The Second Murray Leinster Megapack

by Murray Leinster

  “I will promise,” said Jamison grimly, “to see that The Master dies himself if you will have Bell and myself put in a plane with fuel to Punta Arenas and a reasonable supply of weapons. I include the Señorita Canalejas as a matter of course.”

  Ortiz looked from one to the other. And suddenly he smiled once more. It was queer, that smile. It was not quite mirthless.

  “You were right, just now,” he observed calmly, “when as the Herr Wiedkind you said that I would quit the service of The Master when I ceased to despair. I begin to have hopes. You two men have done the impossible. You have fought The Master, you have learned many of his secrets, and you have corrupted a man to treason when treason means suicide. Perhaps, Señores, you will continue to achieve the impossible, and assassinate The Master.”

  He stood up, and though deathly pale continued to smile.

  “I suggest, Señor, that you resume your complexion. And you, Señor Bell, you will be returned to your confinement. I will make the necessarily elaborate arrangements for my death.”

  Bell rose. He liked this young man. He said quietly:

  “You said just now you wouldn’t ask me to shake hands. May I ask you?…” He added almost apologetically as Ortiz’s fingers closed upon his: “You see, when your father died I thought that I would be very glad if I felt that I would die as well. But I think”—he smiled wryly—“I think I’ll have two examples to think of when my time comes.”

  * * * *

  In the morning a bulky, round shouldered figure entered the room in which Bell was confined.

  “You will follow me,” said a harsh voice.

  Bell shrugged. He was marched down long passageways and many steps. He came out into the courtyard, where the glistening black car with the blank windows waited. At an imperious gesture, he got in and sat down with every appearance of composure, as of a man resignedly submitting to force he cannot resist. The thick spectacles of the Herr Wiedkind regarded him with a gogglelike effect. There was a long pause. Then the sound of footsteps. Paula appeared, deathly pale. She was ushered into the vehicle—and only Bell’s swift gesture of a finger to his lips checked her cry of relief.

  Voices outside. The guttural Spanish of the Herr Wiedkind. Other, emotionless voices replying. The Herr Wiedkind climbed heavily into the car and sat down, producing a huge revolver which bore steadily upon Bell. The door closed, and he made a swift gesture of caution.

  “Idt may be,” said the Germanic voice harshly, “that you and the young ladty haff much to say to each other. But idt can wait. And I warn you, mein Herr, that at the first movement I shall fire.”

  Bell relaxed. There was the purring of the motor. The car moved off. Obviously there was some microphonic attachment inside the tonneau which carried every word within the locked vehicle to the ears of the two men upon the chauffeur’s seat. An excellent idea for protection against treachery. Bell smiled, and moved so that his lips were a bare half-inch from Paula’s ears.

  “Try to weep, loudly,” he said in the faintest of whispers. “This man is a friend.”

  But Paula could only stare at the bulky figure sitting opposite until he suddenly removed the spectacles, and smiled dryly, and then reached in his pockets and handed Bell two automatic pistols, and extended a tiny but very wicked weapon to Paula. He motioned to her to conceal it.

  Jamison—moving to make the minimum of noise—handed Bell a sheet of stiff cardboard. It passed into Bell’s fingers without a rustle. He showed it silently to Paula.

  We were overheard last night by someone. We don’t know who or how much he heard. Dictaphone in the room we talked in. Can’t find out who it was or what action he’s taken. We may be riding into a trap now. Ortiz has disappeared. He may be dead. We can only wait and see.

  The car was moving as if in city traffic, a swift dash forward and a sudden stop, and then another swift dash. But the walls within were padded so that no sound came from without save the faint vibration of the motor and now and then the distinct flexing of a spring. Then the car turned a corner. It went more rapidly. It turned another corner. And another.…

  In the light of the bright dome light, Bell saw beads of sweat coming out on Jamison’s face. He did not dare to speak, but be formed words with his lips.

  “He’s turning wrong! This isn’t the way to the field!”

  Bell’s jaws clenched. He took out his two automatics and looked at them carefully. And then, much too short a time from the departure for the flying field to have been reached, the car checked. It went over rough cobblestones, and Bell himself knew well that there had been no cobbled roadway between the flying field and his prison. And then the car went up a sort of ramp, a fairly steep incline which by the feel of the motor was taken in low, and on for a short distance more. Then the car stopped and the motor was cut off.

  Keys rattled in the lock outside. The door opened. The blunt barrel of an automatic pistol peered in.

  CHAPTER XV

  The door of the car swung wide, and Ortiz’s pale grim face peered in behind the blue steel barrel of his automatic. He smiled queerly as Jamison, with a grunt of relief, tapped Bell’s wrist in sign to put away his weapon.

  “Ah, very well,” said Ortiz, with the same queer smile upon his face. “One moment.”

  He disappeared. On the instant there was the thunderous crashing of a weapon. Bell started up, but Jamison thrust him back. Then Ortiz appeared again with smoke still trickling from the barrel of his pistol.

  “I have just done something that I have long wished to do,” he observed coolly. “I have killed the chauffeur and his companion. You may alight, now. I believe we will have half an hour or more. It will do excellently.”

  He offered his hand to Paula as she stepped out. She seemed to shudder a little as she took it.

  “I do not blame you for shuddering, Señorita,” he said politely, “but men who are about to die may indulge in petty spites. And the chauffeur was a favorite with the deputy for whom I am substituting. Like all favorites of despots, he had power to abuse, and abused it. I could tell you tales, but refrain.”

  The car had come to a stop in what seemed to be a huge warehouse, and by the sound of water round about, it was either near or entirely built out over the harbor. A large section near the outer end was walled off. Boxes, bales, parcels and packages of every sort were heaped all about. Bell saw crated air engines lying in a row against one wall. There were a dozen or more of them. Machinery, huge cases of foodstuffs.…

  “The Buenos Aires depot,” said Ortiz almost gaily. “This was the point of receipt for all the manufactured goods which went to the fazenda of Cuyaba, Señor Bell. Since you destroyed that place, it has not been so much used. However, it will serve excellently as a tomb. There are cases of hand grenades yonder. I advise you to carry a certain number with you. The machine guns for the air-craft, with their ammunition, are here.…”

  He was hurrying them toward the great walled-off space as he talked, his automatic serving as a pointer when he indicated the various objects.

  “Now, here,” he added as he unlocked the door, “is your vessel. The Master bought only amphibian planes of late. Those for Cuyaba were assembled in this little dock and took off from the water. Your destruction up there, Señor Bell, left one quite complete but undelivered. I think another, crated, is still in the warehouse. I have been very busy, but if you can fuel and load it before we are attacked.…”

  They were in a roofed and walled but floorless shed, built into the warehouse itself. Water surged about below them, and on it floated a five passenger plane, fully assembled and apparently ready to fly, but brand new and so far unused.

  “I’ll look it over,” said Bell, briefly. He swung down the catwalk painted on the wings. He began a swift and hasty survey. Soot on the exhaust stacks proved that the motors had been tried, at least. Everything seemed trim and new and glistening in the cabin. The fuel tanks showed the barest trace of fuel. The oil tanks were full to their filling-plugs.
r />   He swung back up.

  “Taking a chance, of course,” he said curtly. “If the motors were all right when they were tried, they probably are all right now. They may have been tuned up, and may not. I tried the controls, and they seem to work. For a new ship, of course, a man would like to go over it carefully, but if we’ve got to hurry.…”

  “I think,” said Ortiz, and laughed, “that haste would be desirable. Herr Wiedkind—No! Amigo mio, it was that damned Antonio Calles who listened to us last night. I found pencil marks beside the listening instrument. He must have sat there and eavesdropped upon me many weary hours, and scribbled as men do to pass the time. He had a pretty taste in monograms.… I gave all the orders that were needful for you to take off from the flying field. I even went there myself and gave additional orders. And Calles was there. Also others of The Master’s subjects. My treason would provoke a terrible revenge from The Master, so they thought to prove their loyalty by permitting me to disclose my plan and foil it at its beginning.

  “I would have made the journey with you to The Master, but as a prisoner with the tale of my treason written out. So I returned and changed the orders to the chauffeur, when all the Master’s loyal subjects were waiting at the flying field. But soon it will occur to them what I have done. They will come here. Therefore, hasten!”

  “We want food,” said Bell evenly, “and arms, but mostly we want fuel. We’ll get busy.”

  He shed his coat and picked up a hand-truck. He rammed it under a drum of gasoline and ran it to the walkway nearest to the floating plane. Coiled against the wall there was a long hose with a funnel at its upper end. In seconds he had the hose end in one of the wing fuel-tanks. In seconds more he had propped the funnel into place and was watching the gasoline gurgling down the hose.

  “Paula,” he said curtly, “watch this. When it’s empty roll the drum away so I can put another in its place.”

  She moved quickly beside it, throwing him a little smile. She set absorbedly about her task.

  Jamison arrived with another drum of gas before the first was emptied, and Bell was there with a third while the second still gurgled. They heaped the full drums in place, and Jamison suddenly abandoned his truck to swear wrathfully and tear off his spectacles and fling them against the wall. The bushy eyebrows and beard peeled off. His coat went down. He began to rush loads of foodstuffs, arms, and other objects to a point from which they could be loaded on the plane. Ortiz pointed out the things he pantingly demanded.

  In minutes, it seemed, he was demanding: “How much can we take? Any more than that?”

  “No more,” said Bell. “All the weight we can spare goes for fuel. See if you can find another hose and funnel and get to work on the other tank. I’m going to rustle oil.”

  He came staggering back with heavy drums of it. A thought struck him.

  “How do we get out? What works the harbor door?”

  Ortiz pointed, smiling.

  “A button, Señor, and a motor does the rest.” He looked at his watch. “I had better see if my fellow subjects have come.”

  He vanished, smiling his same queer smile. Bell worked frantically. He saw Ortiz coming back, pausing to light a cigarette, and taking up a hatchet, with which he attacked a packing case.

  “They are outside, Señor,” he called. “They have found the signs of the car entering, and now are discussing.”

  He plucked something carefully from the packing box and went leisurely back toward the door. Bell began to load the food and stores into the cabin, with sweat streaming down his face.

  There was the sound of a terrific explosion, and Bell jumped savagely to solid ground.

  “Keep loading! I’ll hold them back!” he snapped to Jamison.

  But when he went pounding to the back of the warehouse he found Ortiz laughing.

  “A hand grenade, Señor,” he said in wholly unnatural levity. “Among the subjects of The Master. I believe that I am going mad, to take such pleasure in destruction. But since I am to die so shortly, why not go mad, if it gives me pleasure?”

  He peered out a tiny hole and aimed his automatic carefully. It spurted out all the seven shots that were left.

  “The man who poisoned me,” he said pleasantly. “I think he is dead. Go back and make ready to leave, Señor Bell, because they will probably try to storm this place soon, and then the police will come, and then.… It is amusing that I am the one man to whom those enslaved among the city authorities would look for The Master’s orders.”

  Bell stared out. He saw a small horde of people, frantically agitated, milling in the cramped and unattractive little street of Buenos Aires’ waterfront. Sheer desperation seemed to impel them, desperation and a frantic fear. They surged forward—and Ortiz flung a hand grenade. Its explosion was terrific, but he had perhaps purposely flung it short. Bell suddenly saw police uniforms, fighting a way through to the front of the crowd and the source of all this disturbance.

  “Go back,” said Ortiz seriously. “I shall die, Señor Bell. There is nothing else for me to do. But I wish to die with Latin melodrama.” He managed a smile. “I will give you ten minutes more. I can hold off the police themselves for so long. But you must hasten, because there are police launches.”

  He held out his hand. Bell took it.

  “Good luck,” said Ortiz.

  “You can come—” began Bell, wrenched by the gaiety on Ortiz’s face.

  “Absurd,” said Ortiz, smiling. “I should be murder mad within three days. This is a preferable death, I assure you. Ten minutes, no more!”

  And Bell went racing back and found Jamison rolling away the last of the fuel drums and Paula looking anxiously for him.

  “Tanks full,” said Jamison curtly. “Everything set. What next?”

  “Engines,” said Bell.

  He swung down and jerked a prop over. Again, and again.… The motor caught. He went plunging to the other. Minutes.… They caught. He throttled them down to the proper warming up roaring, while the air in the enclosed space grew foul.

  Once more to the warehouse. Ortiz shouted and waved his hand. He was filling his pockets with hand grenades. Bell made a gesture of farewell and Ortiz seemed to smile as he went back to hold the entrance for a little longer.

  “We’re going,” said Bell grimly. “Get your guns ready, Jamison, for when the door goes up.”

  He pressed on the button Ortiz had pointed out. There were more explosions and the rattle of firearms from the front of the warehouse. There was a sudden rumble of machinery and the blank front of the little covered dock rose suddenly. The sunlit waters of Buenos Aires harbor spread out before them. To Bell, who had not looked on sunlight that day, the effect was dazzling. He blinked, and then saw a fast little launch approaching. There were uniformed figures crowded about its bows.

  “All set!” he snapped. “I’m going to give her the gun.”

  “Go to it,” said Jamison. “We’re—”

  The motors bellowed and drowned out the rest. The plane shuddered and began to move. The sound of explosions from the back of the warehouse was loud and continuous, now. Out into the bright sunlight the plane moved, at first heavily, then swiftly.…

  Bell saw arms waving wildly in the launch with the uniformed men. Sunlight glittered suddenly on rifle barrels. Puffs of vapor shot out. Something spat through the wall beside Bell. But the roaring of the motors kept up, and the pounding of the waves against the curved bow of the boat-body grew more and more violent.… Sweat came out on Bell’s face. The ship was not lifting.…

  But it did lift. Slowly, very slowly, carrying every pound with which it could have risen from the water. It swept past the police launch at ninety miles an hour, but no more than five feet above the waves. A big, clumsy tramp flying the Norwegian flag splashed up river with its propeller half out of water. Bell dared to rise a little so he could bank and dodge it. He could not rise above it.

  He had one glimpse of blonde, astonished beards staring over the stern of
the tramp as he swept by it, his wing tips level with its rail and barely twenty feet away. And then he went on and on, out to sea.

  He began to spiral for height fully four miles offshore, and looked back at the sprawling city. Down by the waterfront a thick, curling mass of smoke was rising from one spot abutting on the water. It swayed aside and Bell saw the rectangular opening out of which the plane had come.

  “Ortiz’s in there,” he said, sick at heart. “Dying as he planned.”

  But there was a sudden upheaval of timbers and roof. A colossal burst of smoke. A long time later the concussion of a vast explosion. There was nothing left where the warehouse had been.

  Bell looked, and swore softly to himself, and felt a fresh surge of the hatred he bore to The Master and all his works. And then filmy clouds loomed up but a little above the rising plane, and Bell shot into them and straightened out for the south.

  * * * *

  For many long hours the plane floated on to southward, high above a gray ocean which seemed deceptively placid beneath a canopy of thin clouds. The motors roared steadily in the main, though once Bell instructed Jamison briefly in the maintenance of a proper course and height, and swung out into the terrific blast of air that swept past the wings. He clung to struts and handholds and made his way out on the catwalk to make some fine adjustment in one motor, with six thousand feet of empty space below the swaying wing.

  “Carburetter wrong,” he explained when he had closed the cabin window behind him again and the motors’ roar was once more dulled. “It was likely to make a lot of carbon in the cylinders. Okay, now.”

  Paula’s hand touched his shyly. He smiled abstractedly at her and went back to the controls.

  And then the plane kept on steadily. Time and space have become purely relative in these days, in startling verification of Mr. Einstein, and the distance between Buenos Aires and Magellan Strait is great or small, a perilous journey or a mere day’s travel, according to the mind and the transportation facilities of the voyager. Before four o’clock in the afternoon the coast was low and sandy to the westward, and it continued sterile and bare for long hours while the plane hung high against the sky with a following wind driving it on vastly more swiftly than its own engines could have contrived.