by Don Wilcox
One-way glass. Allan moved along the shadowy balcony trail close enough to make this discovery. He couldn’t see through the glazed wall into the “press-box”, but when he got a view through the open doorway to glimpse the glazed wall from the inside, it was no longer glazed, but admitted a clear view of the crowd and the arena beyond.
He was dangerously close—a matter of seventy or eighty feet. The nearness whetted his curiosity. Business was being discussed in that press-room. If he could only catch a quick earful, he would have the key to this whole mysterious Arena affair.
Did the tribesmen know what the score was? Or were they here as guinea pigs? What would happen if one of those natives would slip back toward the press-box conference and eavesdrop? He wouldn’t get far, Allah decided. They’d see him through the glass before he knew it. They’d probably box his ears and send him back to his seat.
Suddenly Allan saw the way. He whirled and sprinted back over the dark balcony trail. His toes barely touched the ground. He dodged the projecting stones, hurdled the mounds of candle-drip stalagmites, and bounded down into a small ravine. Here a tiny stream glided down over the purple rocks. He had remembered it. Now he needed it.
He undressed hurriedly. His scheme called for precious minutes of preparation. Time was at his heels.
The stream had deposited a dark, greasy sediment over the purple rock, and that was what he wanted. He smeared his hand over it and began to paint his body.
Rapidly he treated himself to a coating of dark coloring over most of his body.
Then he used his trunks and strips from the tail of his shirt to fit himself out with scanty clothing that might pass for the simplest sort of native costume. With the aid of his good leather belt and a handkerchief packet, he managed to carry his pocket things.
He had discarded his shoes. His tender feet might just as well toughen up. He was going native.
With the aid of a small mirror, he gave the final touches of blackening to his face and neck. He kneaded mud into his hair and scruffed it into a kinky mat.
Finally he rolled his surplus clothes into a ball and hid them in a niche above the S-shaped bend in the stream. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the water, and might have chuckled at the wild looking native who returned his stare. But he couldn’t take time to chuckle.
It was the geography of the mountain caverns that accounted for an unexpected improvement in his native appearance only a minute and a half later. He had decided to take a different route back. The balcony trail appeared to go on around. He would follow it and approach the Glass Arena from the other side.
This route took him past a doorway of another cell, very much like the one he had recently occupied.
He stopped, gazed, and moved closer on tip-toes. The cell was occupied. Its occupant was lying on a blanket, asleep. The dim light outlined the strong, sensitive features of his dark face.
“One of the pojaks!” Allan said through his hard breathing. What was he doing here? Allan noted that one of his hands gripped a stone, about the size of a hand grenade. Pojaks always carried a stone, or a clod, or a plant-religious symbol of keeping a grip on the earth. The other sure sign that this man was a highly esteemed religious leader was the head dress of busy black feathers ornamented with yellow bull’s horns.
This pojak, whether drugged, or ill, or just plain sleepy, had made himself more comfortable by removing his horns and feathers. Along with the pojak headdress was a Bunjojop holiday suit of black and red feathers and a bone-ornamented chest plate. The costume lay in a heap in the corner near the cell door.
Allan got down on hands and knees, reached in, and caught an edge of the costume in the tips of his fingers. A soft swish of feathers over stone, and the prize was his. The handsome pojak slept on.
Less than another minute was lost in donning the costume. Decked out in black and red feathers that fluffed out like fountains from his shoulders and hips, Allan gave one quick whirl to test the swish and clatter. The bones of the ornamented breastplate made him feel like a walking skeleton.
This much of the costume would clinch the illusion that he was a native. But would he be too conspicuous? He turned the fancy horned headdress over in his hands, wondering. No, he mustn’t wear that. It was strictly pojak. It would attract attention, and he would give himself a way. Suddenly he was in doubt whether he should have donned any of the costume. He meant to slip into the crowd inconspicuously, deliver the dollar to Koo-jop, and sit innocently. The chief would know instantly that he was an impostor, but would realize that he must be a friend. That would pave the way for confidences and a renewal of acquaintance. But the costume—
He started to put the headdress back through the bars when he noticed that the pojak’s eyes were open. Black, handsome eyes, glaring at him.
“Here,” Allan said, holding the headdress toward the bars. “Here—”
The pojak sprang to his feet and marched up with a ferocity that might have been madness. Allan backed away. If the fellow would have understood English Allan might have reasoned with him. No use to stand within reach of a maniac. The bars were there. Allan was on the right side of them.
“All right. I’ve got it. I’m borrowing it, see? I’ll bring it back. You just wait. Don’t go away.”
And with that Allan spun away and started to sprint off; feathers flying and bones rattling.
He remembered the stone in the pojak’s hand only when he heard it whizzing through the air. He ducked and it caught him just above the ear. He stumbled.
He fell, stunned, and the horns clattered on the stone.
Dazedly he picked himself up and discovered he was holding a weird handful of black feathers and yellow horns. He couldn’t think what it was. Or where he had come from. Or where he was going. His head was splitting with pain.
He heard voices approaching. Two men were coming toward him, marching briskly in starch white uniforms. He had the vague feeling that he should hide. But he couldn’t get his wits together in time.
Within a few feet of him the two White Sharks stopped.
“Look, would you!” one of the starchy fellows shouted.
“Well, by Jupiter, here’s one of them! He’s come to meet us! Now how did he get out?”
“Bandy or someone must have come over to get him.”
“Not Bandy. He’s at the other end, helping Sully.”
“Well, someone’s let this fellow out and started him down the trail.”
The name of Sully brought Allan back to a sharp sense of danger. He barely had the presence of mind to mumble a few old Bunjojop words. He had become a native. He needed to play the part.
And so he yielded to the entreaties of the two white men in white uniforms. They were leading him toward the Glass Arena. They were telling him to come on, like a good boy. It was time for him to take part in the show.
CHAPTER XVIII
Lieutenant Sully was in good form. He paced back and forth in front of his assemblage in the press box. He had looked forward to this hour for a long time. The whole scheme of using “Scravvzek poison” on the Bunjojop tribe as a demonstration was his own pet project.
This was Sully’s big deal. He had organized most of the eighty to help him put it over. He marched out into the larger auditorium with the air of a dictator.
He stopped abruptly. The tribe began to hoot. Not at him, but at the show. They pointed excitedly at the two pojaks. Instantly they knew that one of the two gladiators was not their pojak. He was a fake.
Sully didn’t understand their talk. His White Sharks wondered vaguely whether something was wrong. But Sully roared down the murmurs of the tribe. He didn’t topple. Everything looked right to him. He bellowed for attention.
He made a quick savage speech. He advised the natives to prepare for the worst. They were to see the naked truth. Their two pojaks, who were supposed to be friendly, were about to fly at each other’s throats.
“Watch them, they think they’re alone. Watch them!”
Sully might have saved his breath. The Bunjojops saw it differently.
One of their pojaks was in danger of attack. An outsider—an impostor dressed like a pojak—was ready to deal death. A few of them grew panicky and rushed forward and began to beat on the glass wall. They tried to attract the pojak’s attention. But it didn’t work. The one-way glass foiled them.
“Order! Order!” Sully thundered, marching down the aisle. But already the situation was getting out of hand. The White Sharks began to use their clubs on the frenzied natives, and a riot ensued. Already a score of natives were beating on the glass with fists and stones.
Inside, nothing of this pandemonium could be seen.
What Allan saw as he came onto the stage was an almost empty space, walled in by glass. Opaque glass walls. It would be easy to forget that there was an audience just beyond, watching his every move.
There was something in the ceiling of the stage that he couldn’t stop to notice at the moment. Already the “other” pojak had entered at the opposite door.
The wild look in the pojak’s eye told Allan to beware. The fellow crouched and showed his teeth. He was scared and desperate, and he must have known instantly that this trumped-up fight meant his life or Allan’s. An attendant entered, forced a weapon into Allan’s hands and a similar weapon into the trembling fingers of the pojak. Then the attendant made a quick exit.
The weapons resembled corn knives—eighteen inch blades with wide, squared off ends and no curve, and a hard crudely carved handle.
Allan didn’t intend to fight. Certainly he had no reason to do so. But the pojak couldn’t know that. If Allan spoke he must speak in the pojak language.
“Noodoo!” Allan called. “Noodoo!”
His brain whirled as he tried to search for more adequate Bunjojop words. He approached slowly and held his arms wide in a gesture of friendliness.
“Noodoo! Noodoo! he repeated.
The adversary looked at Allan curiously, wondering what the game was. His eyes flashed. He spit on the blade of his knife, be weighed it speculatively in his hand and took a step forward. He was gauging Allan’s treachery evidently, and sizing up Allan’s probable strength and skill.
“Hanwool-Ko-Jop!” Allan said quietly.
The pojak relaxed a little. The power of words. The idea was getting over that Allan was a friend of Koo-Jop, the chief.
Suddenly they were both distracted by the sounds of rapping on the glass wall. So the audience wanted to get in on this, Allan thought. They were out there, unknown to this desperate pojak, and they meant to save him from death at Allan’s hands. What if they broke in and swarmed over the stage? Allan’s life wouldn’t be worth an American silver dollar.
The charm! Allan took a chance. He tossed his knife to the floor, repeated his gesture of friendship, and brought forth the silver dollar.
“Friend of Koo-Jop,” he repeated in Bunjojop, holding up the coin. “Koo-Jop there. Koo-Jop fojo-wee!”
He pointed to the glass wall that was sounding with violent thumps. Could he succeed in telling this poor frightened African that the whole tribe was out there?
He tossed the coin to the pojak. “Give it to Koo-Jop,” he said tensely in his best tribal tongue.
The pojak caught the coin out of the air, looked at it and flashed a quick smile at Allan. He had seen it before, of course. He understood. He tossed his weapon to the floor.
“Give it to Koo-Jop,” Allan repeated, and pointed to the opaque wall of glass.
That was when the object in the ceiling quivered and began to fall.
The powers behind the scenes evidently didn’t like the way things were going. A pendulum swung down out of the ceiling, as large as a billboard, and coasted across in front of the two men. Allan saw it coming. He saw a White Shark riding down on it, swinging a five-foot sword.
Death would come neatly. The audience wouldn’t see it strike. The lower part of the pendulum was a rectangular screen, with the White Shark hiding on Allan’s side of it. The pendulum would swing past, death would strike, the pendulum would return to its original position. And the audience would only see what was left. They would believe that the pojaks had momentarily clashed in mortal combat.
“Back!” Allan cried as the hidden White Shark descended. The long sword flashed. Allan caught the pojak by the wrist and hurled him backward. The tip of the flying sword grazed the pojak’s jaw.
Back against the rear wall Allan and the pojak watched the screen swing back. The white Shark couldn’t reach them now. His reach was three feet short.
But the White Shark grinned as he swung past. As if he had them. He was sure of it. Why?
Because the rear wall was slowly moving forward. Allan and the pojak were being crowded toward the front. Three feet changed to two. Two more swings of the pendulum and they would be within reach.
The pojak darted to the floor to grab his discarded knife.
“No!” Allan cried. “Noodoo!” The audience would get them wrong.
But there was nothing else to do. Allan impulsively started for his weapon. The space was closing in on him. The pendulum was swinging down again.
Then the sounds of rioting from outside were suddenly beating loud against Allan’s ears. One of the stage doors had swung open.
“Come outa there, Captain! Come out, gosh-ding-it!”
Jimmy!
Allan whirled. A White Shark? No, it was Jimmy Ruggles in a White Shark’s suit!
“This way, Captain, before they mob you. The tribe’s gone wild.”
Allan grabbed the pojak by the wrist and tried to bring him along. But the pojak had his weapon now, and his fierce eye was on the descending pendulum. He meant to stay and take his own chances.
An eighteen-inch knife against a five-foot sword?
“Come on!” Jimmy wailed.
The swishing pendulum came past. Sword and knife clanged. The African went into the fight like an inspired maniac. Something told Allan that American dollar would soon be safely delivered in Koo-Jop’s hands. His· own part was done.
“Make a run for it!” Jimmy yelled, leading the way out the door. Allan, fluttering in his pojak costume, followed on the double.
CHAPTER XIX
White sharks and Green Coats and Bunjojops were going after it with clubs and whips and stones. Allan leaped over a yelping dog pile in the doorway. Jimmy must have fought his way through a squad of guards to get that door opened.
Now Jimmy led the way, and they brushed off skirmishes as they went. They dodged stalagmites, and skipped through streams of yellow lights in search of, the deeper shadows. “How did you know it was me?” Allan yelled.
“Your big feet,” Jimmy said.
“You don’t say!” They were bounding up over an embankment toward the level of the balcony. “You knew by the dollar.”
“Besides,” Jimmy yelled, “I saw you get into your disguise. I been watchin’ over you like a good angel. Just like Yippee told me to. But you sure got yourself in a devil of a mess this—look out!—wrong way!”
Three Green Coats rushed in from three directions. Jimmy collided with one, and they did a double cartwheel down the embankment. Allan tackled the second and threw him over his head. The third did a neat sidestep. He pitched a rock at Allan. Only a swift ducking saved him from being conked. He leaped at the fellow, gave a wild yell like a Bunjojop, and chased him off.
There were too many fights in too many directions by this time for them to make a clean getaway. Surefooted Jimmy was right with him, however, leaping rocks like an overgrown chipmunk.
Whenever they edged past a scrap that couldn’t be dodged, they fell to fighting each other until they got out of range. It wouldn’t have looked right for a White Shark and a pojak to be running away together. But now that the battle was raging, their identities were lost.
They faked a battle while a chase went past them. Allan caught his breath long enough to ask, “Where’d you get that fancy white uniform, Jimmy? What gave you the
inspiration to turn White Shark?”
“Don’t you remember laying Bandyworth on the shelf?”
“Bandy! I forgot about him.”
“His nice, slick uniform was goin’ to waste. So I worked him over. Gosh, it feels wonderful to be an aristocrat.”
“Be a king if you want to, but look out that these Bunjojops don’t crown you.”
The battle gradually spread through the valley beyond the Glass Arena. Women and children screamed shrilly as they ran for safety. Back of them, Koo-Jop and the warriors fought a stubborn fight. It was a costly ordeal. Rocks flew. Knives clanged. Heads fell. The caverns echoed the groans of death.
Shouts, cursing, tribal catcalls, sounds of bouncing rocks all mingled in the uproar.
Whenever the Green Coats carted a dead Bunjojop back to the Glass Arena, they were greeted by a triumphant shout from the rest of Sully’s band.
The battle continued for three hours or more. Allan had almost lost track of time. He guessed that at least two days had passed since his entrance into this weird world. Had the fortune teller known she was sending him here in time to witness this clash?
Several forms were lying on the ground in the wake of the retreating tribe. Allan counted fifteen. Meanwhile, the Green Coats and Rocky Chests edged forward, little by little, trampling over the casualties.
The advantage of attack was all Sully’s. He and the crew had been loaded for the purpose. With small carts of grenade-sized stones at hand, they had only to reach and throw. Whenever a native was struck down, they could rush in with their White Shark clubs and settle his hash.
Allan and Jimmy dodged around and delivered several crucial punches that put a crimp in the White Sharks’ progress. But the eighty men—men who had cheated death once before were a tough lot. They appeared to possess a strange resistance to flying stones.