by Lin Carter
The Irishman fiercely resented their jokes on this topic. Privately, he considered himself a born driver: to his way of thinking, all of the automobiles in the world were leagued together in a secret mechanical conspiracy to make him look like a half-blind fumble-fingers whenever he got behind the wheel of one of them. It was, therefore, Scorchy’s way to insist on driving a car at every possible opportunity — to the considerable endangerment of any pedestrians in the neighborhood, and to the detriment of every traffic regulation ever devised by the city fathers in all their wisdom. The pint-sized prize-fighter figured stubbornly that it was only a matter of time before the automobiles of the world relented in their plot to make him look bad. This had yet to occur.
Entering the Skyrocket, the Omega men chose seats in the rear while Ace went forward into the cabin. A few moments later the jet engines, which powered the craft during takeoff and landing, woke to coughing life. The sleek fuselage pointed down the illuminated runway; the fabric quivered to the throbbing impulse of the engines; slowly, at first, then with increasing speed, the experimental craft hurtled down the lane of lights and lifted gently into the sky. The brightly-lit field vanished below. The plane ascended until it had reached the height of thirty-seven thousand feet, at which altitude it leveled off.
Then the mighty rocket engines awoke. These tubes thrust from the tail assembly of the aircraft and could generate a truly fantastic velocity, far surpassing that of a conventional jet. Using a special hyper-condensed fuel of Zarkon’s own formula, the rockets could drive the big bird around the world and back without refueling. It would take them to the central Pacific in a little over six hours.
CHAPTER 4 — Damsel in Distress
Just before Tommy Kahua had met his grisly end under the burning paws of the fire devil, he had glimpsed from his vantage-point at the crest of the volcanic mountain the arrival of a motor launch bearing a young woman. He was destined never to learn who she was, nor her role in the sequence of uncanny events which had its beginning in his death.
Had he looked a bit farther out to sea, however, he would have been able to recognize the trim white hull of a luxurious yacht moored at anchor off the reef. This was the yacht Phoenicia, out of Honolulu and San Francisco; it belonged to the young lady with the long slim legs and long bright hair and dainty lilac frock whom he had seen getting out of the launch.
As it happened, Miss Phoenicia Mulligan had never before visited the island of Rangatoa, and might not be doing so now had it not been that six months had passed since she had last seen her fiancé. When you are young and in love, to be separated for six months is like being apart for six years. And since it seemed likely that her boy-friend would be remaining on the island for another six months, if his infrequent letters were any indication, the impatient young lady had decided to seize the bull by the horns and visit him.
When she got out of the launch and onto the wooden dock, the citizens of the little village of Tarapaho were too excited over the mysterious tragedy that had befallen poor Tommy Kahua to pay much attention to their visitor. The two sailors who had driven the launch ashore were thus obliged to carry her bags to the foot of the main (and only) street of Tarapaho while she followed, looking plaintively around for someone to direct her to the man she had come so far to meet.
Most of the menfolk of the tribe had gone up the mountain to find and bring back the body of Tommy Kahua. Only the women and children were left. Many of the younger women of Tarapaho eyed the expensive gown and fashionably coiffed blond hair of Miss Phoenicia Mulligan with interest bordering on fascination. She, in turn, looked them over with curious eves. Most of them were slim and willowy, with dark flashing eves, full lips, and long rippling black hair. They were, most of them, knockouts: the sort of girls who could easily have caused a traffic jam back in San Francisco.
Now, as it happened, Phoenicia Mulligan herself had caused more than a few traffic jams on Market Street. Which goes to suggest that the blond girl was something of a contender in the knockout class, too. This was undeniably so. In fact, several score of the more eligible and handsome bachelors in San Francisco and Honolulu society, if queried on the subject, would gladly have filed affidavits to that effect, Miss Phoenicia Mulligan was a four-alarm whang- doozle, even when stacked against the dark-eyed maidens of Rangatoa.
But there is just no accounting for taste. And it had, in fact, occurred on more than one occasion to Phoenicia Mulligan that the reason for her boy-friend’s extended stay on the island might be centered in one such sarong-clad bit of femininity. Just in case this was the case, Phoenicia had deliberately failed-to apprise her fiancé of her impending arrival on the island. Hence, she had only herself to blame that the young man was not now waiting at the foot of the dock to greet her.
When the men of the village came trooping back with the body of Tommy Kahua, the duties of island hospitality took precedence over the formalities. Señor Valdez, as the foremost citizen of the little settlement, hastened to pay his respects to the blond heiress, whom he recognized as the niece and ward of Braxton T. Crawley, head of the firm of Pacific Mining & Minerals. Señor Valdez had never met nor even seen Miss Mulligan before, but her name and picture very frequently adorned the social columns of the Honolulu newspaper to which he subscribed.
“How do you do, Señor Valdez.” The girl smiled. “I’m here to visit the PM and M survey engineer, my fiancé, Mr. John James Jones —”
The store-owner wrinkled his high brow at this unfamiliar name. But then his expression cleared. “Of course!” he exclaimed with a smile. “The señorita has reference to the young gentleman we of the island know as ‘the Yankee.’ But it is to be regretted, the young man is not here. Indeed, we have seen nothing of him for some weeks now.”
“But I thought John was staying here,” Phoenicia protested.
“Here on the island, yes,” nodded Señor Valdez. “But not here in the village. The young man has a place on the other side of the island, on the edge of the swamp —”
“A house, you mean?”
Señor Valdez shrugged in a deprecating manner. “A — what is the word? — a shack, really. Once, perhaps twice in a month he will come to my small establishment for the purchase of canned foods and coffee and other necessities. But, as I say, we have not had the pleasure of a visit from the gentleman now for some weeks....”
Phoenicia Mulligan had observed the corpse of Tommy Kahua as it was carried into his hut, and she had heard and understood just enough of the excited babble of questions, answers, and exclamations which the excited villagers had voiced, to realize something of the enigma of the young man’s death. She was conscious now of a vague prickle of fear and worry and concern.
“Could anything have ... happened to John?” she asked perturbedly.
Señor Valdez chewed his lip uncertainly. An hour before, he would have given his oath that nothing existed on the island of Rangatoa that was likely to bring a strong, alert, intelligent young man who took reasonably sensible precautions, to a bad end. But Tommy Kahua had been an able young man, certainly smart and athletic enough to take care of himself. So now he could not be as positive as earlier he would have been.
“The señorita will, I feel certain, understand that we must see to the burying of our unfortunate friend; also, the police must be consulted in the matter. Indeed, I have but even now sent a radio message to the mainland, begging assistance from the one man clever and altruistic enough to not only come to our assistance in combating this terrible thing, but in solving the mystery. Hence, we shall be very busy with many things to do. However, I will myself at once dispatch one of my people to the residence of Señor Jones, not only to ascertain the fact of his safety, but to inform him of the delightful surprise of your arrival.”
“That is very thoughtful of you,” smiled Phoenicia.
“Pray do not mention it! It will be my pleasure. And also I wish to offer the señorita such small comforts as my poor establishment may afford, while you are waiting f
or the arrival of your intended husband.”
Phoenicia indicated that he was very kind. Señor Valdez ordered the young men standing about to escort the señorita to his store and to see that her luggage was disposed according to her wishes. Then he summoned a cheerfully grinning, healthy-looking native boy and sent him into the jungle to the shack where the young geologist was stationed, bidding him waste no time along the way. Then he himself followed the blond girl and the boys who carried her luggage, entered the trading post, and ordered the fat, smiling native woman who cooked and cleaned for him to see to the comfort of their visitor, and to serve tea at the earliest opportunity.
“I did not understand that the Yankee — I mean, Señor Jones — was employed by your uncle’s firm,” he said later as they had tea on the veranda. “It was my understanding that Señor Jones was conducting a survey on his own recognizance, as it were.”
Phoenicia smiled and brushed back a lock of blond hair.
“That’s about the way things are, Señor Valdez,” the girl explained. “I’m afraid that Uncle Braxton took a dislike to Johnny, for some reason. He called him a ‘fortune hunter,’ and claimed he was only after me for my money. Fooey on him, the interfering old busybody! Johnny quit the survey team in a huff. He started his own one-man company, and has been going about the islands hoping to make a big find on his own — something that would make him, well, independent, if not exactly rich. Then he planned to come back, beard Uncle Braxton in the lion’s den, so to speak, and carry me off in triumph, more or less — having proved he could make his own fortune, instead of marrying me for mine.”
Señor Valdez smiled politely and murmured a vague response. It all sounded rather impossibly romantic to him, although he was too much of a gentleman to say so. His own people, he thought, had much more sensible ways of handling such matters. A suitable young man was chosen by the bride’s family, and that was that. Money arrangements were settled beforehand, and love, you might say, came later. This seemed to Señor Valdez a most civilized arrangement, far superior to the reckless ways of other races when dealing with such matters.
With nightfall no word had yet come from Mr. John James Jones, nor had the native boy returned with any message. Instead, a contingent of police had arrived from Mantilla in a large motorboat to examine the body of the slain boy and to investigate his murder. Señor Valdez was busy with them, and perforce left Phoenicia more or less to herself.
The girl was beginning to get restless. She had dispatched the motor-launch back to her yacht to fetch more sensible clothes, including waterproof boots for the swampy jungle, and also a gunbelt which contained a loaded revolver and several clips of ammunition. The girl was a crack shot with any variety of firearm, and had taken the ladies’ marksmanship medal of the San Francisco Gun Club three years in a row. When her clothes arrived, Phoenicia retired into the guest-room which Señor Valdez had graciously placed at her disposal and swiftly changed into the whipcord breeches, boots, and shirt, and safari jacket her men had brought from the yacht.
All this talk about mysterious monsters and uncanny murders had gotten her dander up. Unlike most beautiful young heiresses, Phoenicia Mulligan was no pampered darling of the country club set, but an enterprising young woman with a passion for excitement, a love of adventure, a knack for getting into trouble, and the cool head, steady hand, and intestinal fortitude required for getting out of it in one piece. She had hunted lions in the Sahara, scuba-dived for Spanish treasure in the Caribbean, and searched for Mayan ruins in the fever-swamps and viper-infested jungles of Yucatan.
With all that experience, she was not going to just sit here sipping tea on the veranda, while her fiancé was in danger — or missing — or both!
The police from Luzon were thorough and efficient, but could not explain anything. At Señor Valdez’ insistence, they climbed to the peak of the mountain and examined the scene of the crime, but found nothing. The blackened footprints of the fire devil, which had still been smoldering when the islanders had reached the site, had continued to smolder until by now they were mere shapeless and blackened patches of scorched grass. The police doctor, who examined the body, could not say for certain that what had seared poor Tommy Kahua to death had been a hand, or even a paw. Privately, he thought the island boy had strayed too close to the lip of the crater for safety, and had burned himself by accident. As for the so-called “footprints,” these were dismissed as simply burnt patches of grass, set afire by drifting sparks or flying cinders. Winding up their cursory investigation, the police put the island boy’s demise down to death by misadventure, turned his body over to the villagers for burial, returned to their motorboat, and sailed off for the main island.
Señor Valdez shook his head grimly. What more could you expect from the authorities, he thought to himself. Mantilla was a big city. The Mantilla police were accustomed to dealing with the familiar spectrum of urban crimes — car theft, drunken driving, robbery, armed assault. What could they be expected to know of island legends or fire devils?
Night fell. Tommy Kahua was buried in the village plot, with all his friends in attendance. The moon came up, spreading the black sea with liquid silver and frosting the edges of the palms.
And still no word had come as to the whereabouts of John James Jones.
Señor Valdez crossed himself apprehensively, and dispatched another boy around the island to the little swamp-edge shack where the young American geologist lived alone. Before long the second boy returned with frightful news. The shack was deserted and the Yankee was gone. And, what was worse, much worse, the first messenger had been found. He was sprawled face down on the side of the mountain, dead from a terrible burn like the mark of a gigantic paw, hot as liquid fire.
Miss Phoenicia Mulligan was terribly upset. She instantly demanded of Señor Valdez that a full-scale search be organized for the missing geologist. Señor Valdez, harried and concerned, protested that they could hardly find anything in the jungle by night, and much less in the swamps, which were tricky enough to negotiate by day. With dawn, he vowed, half the male population of Tarapaho would be out searching for the Yankee.
That was not good enough for Phoenicia Mulligan, although she said nothing and pretended to be satisfied. She knew that the islanders were frightened, their superstitious fears aroused by the mysterious deaths. But she didn’t intend to just sit around all night, waiting for day. Not when the young man she intended to marry was lost or injured or in horrible danger.
Returning to her room, Phoenicia closed and latched the door. Then she climbed out of the window and threaded her way through the plowed fields near the trading post and vanished into the darkness.
It would consume valuable time to circle the perimeter of the island by the safe, sane, and sensible route followed by the two island boys Señor Valdez had sent. A much quicker shortcut would be to climb the mountain, which rose directly behind the trading post, and descend on the other side. There, at the foot of the volcano, she could easily find the shack where John James Jones had been living. Señor Valdez had described its location very precisely. And the tropic moonlight was almost as bright as day. Phoenicia was a plucky girl, capable and determined, and she had climbed mountains before. She didn’t think there would be any trouble about climbing this one.
Nor was there, until she had reached the top.
It had been somewhere around here, she knew, that the island boy, Tommy Kahua, had been burned to death by the fiery hands of the mysterious monster. Clenching her revolver and tightening her jaw stubbornly, the blond girl gingerly circled the lip of the crater and started down the other side.
It was hard to see the way. Steam and sulfurous smoke rose from the top of the volcano, and the stiff breeze blowing in from the sea sent these vapors into her eyes, stinging them and blurring her vision with tears.
Then she glimpsed something coming at her through the smoke —
Phoenicia stared unbelievingly at the lumbering thing, which dripped rivulets of mol
ten lava.
Then she lifted her revolver, took quick aim, and fired at it. Again and again she pumped steel-jacketed lead into the flaming ogre, until the revolver was empty.
And then she began to scream.
CHAPTER 5 — Fat Man with Mustache
Once the Skyrocket had attained its cruising altitude, thirty-seven thousand feet, the experimental craft leveled off. The conventional motors died: the rocket-tubes in the tail assembly coughed into life. A bolt of thundering flame speared from the tubes, thrusting the rocket-plane ahead with terrific velocity. Maintaining its present height of some seven miles above the earth, the Skyrocket would travel halfway around the world in a matter of mere hours.
In the heated, sound-proof, heavily-insulated cabin, Zarkon and his lieutenants got down to work. As a rule, before they actually got into one of their adventures the Omega men tried to gather all the information they could assemble which seemed to have a bearing on the present business at hand.
The cabin of the Skyrocket was not only comfortable to the point of luxury, but it was fully equipped with radiophones. In rear compartments, ingeniously miniaturized compartments held workshops, chemical and biological laboratories, a fully-equipped darkroom, an arsenal of sophisticated weapons, and even a complete medical lab and operating room.