by Don Wilcox
He smiled. “I ought to be dressed up in a dress suit or something.”
“Sit down, please. I want to ask you something.”
Stupe bowed and took a chair near her. She motioned to him to come closer. Then he was sitting at the desk beside her, watching as she moved her finger along the hand-written page.
“I can’t read it,” Stupe said. “It isn’t my language.”
She was looking at him intently, smiling at the corners of her lips, and he wondered what she was thinking.
“Do you remember what you called me one time—that day when I first told you my name?”
“You mean—” Of course he remembered.
“Yes,” she said. “You called me Dudu, my fourth name. You called me Dudu and I kissed you.”
He nodded, watching her closely, not knowing what to say.
“Why have you never called me Dudu again? . . . Don’t you know? . . . Didn’t you see that it made me very happy? Or did you not like it when I kissed you?”
The heat swept through Stupe’s forehead. He groped for words that would give her the honest answer she sought.
“I want you to be happy,” he said. “If I call you a certain name, does that alone make you happy?”
“Only if it makes you happy, too,” she said.
He was smiling at her intently. “But I do not know the meaning of the name.”
“If you call me Zaleena-Zaleese you are worshipping me as my people worship me. . . as a deity. But if you call me Dudu that is because you have decided you are the one to love me. It is because you wish to be the one—” Her wistful smile turned away from him. Her fingers softly twisted the corners of the page she had been reading. “Now you know . . . and you will not call me Dudu again . . . not unless you understand . . . what it means to me—sweetheart . . .”
Her words were lost, then, in the breathlessness of a long moment through which Stupe had chosen to whisper, “Dudu!” over and over again, kissing her twice with each whisper.
CHAPTER XXXVI
J.J. Wellington watched the take-off at the space port on that momentous Saturday morning when he sent his second expedition to Venus.
The ship charged off into the sky with a mighty roar. Wellington shuddered, then remembering himself, he smiled for the cameras. There were always cameras when Wellington appeared in public.
“What’s it all about, Mr. Wellington?”
“Did you finance the expedition, Mr. Wellington?”
“Are the Krueger’s personal friend of yours, Mr. Wellington?”
“Any statement for the press, J.J.?”
Wellington turned his questioners off with an amused chuckle. “See my press agent, boys.”
Inwardly, he was far less complacent. He had had only a few scattered reports from the first expedition. None of them were particularly favorable. It seemed that the American Ambassador was watching everything too closely. Well, the second expedition would make its mark.
The second expedition had been loaded down with fully three times as much equipment as the first. Equipment—yes, any inspector would recognize that here was the beginning of pioneer outposts. A Wellington colony was about to be planted.
As Mr. Wellington was about to step into his limousine he was confronted by the eccentric little Mr. Vest.
“Ah, how do you do, Mr. Wellington. You remember me, I presume?”
Wellington gave a disturbed, “Wrrff,” and tried to brush past the little man. But Mr. Vest was persistent.
“I am curious to know, Mr. Wellington, what has developed since I gave you the information about Venus.” Mr. Vest stepped into the car after Wellington. They drove down the street together, Vest talking brightly, Wellington trying to maintain his stubborn silence.
“It will make big news in the papers,” Mr. Vest went on, “when your party returns with a pretty girl who can ride under the sea. Have you decided to establish a new night club in her honor?”
“Mr. Vest, you annoy me. Shall I let you out at the next corner?”
“But Mr. Wellington,” the shocked little man pleaded, “you were so enthusiastic about the idea. What has happened? Aren’t you—aren’t you—haven’t you—just sent another party in search-?”
Wellington’s scowl deepened into lines of rage. “Of all the wild goose chases! Mr. Vest, I ought to sue you for a million dollars. By Jove, I think I’ll do it!”
“Why? What have I done?”
“You’ve sold me a bad dream, that’s what. For the past weeks I’ve been burning up dollars like sawdust. All because you thought you saw a beautiful girl riding under the sea.”
“But I did! I did! I swear on a stack of bibles—” The little man’s indignant protest became a violent squawk. The chauffeur slowed down at the curb, and looked back to Wellington for his cue. Wellington nodded. The chauffeur opened the door.
“Will you get out,” Wellington barked, “or shall I call the police?”
As the limousine pulled away, Mr. Vest stood at the curb shaking his fist, shouting, “You’ll live to regret this, Wellington, you’ll apologize to me some day.”
Ambassador Jewell of Venus was a man of integrity. It had never occurred to him or any of his associates that his problems on this planet might grow too big for him. But things had been happening so thick and fast during the recent weeks that he admitted to himself this morning that he was staggering. He faced himself in the mirror, talking to himself as he shaved. The lines of worry around his eyes had deepened. He tightened his lips with determination.
“I wasn’t cut out to be a dictator,” he said, “I never believed in the iron hand, but no one is going to make a fool of me. If it takes military discipline to keep my house in order, I’ll not give an inch.”
He had arisen with a new inspiration this morning, and had acted upon it at once. A telephone call to his Secretary had started the ball rolling.
An hour later he stood before a group of twenty picked men, all wearing the sharp blue uniforms of Venus Capital Guards. Without command, the men had arranged themselves in a line before him and come to attention. They were not only fine specimens, physically, they were men who had been proven trustworthy. He could confide in them.
“I shall speak to you frankly,” he began. “You have watched the startling developments of recent days since the arrival of the Wellington expedition. Do you know why this expedition was organized? Our Capital newspaper did not give you the full answer. I have reason to believe—”
The Ambassador paused impressively studying the intent expressions before him.
“I have reason to believe that the American billionaire who is financing this expedition is harboring in the back of his mind a colossal scheme—a political scheme which amounts to insurrection.”
Hi listeners stood in silence. He drew a deep breath and went on.
“It is my duty to nip this plot in the bud. That is why I brought you together. You are to keep this information in strictest confidence. Today you will be assigned to midget planes and will begin a survey of the territory toward the Southeast Ocean. I have specific instructions for each of you.”
Two hours later the planes took off on their mission. Ambassador Jewell stood on the porch of the embassy building watching them disappear into the sun. Now he was breathing more easily. It had been too much for one man to keep watch on the wily activities of Captain Meetz and his heterogeneous crew. Recently the Captain had left his sick bed and had gone forth ostensibly to resume command of his party. Like several other flights of the two Wellington planes, this one had been unauthorized. In the preceding days the Captain had dodged the Ambassador’s every attempt to interview him.
“Meetz has it coming,” the Ambassador said to himself. “He has been obstreperous from the start. Now his every move will be guarded and reported to me.”
The Ambassador’s reverie was broken by the low roar of an approaching space ship. He glanced at his watch. This wasn’t the regularly scheduled arrival of the Venus-Earth
Clipper. No, it was a strange ship.
Jewell walked into the reception room, and picked up the nearest telephone. He contacted his secretary.
“A new ship is coming in. Has it radioed in advance?”
“The message was just received,” the secretary replied. “It is another ship from the earth—another J.J. Wellington expedition.”
The Ambassador groaned and dropped the telephone. Another Wellington expedition! More grief!
CHAPTER XXXVII
Dr. Jabetta had offered to shake hands with the leader of the wingmen, and the result had been death. Death from a hypodermic needle had struck the tall, black-winged Gunawoo.
From their hiding places among the rocks and trees, scores of wingmen saw Gunawoo fall. They did not understand why. But they had heard the doctor’s words. He had warned that a wingman who greeted him must not be a coward.
Had Gunawoo been a coward? The wingmen trembled, wondering. They saw the doctor standing there, a dark form against the graying morning sky. He stood in an attitude of awe, as if he, himself, had been surprised at the sudden stroke of death.
They heard voices of other earth people, calling to him from the caves, and they understood, as the doctor bent to take a few feathers from Gunawoo’s wing, that these were trophies.
But there had been no explosion of firearms. What had caused Gunawoo to fall? Did the earth man possess the touch of death?
The wingmen retreated slowly, fearfully. They were victims of superstitions, like most primitive people. An unexplained event could easily be magnified in their imaginations. The tribal gods must be consulted before they plunged ahead with the attack.
The parents of Gooyay were more realistic. They had come to rescue their son. Their son’s life was far more important than any general victory over the party of earth men. Gunawoo’s plan had been to engage these strangers in open battle. He had had his own motives apart from the rescue of Gooyay. He had been spoiled by his taste of earth men’s weapons, and as a result had had bright visions of capturing a large supply of the deadly, explosive guns.
But now Gunawoo lay still upon the ground with one wing bent under him. The retreating wingmen whispered, “His plan was not the plan of the gods,” they decided. “We must consult the gods.”
When the full blaze of the morning sun swept across the crest of the Thirteenth Finger, a conclave of wingmen assembled in the shadows beyond. From far around, the winged natives were called from their breakfasts of snail flesh to attend the discussion.
“What is to be done?” the parents of Gooyay asked patiently. “Is there a tribal leader among us who knows the will of the gods?”
The aged leaders were ushered to the center of the circle—lame men with scarred faces and broken wing tips. The younger warriors listened respectfully while their elders talked. The sun climbed high. The waves of the ocean pounded ceaselessly against the shore. At length a course of action was agreed upon.
“If we surround them they cannot fly past us. They have no wings. We shall enclose them and wait. If they send a spokesman to us, we shall present our demands. We want Gooyay returned to us alive. And we want the body of Gunawoo.”
“And what if they turn their deadly firearms upon us?”
“Then that will be the signal for us to fly at them and slaughter them without mercy. Some of us will be killed, but we shall win.”
The aged spokesman made a sign to show that his words had the personal approval of the tribal gods. Then he limped out of the circle with his proud head held high. It was a memorable hour for the old chieftain, and his audience wondered if he would take to his wings to celebrate his triumph. No, his flying days were over. He would limp sadly back to his mountain lair. He had played his part.
It was late afternoon when the long line of wingmen moved down the east slope of the Thirteenth Finger. Panno and Latee, themselves, led the procession. They saw a few of the earth people running back to their caves and heard the alarmed shouts. They listened for the voice of Gooyay and once Latee was sure she heard his little voice in an outcry of excitement.
The line passed between the caves and the one great flying ship that was parked on the beach. Thus, the earth people were cut off from their one means of escape.
Two of the earth men, the doctor and a short fellow named Hefty, scurried back to camp just in time to avoid being closed out.
A whisper of warning ran through the ranks. There was the man who had shaken hands with Gunawoo at dawn. Beware of him. In his hand was the touch of death. For the mute evidence was still before their eyes. The body of Gunawoo had not been touched.
When the sun lowered over the line of mountains, a complete circle of wingmen surrounded the camp. They stood at ease, and there they would stand through the coming days and nights until their prisoners came to terms.
Hefty Winkle sprinted at top speed. There was no way of knowing what the men intended. In such numbers they pounce upon the earth party and fight without mercy.
It was hard on Hefty’s morale to have to run for his life. If he had been running at Stupe Smith’s side he could have maintained his eternal faith that everything was happening for the best. For him, Stupe was a bulwark of strength. But now it was Dr. Jabetta who ran with him. The doctor was such a morose, mysterious person that, try as he would, Hefty could not feel a solid confidence in him.
“Which cave?” Hefty called.
“The farther one. All the supplies have been moved over there.” Dr. Jabetta had taken charge more or less informally. A half an hour ago he had gone up the hillside to warn Hefty that the line of wingmen was forming.
“This is bad,” Hefty panted. He might have expressed his fears more fully. He knew what the wingmen must be thinking. Here was the man who had caused the death of their leader somehow. The prestige from that event was being lost. No man with a sure grip on a magic power would be running away from danger.
They entered the larger cave, and turned to look back at the line of wingmen. Oddly enough, the attackers were standing at bay. They appeared to have no intention of moving up. Perhaps they would wait until dark.
“What has happened to Gooyay?” was Hefty’s first question.
“S-S-Sh!” Thelma Stevens placed a restraining hand on his arm. “The little fellow is way back in the deep tunnel. Gypsy Brown has quieted him. She doesn’t like to keep him tied up all the time, but you know what would happen if he looked out and saw this unholy nightmare.”
“We’d better let him go. It may save us trouble in the long run. Don’t you think so, Doctor?” Hefty asked. Dr. Jabetta held his silence. He was looking back at the row of wingmen as if fascinated by the myriad colors of their wings. No doubt he knew that they had recognized him.
“If there was any way to close the entrance to this cave, we’d have a fighting chance,” said Hefty.
Thelma was tugging at his arm. “If we can go way back in, there’d be more chance. We’ve found some new channels leading off from the narrow tunnel.”
“Go ahead,” said Dr. Jabetta. He was examining the hypodermic needle in his hand. “I’ll stand guard.”
For a moment, Hefty was undecided. Thelma pleaded with him to come on. He could hear the low echoes of voices from the rest of the party. They would need his leadership in the absence of Stupe.
He nodded, “Okay.” He started. Then the doctor called him back.
“One word, Hefty.” The doctor’s voice lowered to a confidential tone. “There is something I want to tell you.”
“Huh?”
“This might be our last chance to talk, you know,” said the doctor. “If they come in on us . . .”
“I understand,” said Hefty.
“All right, then here it is.” The doctor drew a deep breath as if to divest himself of some weighty matter.
“We’ve been sent up to this planet on false pretenses. And still—I don’t know. I mean, it looks as if we might be on the right trail after all.”
“I don’t get you,” said
Hefty.
“A few nights ago I succeeded in making Captain Meetz talk. Confidentially, I doped him to loosen his tongue. What he revealed was worth knowing. He believes not one word of Mr. Vest’s story about some phenomenal female who rides under the sea.”
“Huh—I’ll be damned.” He had heard a similar story from Dick Bracket.
“You see, Wellington has an ulterior motive. All of this talk about a girl is simply a ruse. His real purpose was to make an excuse to send supplies—military supplies and everything else needed to undertake his own colonization.”
Hefty’s eyes widened. “His own? He must be an ambitious cuss.”
The doctor nodded. That was it in a nutshell. The doctor had once tricked the Captain into revealing the whole inside plan and had learned that Stupendous Smith had been rung in on the deal simply to make it look authentic. “That million dollar award was simply bait for a sucker.”
Hefty frowned and mopped his forehead. Dozens of questions leaped through his mind. He reached into his pocket for his letter which the girl had delivered to him only a few hours before.
“Something’s haywire,” said Hefty. “I wasn’t dreaming when I received this.” He twisted the letter in his fingers to be sure it was real. “I saw her. She rode so fast that the dust cloud liked to blinded me, and now you tell me—”
“That’s the very point, Hefty,” the doctor tapped him nervously on the shoulder. “As soon as we read your letter and found that it was from Stupe—as soon as we knew that he had seen this marvelous thing that we came to find—the whole picture was turned right side up again. Now, do you see? We’ve got to go through with it according to plan. Between us we’ve got to see that Stupe wins. Then Wellington will be the goat—not us.”
Hefty hurried along the passage to overtake Thelma. She had been peevish over being left out of a confidential visit with the doctor, but she liked Hefty well enough to do the favor he asked. “You’ve got to help me,” he said. “We will have to make Gypsy Brown understand. There’s nothing to do but release her little winged prisoner, the sooner, the better.”