by Lin Carter
Zarkon said nothing. He had a few ideas of his own.
“Let’s eat,” suggested the Master of Mysteries.
Two hours later, Zarkon was on the phone to Val Petrie at New Scotland Yard.
“Yes, Your Highness? Any ideas?” inquired Petrie crisply.
“A few,” admitted Zarkon. “And a bit of a long shot, but I can’t see what harm it can do to try. I want to flush the Blue Men out into the open, and have another try at tracing them to their hiding-place.”
“Well, that sounds good to me,” said young Petrie. “What is your plan, sir?”
Zarkon told him in precise, well-chosen phrases. After he was finished, Petrie laughed a little, then said:
“We’ll certainly give it a try, sir. I’ll be in touch,” and with that, he rang off.
Now there was nothing to do but to wait.
Zarkon’s plan was rather an obvious ploy, given the circumstances. They would plant a shipment of the same sort of subelectronic components for which the Blue Men seemed hungry, then watch the raid take place.
Using the facilities of New Scotland Yard, the Omega men compiled a fair-sized quantity of the components. These were placed in packing cases which Menlo Parker “bugged” — using a bead-sized gadget which would broadcast a continuous beep on a certain signal. Even if they lost track of the Blue Men’s vehicle, the Omega team could still follow the movements of the cases by means of this continuous signal.
It sounded foolproof.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
In due time, the import-export news announced the arrival of a shipment of the components, just as the papers had announced the arrival of the previously raided caches. This was done unobtrusively, of course.
The terse announcement reported the receipt of a sizable shipment of subminiaturized electronic components from a prominent Japanese manufacturer. They were to be stored for future distribution in a warehouse on the outskirts of London — a rather secluded area of the great metropolis, with easy access to country roads.
The identification code of the components was identical with those which the Blue Men apparently prized. Enough other components, not to their seeming interest, were also listed so as to seem convincing. The arrival time of the shipment was also listed.
That night, Scotland Yard sent three cargo helicopters aloft. Each bore armed men, and each was equipped with sound-baffles, so that the characteristic noisy whine of their rotors could not be easily detected from below.
As it was another foggy night, it seemed likely that the huge hovering craft could not be visibly sighted, either.
Two of the Omega men were stationed aboard each craft, with Zarkon himself in the command vehicle. They waited for something to begin to happen …
CHAPTER 9 — Spies in the Sky
Hovering on all-but-noiseless rotors above the thick banks of Britain’s famous fog, the Omega men and the Scotland Yard officers waited and watched.
They were equipped with Nitesight binoculars, which made the scenery beneath the scudding vapors almost as clearly visible as it would have been in broad daylight.
When the fog got so thick that it obscured their vision from aloft, Petrie’s men set into operation a clever modification of radar. On the greenly lit screen the warehouse in question was distinct. The helicopters kept watch on the building and all roads that led to or from it.
If the nine Blue Men turned up, they would be unaware of the massive surveillance focused upon their burglarious activities.
In one of the choppers, Scorchy Muldoon cracked his hard knuckles moodily. The bantamweight boxer always chafed at inactivity. Waiting around for something — anything — to happen always got him down.
Patience, you will understand, was not one of Scorchy’s many virtues.
“Sure wish them guys would make their move,” he complained with a groan to Nick Naldini, seated at his side in the cramped, crowded cockpit of the helicopter.
“Think philosophic thoughts, Small Change,” drawled Nick in his aggravating way. The lanky vaudeville artist seemed quite placid and undisturbed by the prolonged vigil. “Meditate on the mutability of human fortune, on the paucity of life’s experiences, or on the —”
Scorchy looked dangerous.
“I’ll meditate on poppin’ you one on that long nose of yours,” he growled. Naldini grinned: he loved it when he managed to get Scorchy’s goat, which was very frequent.
The British cops glanced at one another, alarmed. They held their tongues out of politeness towards their distinguished guests, but they hoped a fistfight would not break out in the small cabin.
Along towards the middle of the evening, an unmarked van pulled up and several men in business suits climbed out of the rear. They went about their business unhurriedly, as if all the time in the world awaited them.
Using nonconducting pincers, two of the men cut through the links of the electrified fence. It shorted and went out with an eye-dazzling sizzle of cold-blue sparks.
“Cheeky devils, aren’t they?” murmured one Scotland Yard officer to his mate. His tones sounded almost admiring.
From the height at which the fleet of helicopters hovered, it was impossible to make the men out in any detail, but no one aloft held the slightest doubt as to their identity. They just naturally had to be the Blue Men gang.
For one thing, there were nine of them.
They seemed to be unmasked, and all were wearing ordinary-looking business suits. Nobody flashed a gun, and if any of the nine crooks were armed, you couldn’t tell it from the helicopters’ height.
While they plodded into the warehouse, Zarkon in the lead helicopter employed a bombardier’s device and dropped a small plastic pellet on the roof of the van. The impact was not noticeable, and the pellet itself, dissolved moments later, leaving a colorless and virtually invisible stain.
Several minutes passed without activity.
Then two of the Blue Men appeared, walking with exaggerated caution, lugging cases. These they stored in the rear compartment of the van.
More men appeared, similarly encumbered. It would seem as if the mysterious Blue Men had pulled off another of their daring robberies. Oddly enough, the armed men aboard the three ’copters made no attempt to interfere.
Once loaded, the van with its nine occupants drove away, turning south from London and traveling into the countryside. It moved at a moderate pace, attracting no attention.
After a time, it entered a tree-lined country lane. Here, huge and ancient elms grew, their foliage-laden branches meeting and intermingling above the narrow road.
“The van seems to have stopped, sir,” muttered one of the police officers to Zarkon, who nodded.
“This will be where they switch vehicles,” he commented. “Are the other helicopters positioned correctly?”
“Yes, sir: one at each end of the lane. No vehicle can travel in either direction without being followed.”
“Excellent,” murmured Zarkon.
A brief time passed.
Then the van backed out of the lane and traveled in one direction. Simultaneously, a second vehicle emerged from the far end of the lane, and headed south.
“What do we do now, sir?” inquired the officer.
“We follow the southbound vehicle,” instructed Zarkon. “Let the second helicopter pursue the original van, until it is ditched.”
This was done.
The officer cleared his throat.
“What next, sir?”
Zarkon smiled grimly.
“We watch. And wait,” he said.
In another of the large helicopters, Scorchy Muldoon and Nick Naldini peered closely at the glowing radar screen while the officers kept watch, using the Nitesight glasses.
These sensitive instruments were attuned to infrared rays. Through their odd-shaped and bulky lenses, the roadway and farms and fields looked weirdly illuminated by a ghastly, unnatural, and colorless radiation. There were no shadows to be seen through the Nitesight binocula
rs. Every detail stood out with startling clarity.
“C’mon, c’mon, you ginks!” muttered Scorchy Muldoon with impatience. The redhead was spoiling for a good, old-fashioned brawl. A nice, noisy slugfest was Scorchy’s idea of a jolly time.
He didn’t miss the prizefighting ring much, did Muldoon. Adventuring around the world with Prince Zarkon kept Scorchy in enough fistfights to satisfy his lust for punching out crooks.
Or almost enough, anyway.
The suspense was beginning to get under Nick Naldini’s skin too, as became evident. The long-legged stage magician fidgeted, his expression sour.
“What are these birds waiting for, an engraved invitation?” he demanded grumpily. “Why doesn’t something begin to happen?”
Scorchy grinned at him tauntingly.
“Why doncha meditate on the meaning of life, Nick?” he asked innocently. “Or the mutability of human fortune, or whatever the heck it was?”
The magician flushed and muttered a few choice Italian curses under his breath.
The police officers exchanged soulful looks with each other. The endless waiting was beginning to make them fidget as well, but they tried to control the urge to explode into action.
For a seemingly endless time, the van drove at a moderate pace, apparently completely unaware that eyes were watching it closely from above.
The London suburbs gave way to farms and fields. Smoke rose from cottage chimneys; lights glowed warmly in farmhouse windows. A dog or two barked at the van as it tooled past their front yards.
“Wonder why we can’t just drop down and nail them birds?” groaned Scorchy Muldoon after a time.
“ ’Cause the Chief said to follow and watch ’em, that’s why, Half-Pint,” snapped Nick.
“Besides,” said one of the officers, “how could we capture them if our bullets bounce off them, like everyone says? We couldn’t even hit them with tear gas and put them out of action that way. Remember how they waded through the cyanide gas in your fake hotel room back at the Cumberland?”
Scorchy grimaced and muttered to himself. Of course, the police officer was right — but that didn’t help the Irishman to relax any.
“Heck, I dunno,” he said. “Maybe we could drop nets on ’em and git ’em tangled up and haul ’em off to the pokey like that, Blue or not Blue.”
The conversation languished into silence at that point. The aerial pursuit continued.
CHAPTER 10 — Tricked!
The first van, which Zarkon had marked with radioactive trace-chemicals, took a meandering road and eventually parked beside a little-used highway. Two men got out and vanished into the shrubbery which grew thickly at both sides of the road. These events were reported by shortwave radio from the second helicopter to Zarkon in the command vessel.
“No more than I had expected,” he acknowledged briefly. “They will probably be picked up by a car. If so, follow them, if at all possible.”
Zarkon’s helicopter was soaring inaudibly above the second van, in which, it seemed likely, the stolen cases were now stored. The van took obscure byroads, traveling ever south of London. It seemed to be in no particular hurry, and oblivious of the possibilities of being pursued.
After thirty minutes or so, the van entered one end of a covered bridge which spanned a small tributary of the Thames. Momentarily, it was lost to view.
It did not reemerge into view.
Six or seven minutes passed without eventuality. The officers aboard the command helicopter stirred restively. Zarkon frowned.
“What do you think they’re doing down there, sir?” asked the officer in charge.
“I don’t know,” admitted Zarkon. He peered through the binoculars. The moon shone intermittently through the lowering clouds, but its light was sufficient to disclose no boat traffic on the river; he had almost thought that the van was being unloaded to a small powered craft, but, if so, the craft was invisible. With a sinking heart, Zarkon ordered the ’copter to land atop the roofed bridge.
With drawn guns, the Yard officers climbed down onto the bridge, but found no adversaries.
The van was parked to one side of the covered bridge, and it was completely empty. Empty of passengers, and empty as well of the packing cases which contained the electronic components.
Zarkon looked around narrowly. The flooring of the bridge was covered with planking, and many of the planks were loose, as the bridge was used but infrequently.
Since no boat had been observed, however, it did not seem likely that the men and their booty had escaped by that route.
The loose planking could very easily have been lifted and moved to one side; the men could have dropped into the tributary without being noticed.
But to what purpose? How far could they have swum, eluding discovery?
More importantly, how far could swimming men have carried the cases, which, while not bulky, were at least weighty?
It didn’t make any sense.
Zarkon said as much to the Yard men. They looked puzzled.
“Well, then, sir, where did they go — how did they get away without being seen?” asked one of the senior officers.
Zarkon said nothing, his bronzed features inscrutable. The simple fact of the matter was: he did not know. It would appear that they had been outsmarted. Returning to the helicopter, Zarkon radioed the second chopper, which had been following the two men who had abandoned the original van on a country road. Scorchy Muldoon answered the call.
“The scalpeens got away, Chief!” exploded the feisty little Irish boxer.
“How?” demanded Zarkon.
“They wuz picked up by a private car, which drove ’em into the nearest town and parked on a side street. Then they just vanished in the crowd,” said Muldoon, adding a few sulfurous expletives of his own. “Car’s still there, Chief. We radioed the license number to the Yard, and found it had been stolen earlier.”
Zarkon digested this information in grim silence. They had been tricked.
“Were the electronic components real, or bogus, sir?” inquired the officer, when Zarkon hung up the radiophone.
“They were legitimate enough,” said Zarkon, a trifle heavily.
“Tough luck, sir,” said the officer sympathetically. “Looks like they got away with another load of the stuff, then.”
“Yes, and with my help,” said Zarkon tersely.
“Shall we head back home?”
“We might as well,” said the Crime-Crusader.
Defeat leaves a bitter taste in the mouth, Zarkon discovered. Of course, there will always be another battle; but it had seemed to him that his plans had been foolproof ...
Menlo Parker was Zarkon’s man in command of the third helicopter, and it had been Menlo who had overseen the assembling and packing of the subminiaturized electronic components in the first place — the “bait” for Zarkon’s trap, which had unfortunately been sprung.
Listening to the give and take on the radiophones, Menlo suppressed a gleeful snigger. The waspish little scientist, who looked every bit the “brain” he was, and whose physical prowess seemed to be inadequate to fight his way out of a wet paper bag, actually had a powerful thirst for adventure and could, believe it or not, lick his weight in wildcats.
Well ... almost.
Anyway, instead of following the other two helicopters home to base, Parker unlimbered a small device and instructed his pilot to follow his directions.
“But, sir, we —”
“ ‘But’ nothing, man; do as I say,” snapped Menlo crisply.
For a time he gave enigmatic directions, peering closely at the small metal box he held cradled between his bony knees. Affixed to the top of this instrument case was a compass, and Menlo studied the fluctuations of the sensitive needle devoutly.
Theophilus “Doc” Jenkins watched his diminutive partner with puzzlement written all over his huge, dull-eyed features.
“What’s up, Menlo?” he inquired at last. Parker flashed him a triumphant glare.
“An ace in the hole,” announced Menlo succinctly. “Before I packed them wooden cases, I drew a wiring diagram on the top o’ one of ’em with colorless metallic ink, and hitched the widget up to a transistor for power. Battery’s as small as the point of a pin — not the head, the point. Couldn’t find it even if you knew it was there —”
“And yer following the signals,” mused Doc Jenkins, grinning.
Menlo chortled happily.
“Yer dang right I am!” he snickered. “They may of vanished into thin air, but the signal’s showing on the box and we’re following ’em right now! Now hush up and let me read this dang thing.”
Night deepened; thick cloud-cover obscured the stars and veiled the cold white face of the moon. At a height where it could not be visually observed, the whirring noise of its rotors muffled behind sound-baffles, the third helicopter followed the faint electronic beep.
“On the river down there, although Gosh knows how or where. The Chief couldn’t see any boat, even with the night-scope,” muttered Menlo.
“Mebbe they’re in a pocket submarine,” mused Doc Jenkins. “They can make ’em pretty darn small these days, you know.”
“That, or somethin’ like a bathysphere,” mumbled Menlo Parker, twisting the dials feverishly.
They flew on, traveling south and west.
Joey Weston watched the tense scene with what fiction writers often refer to as “bated breath” — whatever that means.
The little orphan newsboy had been brought along on this expedition simply because Zarkon had thought it safer to have him with the Omega men, than being left alone in the fleabag hotel without supervision. And, surely, surrounded by armed officers from New Scotland Yard, the boy would be ably protected from harm.