by Various
That had been enough for Stoddard. He had followed his hunch, had got himself attached to the American Kinchinjunga expedition--
"And that's why I'm here, and all about it," he finished. "Now, then, are you coming back with me and have a look at my Diamond Thunderbolt, or am I going back alone?"
A long moment the professor debated, before replying.
"Yes, I'll come with you," he said at length, extending his hand. "Forgive me, Jack. I didn't know, or--"
"Forget it," said Stoddard shaking. "How the devil could you, till I told you? But just one thing. Mum's the word--right?"
"Right!"
"And one thing more. It may be--well, a one-way trip."
"Forget it."
"O. K., Professor."
With a last warm handclasp, leaving them joined in a new bond of friendship, the two men moved on over that narrow, moonlit ridge across the top of the world.
* * * * *
It was a desperate trail, Professor Prescott realized after scarcely a dozen steps. The ridge grew narrower, sheerer, and in places they had to straddle it, legs dangling precariously to left and right.
Admiration for his gallant companion mounted in the professor's pounding heart, as they struggled on. Only to picture anyone eager to return such a perilous way, after once getting safely back!
Other thoughts occupied his mind, too, during the next half-hour. More than once he could have sworn he saw small, ghostly figures on the ridge ahead. But he made no mention of it, for Stoddard didn't seem to see them.
Now they gained the far end of that hazardous ridge, where a sloping shelf of jagged rock offered a somewhat more secure footing. Along this they proceeded laterally for some distance.
Suddenly Stoddard paused and called out:
"Ah--there we are!" He indicated a steep pocket to the left. "Have a look down there, Professor, and tell me what you see."
* * * * *
Prescott lowered his eyes to the depths below, to draw back with a gasp--for what he saw was a vast phosphorescent glow, like a fallen star.
"What--what is it?" he cried, in an awed voice.
And back came the ringing reply:
"The Diamond Thunderbolt!"
"But the radiance of the thing! It couldn't reflect that much light from the moon!"
"No, and it doesn't. But there's nothing uncanny about it. Just what I expected the thing would look like at night. But come on, Professor. You haven't seen the half of it!"
The way led down the jagged, shelving slope, now, and the descent was too precarious for further comment.
Ten minutes passed--fifteen, possibly--when they reached a sheltered, snowless arena where titanic forces had clashed at some remote age. Fragments of splintered rock lay strewn in wild confusion--and among them, glinting in the moonlight, were bright crystals.
Picking up one, Stoddard said laughingly:
"One of Mother Nature's trinkets worth half a million or so!"
Professor Prescott blinked at it a moment, almost in disbelief, then stooped and picked up one for himself--a diamond that would have made the Kohinoor look like a pebble.
There was no doubting its genuineness. Even in the moonlight, it flashed and burned like a thing afire.
But as the professor turned his eyes at last from its dazzling facets, they failed him again--or so he thought--for half hidden behind a jutting crag loomed a huge cylindrical object, seemingly of metal.
* * * * *
For the space of two breaths, he stared speechless, then gasped:
"Good Lord! What's that?"
Following his gaze, Stoddard saw it too.
"God knows!" he muttered, in a tense voice. "It wasn't there this afternoon. Let's have a look at it."
Cautiously, not knowing what to expect, they advanced toward the singular phenomenon.
Nearing, they saw that it was a mechanism some twenty feet at the base and sixty or more feet high, pointed at the top.
"A rocket!" declared Professor Prescott. "Though I've never seen anything larger than a laboratory model, I'll gamble that's what it is."
"And I'll gamble you're right!" exclaimed Stoddard. "And one capable of carrying passengers, would you say?"
"Fully."
"Then I think we have solved the mystery of how these diamonds reach the market. The question now is, who's back of this thing? And since our position here probably isn't any too healthy--"
He broke off and drew his automatic, as a small, ghostly figure appeared--seemingly from nowhere.
The professor saw it, too--saw it followed by another, and another--and now he knew his eyesight had not failed him back on that wind-swept slope above, either, for these were actual creatures, incredible as they seemed.
The snow people?
He did not know--had no time to find out--for with a rush, the strange beings were all around them.
* * * * *
Stoddard levelled his pistol and called on them to halt, but they came on--scores, hundreds now, seeming to pour out of some unseen aperture of the earth.
Once or twice he fired, over their heads, but it failed to halt them. They closed in, jabbering shrilly.
But though their words were a babel, their actions were plain enough. Swarming up, they overpowered the explorers by sheer numbers, and herded them with jabs of sharp, tiny knives toward a cavern mouth that opened presently amid those eery crags.
Led underground, they found themselves proceeding along a frosty passage lit every few yards by a great chunk of diamond. Their dim glow seemed to be refracted from some central point beyond.
This point they soon reached--a great, vaulted chamber whose brilliance was at first dazzling.
Its source, after the first moment or so, was obvious. It was coming from the roof, which was one vast diamond.
"You see where we are?" whispered Stoddard. "Under the Diamond Thunderbolt! These people have tunneled beneath the meteor. Or else--"
"Their tunnel was already there, when the meteor fell," finished Professor Prescott. "But can it be possible such creatures could have produced that rocket?"
"I'm inclined to think anything is possible, now! But I'm sorry I dragged you into this, Professor. I--"
"Forget it! We're here and we'll face it together, whatever it is."
"You're a game sport!" Stoddard gripped the older man's hand. "We'll face it--and lick it!"
Further talk was interrupted by a stir among their captors. The ranks parted--and into that dazzling chamber stepped a tall, bearded personage whose aristocratic features and haughty bearing suggested a Russian of the old regime.
* * * * *
He strode toward them, smiling sardonically.
"Greetings, my friends! Nice of you to drop in on me while in the neighborhood." His English was suave, precise. "Professor Norman Prescott, leader of the American Kinchinjunga expedition, I believe." He paused and lifted inquiring eyebrows to his other guest. "And--?"
"Dr. John Stoddard, our geologist," came the answer stiffly. "And you, sir?"
"A fellow professor, you might say. Prince Ivan Krassnov. You have heard of me, perhaps?"
Prescott had indeed. One of Russia's most brilliant and erratic scientists under the czar, the man had been permitted to continue his work for the Soviets, developing among other inventions, a rocket reported to be capable of carrying passengers. But some two years ago he and his rocket had vanished in the course of a test flight from Moscow, and the natural conclusion was that he had either perished in the sea or shot off the earth altogether, since no trace of the unique mechanism was ever found.
"Yes, I have heard of you," said the professor, recalling this sensational story that had occupied the front pages of the world's press for days. "And so it turns out that your rocket didn't come to grief."
"Not exactly--though as you can see, it landed me in rather an inaccessible spot," was the reply. "But quite an interesting one! I was well satisfied to let the papers report me missing. You can understand,
yes?"
"I think I can, that part of it." While as for Stoddard, he was beginning to understand a great deal. "But these curious creatures?" he said, indicating the whispering, pigmy host that filled the cavern. "You found them here?"
* * * * *
"They found me, rather!" corrected the prince. "But we get on quite well together. They consider me a god, you see, since I, too, came out of the sky in a thunderbolt, as their great diamond once did, according to their legends."
"But who are they? What is their origin? Why are they so small, so pale?"
"Natural questions, Professor, but not so easy to answer. Who they are I cannot say, save that they are the snow people of native superstition. Their origin? It is lost in antiquity. Perhaps they are the remnants of some Tibetan tribe driven into the mountains by enemies, thousands of years ago. While as for their stature, their pallor--these no doubt are the result of the furtive underground life they lead."
He paused, waited politely, as though for further questions, but neither spoke. Now that the main mystery was solved, the one question uppermost in both their minds was what this suave, inscrutable nobleman was going to do with them--and that question neither cared to ask, fearful of what the answer might be.
* * * * *
Finally Prince Krassnov spoke again.
"What, gentlemen--you have no further curiosity about me? How unflattering! I thought perhaps you might want to know why I have chosen to maintain my headquarters here on Kinchinjunga, the past two years, and how I have been occupying my time. But I hold no resentment. I shall tell you, so that you will be prepared for what I am going to propose."
He turned and addressed the pigmy host in what must have been their own tongue. Then, facing his guests again, he said:
"Now, come. Let us retire to my private study, where we shall have more leisure."
They followed him from that dazzling chamber and proceeded on down the cavern to a fork that ended about twenty paces further in a massive steel-bound door.
There he paused and twirled a knob like the dial of a safe. After a moment there came a click, as of tumblers meshing, and a tug on the knob swung the door open.
The prince bowed.
"Step into my little apartment," he said.
They entered, to find themselves in a large oblong room furnished in Slavic luxury.
* * * * *
As they crossed a rich Oriental rug spread over the threshold, a musical gong sounded somewhere, and almost instantly two enormous Cossacks sprang into view, to bar their way with rifles.
"My bodyguard," apologized Krassnov, shutting the door. "They are quite harmless, except to intruders. Just one of the little precautions that make life safer."
He spoke to the men in Russian and they withdrew.
Then he advanced to a divan beside a teakwood table on which stood a large copper samovar. Dropping down, he motioned for them to take seats beside him.
"You will have tea, my friends? Or perhaps you would prefer whiskey and soda?"
They chose the latter, since their recent exertions seemed to have warranted it, and their host tinkled a silver bell, bringing a Chinese boy beaming and salaaming.
A few words to him and the samovar was lit; then he hurried off on padding feet, to return with miraculous speed, bearing not only the whiskey and soda but a platter heaped with exotic cakes, cubed sandwiches of caviar and spiced fish, together with a profusion of other delicacies--doubly welcome to men who had toiled all day on a mountain peak, with nothing but chocolate to sustain them.
And while they drank and ate, Prince Krassnov told his story--a story whose very first words were an admission that he was the head of the great diamond-smuggling plot Stoddard had set out to trace down.
* * * * *
It was a story as dramatic and romantic as it was unscrupulous.
Finding himself and the crew of the rocket marooned on the upper slopes of this mighty mountain, in the midst of an incalculable wealth, he had set about at once to capitalize their astounding discovery.
First he had made certain adjustments in the mechanism of his apparatus--which fortunately had not been injured by its forced landing--and then he had taken off with specimens of the treasure, bringing the craft down this time with precision in the midst of his ancestral estates near Baku, in the foothills of the Caucasus Mountains.
This vast property the Bolsheviks had not confiscated, partly because of its remoteness, no doubt, and partly because of the prince's services to the Soviet Republic. At any rate, it was here he had developed in secret the details of his amazing plot--a plot that had as its aim not only his own enrichment but the rehabilitation of all the Russian nobles.
Once they had heard his story of the Diamond Thunderbolt and seen the specimens he showed them, many had eagerly joined the plot, with the result that an international ring had been formed for disposal of the gems.
His plans perfected, Prince Krassnov had then returned to Kinchinjunga with his rocket, since when the mysterious flood of those perfect diamonds into the jewel markets of the world had begun.
"So you see, my friends," he smiled, "that is what you Americans would call my 'little game'--a game your chance discovery has rather jeopardized, you must admit."
Professor Prescott could well realize this, but at a glance from Stoddard he declined to admit it.
"A very ingenious game!" he said. "But where do the Lamas figure in this? Surely they must know of the presence of this meteor within their kingdom."
"No doubt they do," the prince conceded. "This is why they are so reluctant to have foreigners enter their domain. At one time, I am satisfied, they knew its exact location and drew many of their own gems from that source. But in recent times the snow people have guarded their secret well. The Lamas are as terrified of them as the natives--and with better reason!"
He did not mention what the reason was, but there was something ominous in his tone.
* * * * *
"But to get on with my story, friends. I am not telling you all this merely to satisfy your curiosity. I have what you call a motive in my madness!"
Madness was right, thought Stoddard. The man was dangerously, criminally mad.
"My motive is simply this," he went on. "You have chanced upon my little nest-egg, and consequently I have either to let you in on the deal or--"
Krassnov paused; shrugged.
"But why talk of anything unpleasant, when there is wealth enough here for all? What I propose, briefly, is that you join me."
They knew it was coming, but they winced, nevertheless.
"Oh, don't be premature!" he exclaimed, a little nettled. "Hear me out. What is good enough for me and my fellow nobles of Imperial Russia is surely good enough for poor, under-paid professors of democratic America. Listen, friends--I am generous. Join me and we will make millionaires out of all of you. Every professor in your country shall be a little czar. It will be, to use the old phrase, a triumph of the intellect."
Beyond a doubt, the man was mad; yet his madness was vast, dizzying. Though neither was tempted, they were both rendered speechless for a moment. It was like standing on a mountain top and being shown the countries and the glories of the world--like standing on the top of Kinchinjunga, thought Prescott.
"But you assume we are all Bolsheviks, like yourself, we professors," he said, struggling for calm words.
"Bolsheviks!" snorted the prince. "I spit on them! You think I, a nobleman, am interested in the masses? Cattle--swine! I plan only for the day when we who are worthy rule again, and this that I have told you is my plan. You can, as you Americans so coarsely say, either take it or leave it."
* * * * *
A tension hung in the air, as his words echoed into silence. The man had revealed himself.
"And suppose we leave it?" asked the professor, restraining his irritation as best he could. "What then?"
"Then I am afraid--ah--unpleasant consequences would result," was the bland answer. "Surely you realize
that I could not let you and young Dr. Stoddard rejoin your expedition with this story to report."
They realized it quite well.
"But suppose we agree not to report it?" said Professor Prescott.
"Not to doubt your honesty of intention," replied Krassnov sharply. "I would refuse to accept such an agreement."
"Then I see nothing else but to decline your kind proposal," said Stoddard, before the professor could formulate further words. "What do you propose to do--murder us?"
"Nothing so personal," said the prince, with his sardonic smile. "I shall merely turn you over to my little subjects. They no doubt will deal with you as your merits warrant."
Whereupon he pressed a button under that elaborate teakwood table. The musical gong they had heard before sounded again, and the prince's two Cossack retainers reappeared.
He addressed them briefly in Russian, adding to his guests:
"Adieu, friends! If you change your minds, you have only to speak. You will be understood, and I shall be gratified."
And without further words, they were led from that ornate apartment.
* * * * *
Taken back to the dazzling chamber under the meteor, they were turned over to the pigmies.
A powwow resulted, but it was brief. The two captives were bound fast in a curious ceremonial pit near the center of the room. Then the midget horde withdrew, leaving them alone there under that eery glow.
"Now what the devil will be the next step?" queried Stoddard, when the last of the pigmies had gone.
Professor Prescott considered for a moment, before replying.
"I don't think there will be any next step, except our cremation," he said at length.
"Cremation?" gasped his young friend. "What do you mean, cremation?"
Another pause, then:
"Just this. Don't you see where we are? Right under the Thunderbolt! Well?"
"Well what?"
"Simple enough, Jack." The professor's tone was grave. "When dawn comes, and the rising sun strikes that--"
"Good God!" Stoddard suddenly understood. "Why, we'll be cooked alive--frizzled!"
It was only too true. Even now, the pale rays of the moon, concentrated by the myriad facets of that monumental diamond, were beginning to focus on them a warmth that was uncomfortable. And by morning--!