffing along past der balcony uff our hotel.”
Velma looked to the window. She wanted to scoff at this statement. But the truth was, she too had fancied something of the sort under that last flare of lightning.
“I’ll draw the shades closer.” As she moved cautiously through the darkness her bare feet bumped something on the floor. “Ooooh!”
“Vat iss? Vatt iss?”
“It’s your darned suitcase,” said Velma.
“Hs-s-sh. You’ll wake your sister.”
At this, Selma gave an annoyed grunt.
“Stop your clowning, you two. Who could sleep through a night like this?” Then suddenly Selma’s voice gave forth a terrified shriek. “Velma! Look out!”
Velma swung around in alarm. Her arm accidentally struck the lever that latched the two halves of the French windows. They unlatched and flew open. With a furious whoooof, a wild gust of wind and rain blew in—and that wasn’t all. What Selma had seen was the silhouette, against the lightning, of a man with wings.
“It’s a winged man, Velma!” Selma cried. “He’s coming in. Look out.”
It was a fair question whether the dark winged form had any intention of coming in before the windows swung open and fairly blew him in. He had probably been scouting for just such an opening, testing one window after another, determined not to miss any opportunity this wild night might offer a plunderer.
His wings closed against his body and he leaped over the sill. To see him plunging through, highlighted by crisscrossing flares of lightning, his bare muscular arms streaming with rain, his long black hair half hiding his animal eyes, was enough to terrorize Velma into cold silence. But Gypsy found her voice and screamed a blood curdling scream.
“Der vings! Der vings! Yee-eeek!”
Lightning and thunder, screams, and thumping feet. Wind and rain, and the bumping of a suitcase against the window frame. The wingman had sticky hands, no doubt about it. He had seized the first thing he touched, and now away he went—two bounds over the balcony and a jump into the air.
A quick triple flash of lightning showed him winged, then wingless, then winged again as he flapped off into the storm hugging the suitcase to his body.
“My zootcase! Yee-eeek! Come back mit my best dresses and my cookbook, you goldarned thief!”
“Stop your cussing and help me get these windows closed,” Velma commanded. At the same time Selma reached for the telephone to report to the management.
A window had been broken. The rain and wind howled through with a weird sound that Gypsy said was sure to drive her mad before morning.
CHAPTER XXIV
They had turned on the light to survey the damages. Gypsy, beside herself over her loss, paced from one window to the other, sobbing, “My dresses! My cookbook! My brand new zootcase!” Her prized possessions had floated off into the sky. Her weird mumblings might have been incantations intended to bring them floating back.
The hotel engineer nailed boards over the window and one of the officials gave his assurance that the theft of the suitcase would be reported.
“Everything will be all right, ladies. Have no worries.”
“Leaf der hammer,” said Gypsy Brown, “and effryting vill be all right.”
“You’ll be safe,” one of the men said sarcastically.
“Leaf der hammer.” Gypsy was so insistent that she won her point. The hotel employees, chuckling, closed the door behind them.
“Now we’ll get some sleep, I hope,” Velma Stevens said. “Come to bed, Gypsy.”
But Gypsy didn’t come to bed. She sat in her robe, watching the windows and listening to the steady downpour. She argued that a criminal always returns to the scene of his crime, and if he chose to return she was going to give him the works.
“Hs-s-sh, Gypsy. You’re all unstrung.”
“Don’t tell me hs-s-sh! Der virst pair of vings dot shows his vace on der balcony gets der hammer.”
She was still repeating this threat when Velma drifted off to sleep.
Velma’s sleep lasted until almost morning. She was awakened by the sound of an opening window.
“Gypsy, is that you?”
Gypsy was opening the window with one hand, raising the hammer with the other. The rain had ceased. The faintest gray was showing through the blackness. The tips of two upraised wings showed black and blurry just outside the window. A wingman was on the balcony—a tiny wingman. Gypsy was ready to strike with her hammer when the little creature gave a faint cry.
“Vot’s dot? A young vun?” Gypsy lowered her hammer as she peered out at the dimly outlined object. Her voice was suddenly compassionate. “Vell, vell, leedle vun. Vare did you come vrom? You poor leedle rain-soaked fellow. Ain’t you got no mamma? Come in and get some dry clothes on before you take your death uff cold.”
Velma turned on a light, Selma awakened as if out of one bad dream into another. “More wingmen? Oh, a young one. Where did you come from?”
The little fellow was standing on the sill of the open window. He was five or six years old, with chubby brown arms and legs and a pair of muddy feet. His big tearful eyes looked up at Gypsy in bewilderment. He must have liked her. He gave his little brow
nish-orange wings a shake, folded them back, and jumped lightly to the floor.
“Ain’t you got no mamma?” Gypsy repeated in a soulful voice. “Come and tell Gypsy Brown all about it. Vare did you come from? Vot iss your name?”
“Name is Gooyay,” the little boy said. He pressed his arms close against his sides and put his hands in the pockets of his orange colored trunks. “I tried to follow Tawkoo. He flied away from me.”
“Now don’t be crying, leedle vellow,” Gypsy comforted. “You can be my Gooyay till he comes back.” Then her eyebrows raised with an inspiration. “Vot’s dis? Maybe he vlies avay because he steals a zootcase, vot? Urn-hmm. So! I see. Vell, vell, vell.” Gypsy began to smile. “Don’t be sniffing. Tawkoo vill come back vor you, I bet. And he’ll bring back my zootcase, I bet. Until he does, I keep you right vith me vor my own leedle Gooyay.”
CHAPTER XXV
The morning after the storm a council of wingmen was held on the south slope of the Divide. It began as an informal discussion between Panno, the father of Gooyay, and Tawkoo.
Panno, a twenty-eight year old wingman with orange brown wings, had overtaken Tawkoo, the bluish-gray winged lad of twenty, to inquire about Gooyay.
“Gooyay followed you over the Divide yesterday afternoon,” Panno said. “Where did you lead him?”
“I told him to go back to you,” said the younger wingman. “He shouldn’t have tried to follow me.”
“Why shouldn’t he? Were you going over to the forbidden city?”
The heavy-chested, black winged Gunawoo circled over them and alighted to see what the argument was about. Gunawoo, who had stolen the explosive weapons from the earth men, was feared and dreaded by many of his fellow wingmen. He had boasted openly of his bold invasion of a dining-room in the capital city, where he had pulled the trigger of his explosive weapon many times and caused some of the earth men to fall. His prowess had made him the leader of the lawless element among the wingmen.
“Are you complaining,” Gunawoo asked, “because Tawkoo flew across to the forbidden city?”
“He does not admit it,” said Panno. “But I think that is where he went. And I think my son followed him.”
“Your son should know better,” said Gunawoo. “They have no respect for us unless we are large and powerful.”
Gunawoo marched about, flexing his biceps and tossing his head proudly. Tawkoo rose, shrugging his shoulders.
“Wait,” said Panno. “Tell me where you went. Which part of the city did you fly over?”
The two men wrangled, and all the wingmen who happened to fly over that part of the valley coasted down to see what the discussion was all about. Soon there were more than a hundred wingmen and women gathered in a circle. The larger the crowd, the more important the voice of Gunawoo became. He was a self-appointed referee.
“Every child has his own wings,” Gunawoo said. “No child should fly so far that he can’t return home.”
“But last night’s storm offered many dangers to a child,” Panno protested. “If Tawkoo would only tell me which way he himself flew, I would know where to look for little Gooyay.”
The father’s plea was a reasonable one, many of the wingmen believed. They knew that the little fellow was fond of high-spirited young men like Tawkoo, and his hero-worship might cause him to follow too far.
But Gunawoo wished to shield Tawkoo from any censure. If he had invaded the capital city, Gunawoo in his outlaw heart would applaud him for it. If there were any spoils, Gunawoo meant to have his share of them.
For these reasons, Gunawoo twisted the logic of the situation to exempt the bluish-gray winged Tawkoo from making any explanations.
Then, at high noon, the beautiful Latee, the mother of Gooyay, flew down to join the circle, and everyone saw that she had been flying hard and that her eyes were red from weeping. Gunawoo was silent now. The arrival of Latee was something he hadn’t counted on.
Latee’s wings were considered by some to be the most beautiful in the whole tribe that inhabited this part of the Divide. They were delicately colored—light greenish yellow, each with two dots of red that flashed in the sunlight. Gunawoo had often watched her with interest when she didn’t know she was being observed. Now he stared at her with eves of jealousy as Panno tried to comfort her.
“You should be searching instead of talking,” she said to her husband. “I am afraid our little one has been struck by lightning. But I have searched all along the shore—”
“I think he went toward the forbidden city.” It was Gunawoo’s voice that interrupted. The big black winged leader marched into the center of the circle. “As I was about to say, when you arrived, we should organize a search party. All of us are concerned when one of us is lost.”
“Yes, all of us should help,” several wingmen quickly agreed.
Panno, who had been fighting a losing argument up to this moment, was puzzled by the sudden expressions of cooperation. It seemed that everyone was ready to help. Only the suggestion of a leader was needed.
“Tawkoo,” said Gunawoo imperiously, “if this child may have followed you last evening, you must retrace your flight. We shall follow you, and our eyes shall comb every tree and every bush and every rooftop.”
“But you said I didn’t have to tell—”
Tawkoo’s protest was cut short by the clamor of the crowd.
“Lead us,” Gunawoo demanded. Then turning to Latee and favoring her with his handsomest smile, he said, “Do not worry. We shall follow Tawkoo—your husband and you and I—and we shall find your lost son, even if we have to search the very halls of the forbidden buildings.”
“Thank you,” said Latee. And she knew that although she was almost exhausted from her previous flights she must not refuse to go. “Panno and I are with you.”
The party of more than a hundred wingmen rose into the sky and flew northward over the Divide toward the capital city.
Four hours later they were hiding in the foothills near the city, waiting for their scouts to return. The roar of an airplane reached their ears. They watched the red and blue craft lift from the Venus spaceport. The noise was like a distant roll of thunder, far less earsplitting than the takeoffs of spaceships, but to them somehow more ominous.
When the scouts returned they knew.
The news struck home with the weight of tragedy. Little Gooyay had departed with that plane.
“One of the women from the earth had taken him,” the scout declared. “The earth party are on their way to the Southeast Ocean. This woman was holding little Gooyay in her arms.”
Latee paled, and her husband supported her. “You saw him? Was he crying?”
“On the contrary, he appeared to be very happy. The lady was joking with him.”
Then Gunawoo took command. He pointed toward the sky and made his promise to Latee. “I will bring your child back to you. I will take the bravest and strongest with me and we will find your little Gooyay.”
CHAPTER XXVI
The snail upon which Dick Bracket had been tightly bound must have sensed that it was making snail history. If it had had the gift of speech it might have said:
“Look, fellow snails, I’m carrying a passenger. I’m going to give him a ride be won’t forget.”
The snail lumbered along slowly without knowing which direction it was going, though the rising heat may have warned it to seek a shadow for the coming afternoon.
Dick Bracket muttering to himself with unrighteous rage, made an effort to guide the creature by pulling to the right. The snail pulled to the left, which was exactly what Dick wanted. This would take him toward the hillside containing Stupe Smith’s cave. That was where the rest of the party had gone, and as they now explored the premises it appeared that they wanted to forget him.
They had not gagged him. He was free to shout when he wished. That angered him. So they wanted to make him cry out for help. He’d show them. He wouldn’t utter a cry. But just wait till he twisted himself free and got his hands on a
gun.
He’d make them dance to his music like they never danced before.
The snail was going too far to the left. Ahead was the open sea.
No use to shout now even if Dick wanted to. They had left the cave and hiked on up to the top of the thirteenth finger ridge. They had forgot him.
Splash! The snail shuddered as it oozed into the shallow waters. Its bulk displaced enough water that, in spite of its passenger, it remained solidly upright and afloat.
Dick floated out into the sea.
He floated all day and all night. The dumb beast remained right-side-up. Otherwise it showed no signs of intelligence, for it made no effort to propel itself, but seemed content to drift on indefinitely.
If Dick had possessed a less calloused conscience, he might have reflected upon his own rash sins during these tortured hours. Instead, his theme song was, “I’ll show ‘em. Just wait till I get loose and get my hands on a gun . . .”
His threats and cursing were somewhat weakened after a long and seemingly hopeless night of drifting. Would the shore still be visible when dawn came?
Little by little his bonds, which had tightened after his first encounter with the water, began to loosen. He awakened at daylight with the relieved feeling that something had snapped.
The chill of night was alleviated by the first kind shafts of red sunlight. Dick had dreamed murderous thoughts all night, and had once gone so far as to include Captain Meetz among his prospective victims. Now he breathed heavily, slowly, feeling that he had aged through the night.
Snap.
A rope slipped free. The tension on one of his arms was quite relieved. Why?
In answer, he saw that large green fish were attacking the snail from the underside. They were snapping off bites of the gelatinous flesh, darting down through the gray depths to enjoy their breakfast, then coming back for more.
Dawn revealed the coast line to be a dim blue shadow of irregular hills to the north. Dick was far enough out at sea that he could count five fingers-mounds of dull blue rising out of the sea.