by Ted Mark
"Then don't sneeze. What the hell's this all about, anyway? I thought we were going to plan an escape."
"We are. You see, in my right sinus cavity there is a small capsule which may make escape possible. But the only way to get it out is to sneeze."
"What's in the capsule?"
"Nitroglycerine."
"Then don't sneeze too hard," I advised. "As a matter of fact, if I were you, I wouldn't even sniffle. And," I added, "in my opinion, that's a pretty drastic cold cure even for a Chinese Red."
"It's not a cold cure. It's to enable me to commit suicide if I'm tortured. You see, the idea of a capsule of poison concealed in a tooth is too widely known to be effective any more. So my superiors devised this variation. Under pressure all I have to do is slap my forehead where the sinus passage is and my head will be blown apart. With luck, I might even take my inquisitor with me."
"But suppose you sneezed inadvertently?"
"It wouldn't necessarily set it off. Of course, it might, but when I do have to sneeze, I've trained myself to do it gently. I don't suffer from sinus trouble, so the passages are never so clogged as to present a very great hazard. However, right now the only way of extracting the capsule is if I can induce a series of sneezes."
"Sneeze away," I told him. I backed away to the far corner of the room. Why take a chance on germs? I figured. Or on nitro?
The Chinese knelt down, scooped up sonic dust in his hand, stuck his nose in the palm and sniffed mightily. "Ah-choo!" – which is a Chinese sneeze in any language.
I lowered my hands from in front of my face. "Is it out?" I asked.
"Not yet." He sniffed again, sneezed again, and made a wild dive to catch the flying capsule before it could hit the floor. I was flat on my belly before I realized he'd made the catch.
"Gezundheit!" I said fervently, getting to my feet. "What next?"
"We wait until the guards open the door to bring us a meal."
"Why wait? Why don't we just blow the door open ourselves right now?"
"I can't be sure the charge will be powerful enough to do that. It is, after all, only a very small amount. But if we time it right, it should blast the guards off their feet and we'll be able to overcome them before they recover their wits."
"And what then? Suppose we do get out of here? Suppose we even succeed in getting above ground? If they don't catch us, we'll only freeze to death out there, anyway."
"Don't be so negative," he told me. "We'll just have to try to steal a sled and supplies and make it back to civilization. Unless you have a better idea."
I had to admit I didn't. But it still seemed like suicide to me to attempt to brave the Arctic on our own. We hadn't the knowho'w to survive in such an environment. I guessed that he didn't have it from the fact that the three men with him when he'd disembarked from the ship must have perished in the storm. He was right, though. There was nothing else to do but try it.
It was about an hour before the guards arrived. There were two of them. One entered carrying a tray of food. The other stood beside him, leveling a sub-machine gun at us.
But before he had a chance to use it, the Chinese lobbed the capsule of nitro to the floor at their feet. The blast knocked them both backwards on their keisters. The Chinese and I dived on top of them. I came up with the sub-machine gun. The Chinese took the pistol from the holster worn by the other guard. They were still dazed, and he saw to it that they stayed that way. He clubbed each of them over the head with the gun butt, and then motioned for me to follow him down the passage.
The first guard we hit was when we reached the entrance to Highman's office. We hit him hard – or rather, the Chinese did. He shot him through the heart before the man could even raise the rifle he was holding.
The Chinese was as curious about Highman's office as I was. We rifled it together. He was looking for information, but he didn't find any. I was looking for something else, and I did. I found the jewelled phallus and hefted it under one arm. If I got out of this alive, I didn't see any reason why I shouldn't return it to Singh Huy-eva. I owed him a favor.
The Chinese raised his eyebrows and made a crack about "materialistic Americans." I let it pass. This was no time for dialectics. We still had to make it to the elevator.
There was another guard waiting when we reached it. He never saw us. The Chinese shot him in the back. A few moments later we got off the lift, on the surface once again.
There was a large stack of crates piled up beside the entrance to the elevator shaft. Each of them bore the same warning: DYNAMITE-CAUTION! The Chinese looked at them, and then around at the circle of igloos. He stopped his slow turning and pointed.
I looked beyond the fringe of igloos to where he was pointing. There was a small, single-engined cabin plane sitting on the flat ice-field there. "I don't know how to fly a plane," I told the Chinese.
"I do," he assured me. "But first let us take care of S.M.U.T."
I followed his lead, and we loaded up the elevator platform with the dynamite. Then he attached a long fuse and lit it. We lowered the elevator and sprinted for the plane. Just as we reached it, the explosion went off.
I tossed the phallus in the plane and turned around for a moment to see the results of the blast. Icicles were still flying around, and the area where the S.M.U.T. underground HQ had been was thick with smoke. The igloos around the perimeter seemed to be caving in, melting before my very eyes. And the ice in the center of the circle was splitting and shifting downward, caving in on what was left of the underground complex. The Eskimos had bolted from their igloos and were putting distance between themselves and the site of the blast.
The Chinese was already in the pilot's seat, revving up the engine of the plane. I started to climb aboard, and found myself looking into the barrel of his pistol. There was a nasty smile on his face. He motioned me to pass him the sub-machine gun I'd slung over my shoulder, and I did. Then he waved his gun at me to back off. I backed off. I saw his finger start to tighten on the trigger, and I dived under the plane. He'd only been waiting until I was clear of it to shoot.
But he didn't waste time chasing me. I guess he figured it was just as good to leave me there to freeze to death. So he gunned the motor and skimmed down the field for a take-off.
The plane had skis in place of wheels for landing gear. What the Chinese didn't know was that I was balancing on one of those skis as he took to the air. I began climbing up the strut supporting it as he leveled off.
It was touch and go, but I managed to pull myself to the top of the fuselage. I inched along it until I was just over the cabin. I grabbed the wing with both hands and swung sideways into the cabin, feet first, breaking the window and slamming into the face of the Chinese with the heels of my boots.
He was fast. I'll say that for him. He rolled with the kick, let go of the controls, and came up with the sub-machine gun from the seat beside him. I slammed the barrel with my arm just as he fired. He blew off the top of his own head. It splattered messily over the ceiling of the cabin.
Now I was in a fine mess. I was umpteen thousand feet up in mid-air and I had no more idea of how to fly a plane than the man in the moon. I hadn't meant for the Chinese to die. I'd just wanted to get the drop on him and force him to fly me to something approximating civilization. But he was dead now, and there was no sense crying over spilled won-ton soup.
I pushed his body out of the plane and sat down in the pilot's seat. The controls meant nothing to me. So far the plane seemed to be flying itself. Seemed to be? It was flying itself!
Then I spotted the radio. I may not know anything about planes, but I do know how to work a radio. When I was a kid, I had a ham set. Me and Barry Goldwater. Except that he knows how to fly a plane.
I turned the radio on for an all-stations alert. I picked up the hand mike and cleared my throat. "May Day!" I hollered. "May Day! May Day!" I wasn't sure what it meant, but it was what they always yelled when they were in trouble in all those old war movies I'd seen on the Late
Show. "May Day! May Day!" I caught a sudden reflection of myself in the glass covering the instrument panel. It was a surprise to see my face and not Jimmy Cagney's. "May Day! May Day!" Oh, Pat O'Brien, do you read me? I thought irrelevantly. I switched over and a voice sounded in my earphones.
"This is the United States Weather Station in Greenland," it said. "Identify yourself. Identify yourself."
"Steve Victor," I told him.
"Identify your craft."
"It's an airplane."
"Identify your craft," the voice repeated.
"That's all I know about it," I told him. "This is an emergency."
"What is the nature of the emergency? What is the nature of the emergency? What is the nature of the emergency?"
Just my luck to get a redundant radio operator at a time like this. Or maybe he just stuttered. "The nature of the emergency is that I don't know how to fly a plane," I told him.
"Are you in the air? Are you in the air?"
"Yes. Yes."
"How did you get there if you can't fly? How did you-"
"It's a long story," I interrupted. "The fact is that I'm here and I don't know how to fly this thing."
There was a long pause. Then – "We have advised Air Traffic Control of your predicament," the voice said. "We are cutting you in on their frequency. We are turning you over to Air Traffic Control now."
"Hello," a new voice said. "This is Air Traffic Control. We have been advised of your May Day. What is your altitude?"
I looked at the instrument panel. "Two-fifty," I told them.
"That is your speed. Look at the dial on your extreme left. What is your altimeter reading?"
"Thirty gallons."
"That is your fuel gauge." The voice sounded disgusted. "What we want is the reading on the gauge beside it."
"Oh. Eight thousand."
"Good. Maintain that altitude."
"How?"
"We do not read your last transmission."
"How do I maintain that altitude? I mean, doesn't this plane have to come down sooner or later?"
"Roger. We understand your predicament. Do not touch any of your instruments. Repeat. Do not touch any of your instruments. Now, reply to this. Reply to this. What is your destination?"
"Anywhere!" I said fervently. "Anywhere I can put my feet on the ground."
"We have picked you up on our radar and must advise that you are over Russian territory. Repeat, you are over Russian territory. The United States government takes no responsibility for your unauthorized flight. This message is being broadcast over all frequencies now. The United States government takes no responsibility for unauthorized flight over Russian territory."
"Well, how do I get away from Russian territory?" I wailed.
"Your current course on our radar will take you deeper into Russia. If your fuel holds out, you may make it to the Chinese border if you continue on that course. But must warn you that Russians will undoubtedly fire on your unidentified flying object before you reach China. Also, the Chinese will fire if-"
"Hold it!" I shouted into the mike. "I can't hear you. There's some kind of an explosion outside the plane." I craned my head out the window. There were small puffs of black smoke all around me. I knew what they were. I smiled a Cagney smile and said the word to myself out loud: "Flak!"
The mike was still on, and it picked up the sound.
"Are you being fired upon?" the voice in my earphones asked.
"Yes."
"The United States government takes no responsibility for unauthorized flights over Soviet territory."
"Whose side are you on?" I asked. "Can't you tell me how to turn this crate around and get the hell out of here?"
"Turn your wheel until the reading on your compass shows thirty-five degrees. That will take you out of Russian territory and back toward Greenland."
I did as he said. A few moments later I was out of the flak-storm. After that, it was duck soup. They just told me what to do and I did it. I followed their radar beam straight to Greenland.
"Stand by for landing instructions," I was told. "All air traffic has been cleared for May Day landing. Now press your throttle forward so that the plane will lose altitude."
I did as he said and left my stomach somewhere up in the clouds. "I'm diving!" I shrieked.
"Pull back on your throttle. Do not panic. Do not panic."
"Who's panicking? It's just that I forgot to buy an insurance policy before I took off."
"Now, we are going to start you on a glide path. But before we do, keep in mind that your wheels and tail should touch ground at the same time so that you don't nose over."
"I don't have any wheels!" I remembered.
"Last transmission not understood. Repeat last transmission."
"I don't have any wheels. There's skis on this plane."
"Oy!"
"Can you talk him down, Irving?" I heard a new voice ask.
"I don't know how to ski," the first voice, Irving's, replied.
"Well, do your best."
"Yes!" I echoed. "Do your best. My bones break easy."
"Very well. Start your glide-path. Now, lower your flaps."
"What?"
"Your flaps! Lower them!"
"I wear jockey shorts. I can't-"
"The lever beside your knee. Pull it!" I pulled it.
"Now pull back on your wheel so that you're level… That's it… Up on the nose a little so you can skid right in and – Look out! You're heading right for this transmission tower! Look out! Look -!"
I shielded my face against the crash. The impact of it hurled me from the plane. I landed right in the lap of a guy sitting in front of a large radio and radar setup.
"I told you to look out," he said disgustedly. "Now look what you've done. You wrecked the control tower."
"Sorry, Irving." I'd recognized his voice. "I'll try to see that it never happens again." My eyes lit on an object which had been hurled out of the wreckage along with me. I hurried to retrieve the four-foot bejeweled phallus.
"What's that?" Irving asked.
"What does it look like?"
"What happened to the rest of it?" Irving peered into the wreckage with worried eyes.
"There is no rest. This is all there is. And it isn't even scratched. That's what I call luck," I enthused.
"What are you going to do with it?" Irving asked.
"What do you think?"
"I don't know." He edged away. "Nothing would surprise me. Not after today. Now, you may not believe this," he added as he paused in the doorway before taking flight, "but this is the first time a man with a four-foot long golden dingus has ever crashed a plane into my conning tower!"
I hadn't time to chase after him and explain. I hustled over to the office of the man in charge and persuaded him to let me put in a call to Putnam in London. Putnam put the wheels in motion fast. I was saved from explanations and investigations. He arranged for a plane to fly me to New York immediately.
Just before take-off I spotted Irving walking across the airstrip. A voice called out to him as he passed the hangars. "Hey, Irv, coming to the New Year's Eve party tonight?"
"No," Irving replied.
"Why not?"
"It would be anti-climactic," Irving told him.
I chuckled to myself, hefted the phallus, and climbed aboard the plane. It was quite different from my last flight. It was good to be a passenger again and leave the driving to somebody else.
It was New Year's Day when I landed in New York. Putnam had arranged a room for me at a motel adjacent to the airport, and I went straight to it. I slept for twelve hours straight. The phone ringing beside my bed woke me. It was the room clerk. I had a visitor – "a friend of Mr. Putnam's."
I told the clerk to send him up to the room. A few moments later I was shaking hands with Singh Huy-eva. "I understand you have something for me," he said when the greetings were over.
"That I do." I opened the suitcase and produced the jeweled phallus with
a flourish. "Gonads and all," I told him.
"Now my quest is over," Singh said. "But my instructions are to continue to help you if I can."
"I think you can," I told him. "Has S.M.U.T. discovered you're a spy yet?"
"No. Crampdick seems to believe I'm as legitimate as ever. He's back from Toronto now. I don't know why he was recalled. But I suspect something's up."
"Something is," I assured him. "Do you know if that blonde chick from the brothel is back, too?"
"Yes. I saw her up at the S.M.U.T. offices only yesterday." He looked at me curiously. "Don't tell me that she's-"
"Dr. Nyet. Right. Do you think you can find out where she's staying?"
"I can try. I'll get on it right away. I'll call you back when I have anything."
Singh left then. There was nothing for me to do but wait. I waited. Another day went by before he contacted me.
"I followed the young lady," he said over the phone. "She's staying at one of the S.M.U.T. branch offices in Forest Hills. People by the name of-"
"Highman." I finished the sentence for him.
"That's right. But how-?"
"Never mind that. Can you meet me over there right away?"
"As quickly as possible. But I'm afraid that won't be very quickly. Traffic's jammed up all over the city."
When the cab I'd called pulled onto Queens Boulevard, I saw that Singh hadn't been exaggerating. The transit strike had traffic tied up for miles. It was ridiculous in the direction I was going, and it was absolutely impossible coming from the other way. It was the evening rush hour, and cars coming from the city were averaging about a yard a minute.
We were doing a little better, but not much. Finally I couldn't take it any longer, and I got out and walked. I trudged some twenty blocks before I came to Highman's apartment house. Considering the transit mess, I figured it might be hours before Singh got there. I was just about to go it alone when my figuring was proved wrong.
Singh came pedaling up on a bicycle, his face quite composed under his white turban. "It's the only way to travel," he told me as he parked the bike.
"You are truly a unique eunuch." I grinned at him fondly. "Come on. The lion's den awaits."