by Don Wilcox
“I chose him—Allan Burgess—as a man capable of going to Africa on an important errand. I merely threw the hint in his path. He didn’t stop to ask too many questions. He picked up the first plane he could get.”
“Yippee’s. I see.”
“But her going—that wasn’t a part of my plan.” Madam Lasanda rose and walked across the dark room. “I’m not to be blamed for that.” The mayor thought he had been given his cue to leave; but the questions still tantalized him. Something was going on over in Africa, he didn’t know what. He couldn’t help wondering if he was one of those men she could choose unerringly—a man of action who knew the importance of a challenge—a man who wouldn’t stop to ask too many questions.
Questions. He fumbled at the leaves of his notebook. He had other questions on his list that had slipped his mind for the moment.
“Your next question,” Madam Lasanda volunteered, “is—will Yippee get back safely?”
He gulped. “How did you know? Mirrors?”
“Mirrors of the mind, Mayor Channing. But as to your question—ah, me! Here my deep pessimism comes to the surface. What difference does it make about Yippee?”
“What difference?”
“We are all headed for destruction. You and your boys should be aware of the direction we’re going. I happen to know that some of the deadly power which is carrying us along comes from the Zamtolor region, above the village of Bunjojop, above the lake, beneath the eye.”
“Destruction? Deadly power?”
“Neither Yippee nor Allan Burgess nor any other ambassadors of good will are likely to make much difference.”
Mayor Channing was on his feet. All this talk of destruction was making things whirl in his mind. The added mention of his political friends gave him a flare of temper. He barked:
“How do you know all this?”
“Sit down Mayor Channing. Have some more tea, and I’ll tell you how I know.” She filled his cup. Sitting across the little table from him, she spoke in a low, nicely modulated voice. “I once had a very good friend by the name of Doctor Val Pakkerman.”
“Ughh? You?
“Doc Pakkerman, they called him. You remember him well. He was one of the nation’s most useful scientists. And a good citizen. He was smart enough and strong enough that he would have cleaned up this town—including your boys—if certain ugly fates hadn’t thrown him out the window. Later, Pakkerman was lost in the Dark Continent. I lost a man—a friend. The city lost a reformer. The nation lost a scientist of great value. And the world lost an idealist. And your boys—what did they gain?”
The mayor reddened. “Let’s don’t get into personalities.”
“That’s a very lame answer, Mayor Channing. You’re perspiring, aren’t you? Very well, Pakkerman was gone. And let us say that the world felt just a little loss. Just a little. The world is big, and Pakkerman was only one man. But I missed him.”
Madam looked steadily at the little Egyptian fire tender, and the light came and went in her deep eyes. She inhaled slowly.
“So . . . I went to Africa. No reason, you might say. Restlessness, perhaps.” Then her voice suddenly strengthened with ominous overtones. “I visited Africa and I learned about a mysterious evil power.The Scravvzek. The Evil Scravvzek. It’s something legendary that the native tribes have feared for centuries.” She paused, and her head tilted back slowly, and her eyes narrowed. She continued:
“It’s only a name to you, Mayor Channing. But I see you are not smiling. Nor will you smile when I tell you that the influence of this force finds its way all around the world. It is growing more active daily. By leaps and bounds it spreads to far away places. And it may seem strange to you that Maple City should be so easily found by the hand of the Scravvzek, reaching around the world. But there is a reason.”
“You mean—you mean that this thing is going to descend upon Maple City?”
“As to that, the future will tell. But just now the Scravvzek is recruiting evil helpers. It may borrow some of your Maple City talents, shall we say? Your ‘boys’ are the sort of helpers the Scravvzek can use. Don’t be surprised if some of them decide to take a trip. By the way, have you talked with your friend Bill Gaver recently?”
“Gaver’s off on a vacation.”
Madam Lasanda gave a knowing smile. “To Africa, perhaps?”
“Africa? Bill Gaver?”
“Didn’t he mention something about the big game hunting?”
“Yes, come to think of it. By George, come to think of it—”
“Where is your friend Charley this evening?”
“Charley? Oh, he’s over at the club.”
“Are you sure? Would you like to telephone to see if he’s still there?” Madam Lasanda made little curving motions with her fingers and then gently reached to the wall. She handed him the phone.
A moment later he was talking with the receptionist at the club. “What do you mean, Charley isn’t there? .. Left, did he? . . . On a trip? TO AFRICA!!!” The mayor slammed down the phone, gave a savage grunt, and slapped the perspiration from his forehead.
“Not there, Mayor Channing?” Madam Lasanda asked sweetly,
“Not there.”
“Gone—on a trip?”
“He’s going. Took a sudden notion. Went home to pack. Going by plane. Going to Africa, damn it.”
“As I say, the Evil Scravvzek is, looking for ‘talent’. Is anyone going with him?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Would you like to call back, Mayor Channing? Maybe some of the other boys will be taking sudden notions too. You know how a thing like that spreads.”
“Damn it! Maybe I’ll go too. Give me that phone.”
CHAPTER XVI
Allan was jostled back to consciousness. He fought out of his painful dream that someone was striking him on the ears with an automobile tire. His head was throbbing. His eyes opened cautiously to see the surface of a golden brown army blanket in which he was being carried.
Four men were carting him along through an avenue of rocks somewhat brighter than the last he had seen. All four men wore glistening white uniforms. Men in white, he thought. Was this a parade or a burial?
They were talking. Old familiar voices, low and sinister. Mumblings whose meanings he wasn’t supposed to catch.
“Careful what you say, there. He’s stirring.”
“We’ll dump him in a cell and let him stir.”
“Listen who’s gagging.”
“Cut the puns. We’ll be late for the show.”
They were coming into more pink light. Again Allan thought that the glass-like veins must be leading light down from the out-of-doors. Lucite? He wondered what it would be like after sundown. Probably black, the way it was after they clubbed him.
With his eyes squinted open, he watched the thick, broad-shouldered form of Lieutenant Sully, jogging along with one hand on a corner of the blanket. Bouncing from Sully’s side was a two-foot piece of what appeared to be heavy rubber hose, metal-reinforced.
So Sully carried an extra badge of authority in this region!
The starchy white, tunics identified these four men as “White Sharks.” There were ten White Sharks, Allan gathered—those ten men whom he had shot. They composed a special class of clique at the top of the eighty. The implications were plain from their conversations:
“Shall we tell all the boys what a prize we picked up?” Bandyworth was asking.
“Just the ten White Sharks,” Sully said. “We’re the ones he shot. He’s our dish!”
Beware of telling the Green Coats,” someone said. “They might take a fool notion to change their colors.”
“Haw! Likely!” This bit of mockery was not unexpected; nevertheless it implied hatreds that stung Allan. Until that deadly march up the trail, he had believed that every man of them would have stuck by him like sons to a father.
Allan caught other comments which implied that the third and lowest class among these men were the Rocky Chests. A
mong these was that sleepy guard Gallagher.
And so Allan, bouncing along in a blanket with eyes almost closed and ears open, got his first line-up of the world he had entered. These men had struck their own pattern of life. They still recognized the tragedy that had brought them here. It showed in the insolent supremacy of the White Sharks. Those who had attempted to desert, in their last official hour under Burgess, and had been shot down, were the top men here. From them he could expect anything; for they had him. They could feed fat a long remembered grudge.
This Allan could understand. But when they spoke of the mystical evil, he slipped into the great gray fog of the unknown.
“Wait till the Scravvzek gets a chance at him!”
“S-s-s-sh! He’s beginning to stir.”
“We’ll dump him in a cell and let him—”
“Don’t start that again! Sully, I’ve got an idea. Why not put him under a good orange light and watch him twist?”
“No time for that now.”
“You wouldn’t be jealous would you, if he turned out, done to a crisp?”
Sully growled that he had thrashed men for less than that. These remarks only mystified. Allan tucked them away in his aching brain for future reference.
Sully ended by swearing these three White Sharks to secrecy for the present. He appointed one of them to stand guard over Allan. The others must hurry on and get ready for the afternoon’s event.
Then Allan found himself behind bars within three walls of stone. The man outside the bars was Bandyworth. Their parting advice was for Bandy to be on his wits in case his prisoner woke up.
“Don’t forget,” Sully added, “that he’s our dear captain who believes it’s better to give than receive. Especially bullets.”
Bandy gave a piggish grunt. It was plain he didn’t need the reminder.
Through the narrowed eyelids Allan looked past the metal bars. Below this curved balcony, he could see a vast pretzel shaped chamber. It was walled in like the inside of a giant bowl, or rather, three or four bowls interlocked. A baseball game might have been played within its limits. Various transparent partitions curved through the center to form an inner structure. Rows of shining plastic seats gleamed under the soft yellow light of a bowl-shaped ceiling.
The Glass Arena! Allan would get in on the show after all!
He restrained his excitement. He wasn’t supposed to be awake. Bandy had thus far failed to get any words out of him. A certain inspiration he had caught about the orange light was worth trying.
When Bandy dashed a cup of water in his face, through the bars, there was nothing for Allan to do but shake out of it. He sat bolt upright on the stone floor and smeared his wet cheeks. However, he refused to look at Bandy. He allowed his eyes to wobble dizzily. He pretended to be seeing nothing.
“What’s the matter, ex-captain? Speak up.”
“Spots!” Allan said’ groggily. “Too many spots.” He clutched at the air as Jimmy had done. Then he added, very pointedly, “Too much orange light.”
“Orange?” Bandy leaned against the bars to study him. “Orange?”
“Where am, I?”
“Did you say orange light? I don’t know where you got it, but you sure got a bad case of it. You must have fell right in the glow and laid there for a long time. Orange, Humm? Well, that should take effect right away.”
Allan might have said, “How?” and spoiled everything. He meant to find out. There was some weird significance to orange light. He couldn’t be sure he was acting as one should act, but he’d soon find out, if Bandyworth fell for his gag of blindness.
Bandy said, “By dibbles, if you got too much orange, you may cause Sully more trouble than he’s bargained for. I suppose you’re already in the mood for a little ‘missionary work’.”
Missionary work? Bandy couldn’t mean that literally. Allan took a chance. “You know what kind of missionary work I’m in the mood for.”
“Yeah. Probably a little guillotinin’ would suit your taste just fine. Would you like to see them poison the tribe?”
Allan tightened his teeth to keep from saying the wrong thing. He took a chance. He uttered it with strong conviction. “I’d like to poison them myself.”
“Say, you’re coming on fine! That orange light really got you. You’ll be popular around here, the first thing you know, in spite of bein’ a onetime captain. Maybe I can fix it so you can help out on that poison job. Are your eyes still actin’ up?”
“Spots,” said Alan, clawing the air. “You boys go ahead an’ poison ‘em. I’ll listen to ‘em scream.”
“Well, by-diggety. I never knew the light to take hold so fast. Maybe you was under it for two or three days, unconscious. You were acting plenty blotto when we came on you, hookin’ your arm through to the glide-walk:”
Glide-walk? Allan thought of Jimmy coasting away. His White Shark guardian continued:
“Can you see the arena down there? This way. Down over the balcony, in that big yellow room. See?”
“I can’t even see you.” Allan said. “Maybe if I’d try holding a coin over my eyes it would help.”
He reached for his pocketbook, opened it, removed two nickels, and managed to spill two half dollars on the stone floor. “Oh-oh. I dropped one.”
Awkwardly he got down on his hands and knees and began to grope. Bandy pretended to be helpful, directing him. But there was no mention of a second half dollar. He heard Bandy quietly turn the key and tiptoe in. One half dollar had rolled to the far corner, and Bandy went straight for it. He moved stealthily. He bent down, picked up the coin, and pocketed it. He started back, believing Allan had seen nothing.
Before he reached the open cell door, Allan pounced. He cupped his hand over Bandy’s mouth.
Bandy reared up and tried to throw him off. He hung tighter than a mustard plaster. Bandy dropped to his knees quickly. Allan whirled him to one side and kept the grip on his face. Bandy bit him. The teeth froze into the palm of his hand. He tore away, then closed in with a right fist. Bandy whirled into it and got it square on the chin. He gave a grunt like a hog beside a bolt of lightning. His arms dropped as if the day’s work was suddenly over. And it was, for Bandy.
Allan bound him with Bandy’s own clothing, and gagged him so tight he couldn’t even think of gulping.
“You’d be uncomfortable in this cell, Bandy,” he suggested; along with his hard breathing. “It’s too light. I’ll find a darker corner for you.”
He loaded Bandy over his shoulder. His shoes made an awful noise, clattering on the stone floors, but he took a chance. Scouting along the way toward the dark shadows of the honey-comb farther along the balcony, he deposited Bandyworth on a stone shelf for safe keeping.
“This will teach you, Bandy,” he said in an undertone, “not to reach too fast for other people’s half dollars. Which reminds me—”
He removed the coin from Bandy’s pocket.
“I might need this. I’m on my way to the show at the Glass Arena. If there’s a Mickey Mouse, I’ll come back and get you.”
CHAPTER XVII
Allan skipped along through the shadows provided by the candle-drip formations of rock. He was free again. He must find Jimmy.
But the sight of the yellow-lighted arena stopped him. People were coming in. Dark people. Tribesmen—a whole town of them. The population of Bonjojop!
Allen watched, resting an arm against a pillar of rock. He was conscious of the throbbing headache, echoing his recent encounter with the White Sharks. He’d been lucky, breaking out of their grip, and shaking off Bandy.
The half dollars clinked in his hand. They were of no consequence, he thought. He took an inventory of his pocket things. Here was the cigarette lighter he had misplaced, together with a silver dollar, wrapped in a handkerchief. That silver dollar weighed like a bucket of gold.
The chief! He must find the chief! Chief Koo-Jop! The old boy was probably tearing his whiskers because his errand boy Buni didn’t come back. That silver dolla
r carried an obligation made in good faith.
What of Jimmy? Should he try to find Jimmy first, or should he—
His decision came quicker than the question. He dared not gamble that Jimmy’s luck would be as favorable as his own. However, all roads appeared to lead to the Glass Arena at this busy hour. Maybe Jimmy would find his way here too.
Some of the eighty were filtering in. They gravitated to the rear of the arena where a corner had been blocked off with a high wall of glass. Meanwhile, the tribesmen were trailing into view by the hundreds, distributing themselves among the semicircular rows of seats. A White Shark urged them along. They plodded in single file, and Allan watched the thin blue shadows that sifted across the yellowish stone floor. Their hesitations and stumblings were less from fatigue than from uncertainty, he thought. They were confused and troubled. The gods had deceived them.
“Koo-Jop!”
Allan spoke the name to himself with mingled excitement and respect. It was the chief himself, marching in at the end of the procession. Two White Sharks guarded him.
What striking dignity, Allan thought. Koo-Jop’s head was high and he stood straight, in spite of his enormous girth. He was clothed in gold and silver brocaded garments that exaggerated his size. Black-skinned, regal, barrel-shaped and barrel-voiced—that was the way Allan had remembered him. Down through the years he had stood solid and unshaken in his tribal leadership. Only deeply rooted religious superstitions harmed his good judgment.
What humiliations and perhaps terrors was he going through now? Allan wondered. His solemn dark face was a mask of composure.
This was Koo-Jop. He needed an American dollar. He needed it if only as a symbol of encouragement. He should have some assurance that Buni’s errand wasn’t wasted.
Koo-Jop must be contacted.
How?
Allan couldn’t risk exposing himself again. He wasn’t up to fighting eighty men. Any thought of reestablishing himself as their captain was out of the question. One break and he’d go right back in the clink.
Things were pretty busy down there under the yellow light. The several hundred natives were jabbering in excited undertones, wondering what was meant by all this weird grandeur of sitting in an auditorium. To the rear of the native crowd, several of Allan’s eighty men were gathering. The White Sharks were motioning the others to come into conference. The glass room was like a press-box at the back of a stadium. The White Sharks were calling the rest of the eighty into this glass room.