One salient fact thrust itself above all others. Prebble had to be stopped—and I was the only one who knew it!
I looked at Nick Rozelli with, I daresay, something very like desperation on my face.
“Nick,” I said, “it is imperative that I scram out of here! Pronto! Prebble must be snagged—and that, at once.”
Somewhat furtively Nick glanced around. We were seated in a comer of the larger portion of the hall, and there was no one within twenty feet of us.
“Okay, Pop,” he said, his lips barely moving. “I’ll fix it. I got a hack-saw blade sewed up in my belt—figured I might have to break outa this joint if things slipped up outside. But everything’s fixed, and I won’t be needin’ it. Leave it to Nicholas, Pop. We’ll spring you tonight.”
I DON’T suppose the details of my escape would interest you, Higgsby—although on second thought, there is always a possibility that some day you might find yourself in similar circumstances, and the knowledge would prove useful . . .
You don’t think so? Then I shall merely say that with Nick’s invaluable guidance, a suit of his clothes to replace institution garb, and the aid of the saw blade and two bed sheets, I left that accursed place behind me. How I clambered over the stone wall in the darkness—oh, yes, Higgsby, I am quite agile for one of my years—how I pilfered an imprudently unlocked automobile, a regrettable but necessary expedient, though interesting to me, would doubtless bore you.
So I shall merely remark that by devious ways and various means I finally found myself heading toward Clearwater. Toward dear old Bluegill—and toward that vile creature, that menace to the peace of the world—Marcus Aurelius Prebble!
I shall never forget, Higgsby, the tide of emotion which swept over me when again I caught sight of the ivy-covered walls of my beloved alma mater. Fervently I wished for my luxuriant whiskers to hide my quivering lips from the prying eyes of the night. And fervidly I cursed the fools who had deprived me of my hirsute adornment—and with even greater fervor cursed Prebble who was responsible for everything.
Enroute to Clearwater, I had decided upon a course of action. I knew Bluegill as I knew the palm of my hand; and I knew exactly where Prebble would be at that particular moment. Quietly but without undue stealth I made my way beneath familiar old elms to the east wing of the dormitories. The main door, as I knew, was never locked—we maintain an honor system at Bluegill—and I entered the building without difficulty.
In retrospect, now, I can see myself creeping like an avenging angel through the silent, dimly illuminated corridor toward Prebble’s room. I recall feeling a sense of, shall I say, exaltation as I turned the knob and slipped into his bed chamber—as one might feel upon whom rests the fate of the world.
Indeed it did actually rest solidly upon my shoulders.
Prebble was snoring lustily, but the raucous sound ended in a choking gurgle as my fingers closed about his throat. I imagine he must have been somewhat startled to be awakened thus rudely from sound sleep, but that, unfortunately, was unavoidable, for I could not permit a chance outcry. His fat neck squirmed within my grasp, and I heard his body thrashing about on the bed.
“Prebble!” I hissed. I know, Higgsby, that the term is usually reserved for cheap fiction, but I really did hiss. “Prebble, this is Dinwiddie. You have come to the end of your trail. A Dinwiddie always pays his debts!” Which was, I should say, a quite effective little speech.
He did not reply, doubtless because he could not, for I continued squeezing with undiminished pressure.
Abruptly he collapsed like, I should say, a sudden deflated balloon. I held him for an additional moment or two to be certain that he was attempting no subtle ruse. Then, assuring myself that the shades were drawn and the door locked, I pressed the light switch.
Prebble lay sprawled upon his bed in his flannel night shirt, unconscious, and breathing quite stertorously. Moving with a speed and precision which surprised even me, I bound him securely with cord I had discovered in the automobile, and gagged him with the bed clothes. Then I began a systematic search of his clothing for something I knew he always carried, and finally found what I sought—a jackknife. I approached Prebble . . . what, Higgsby?
YES, of course, that was the source of the blood . . . Oh, my dear Higgsby, don’t be absurd! I didn’t kill him! Nothing like that entered my mind.
I merely severed his hands at the wrists! You see, I reasoned that, minus those very necessary members, he would be helpless to continue his experiments! It was during the—operation that I had to rid myself of my coat and vest, for they became somewhat soiled.
Afterward I made my way to his laboratory and smashed a remarkable looking apparatus, a device whose intricate construction quite baffled me—
Higgsby—stay away from that ’phone! Stop, I say! This—this gat, as Rozelli would call it, is loaded! . . . now, wrench out that wire . . . quick! . . . And give me your coat and vest. They will be too large, I fear, but under the circumstances they must suffice . . . now, either that closet . . . excellent . . .
I regret that this is necessary, Higgsby, but you’ve been so unreceptive that I am compelled to seek other counsel. I’ll be seeing you on the hot seat, as Rozelli would say . . .
Oh, my poor head!
1944
GOD OF LIGHT
The Weird Menace of an Unearthly Visitor Plagues Jim Murray and Valaire Buchanan in the Brazilian Jungle!
LOWERING his machete, big Jim Murray stared through narrowed “ eyelids into the thicket before him. A delicate violet mist pervaded the jungle, transforming the hazy, gray-green shadow world into something alien and unearthly. He turned his gaze upward—and through a momentary rift in the leafy roof of the jungle he caught a glimpse of the Sky. It was a clear violet.
Murray grinned wryly. It was not enough that he had had to forsake the comparative coolness of the Recreio Popular back in Remate de Males to hack his way through this Brazilian jungle. Now he had to run into this. And all because of a blonde!
Narrowly he glanced toward the figure at his elbow, and his eyes glinted with involuntary approval. She was not as immaculate as she had been when they left the bank of the Javary River two hours before, but she was still easy on the eyes. He noted with perverse satisfaction that her white sport shirt and olive drab breeches were beginning to show the effects of the jungle journey. Little wonder, for despite the stifling heat, her machete rose and fell with a rhythmic regularity.
As though aware of his scrutiny, Valaire Buchanan turned abruptly, her hazel eyes meeting his gray ones with disconcerting steadiness.
“Looks as though the natives knew what they were talking about,” Murray said, “when they told us this country was taboo.” He gestured toward the violet-cloaked jungle before them. “This whole set-up’s crazy. First the sky turns purple—then radio transmission and reception fails in half of Brazil—and now even the air in the jungle is turning violet!”
Valaire Buchanan barely glanced in the direction he indicated and then spoke in quiet tones.
“I knew we’d find this,” she said. “And it’s only the beginning. Yesterday I flew over the ‘Diamond Queen.’ I’ve done it before, just to see Dad’s mine from the air—and knowing that he was going to visit the property today to check on the reason for the lack of diamond shipments and reports during the last two weeks, I decided to look things over.” She inhaled deeply, and a look of fear flashed into her eyes. Momentarily fright broke through her self-control.
“There is no ‘Diamond Queen’ !” she exclaimed.
SHE paused. Anxiety and concern settled upon her lovely face. Murray waited without interruption. Her next words came suddenly in a rush.
“I didn’t see much,” she said. “But where the mine had been I saw a tremendous circular pit, and out of the pit rose clouds of purple mist—mist that seemed to stain the sky above it. I caught a glimpse of some gigantic glowing thing at the bottom of the pit as I circled over it. Then something—perhaps the mist—seemed
—” she groped for words—“seemed to wrap itself around my brain—luring me—drawing me. It was horrible! I had to fight to keep from sending the plane into a dive down into that pit!”
“If the impulse was so strong,” asked Murray, “how did you manage to overcome it?”
“I can’t explain it,” said the girl. “Somehow I tore free of the awful temptation and flew back to the field at Rio. I didn’t know what to do. To fly to Remate de Males was impossible, for there’s no landing field nearby. I tried ’phoning to Dad and couldn’t get a call through. Radio communication was dead, so my best hope was to try and reach him myself. I missed him by hours . . . But—he must be stopped!”
Murray nodded grimly.
“That’s where I fit into the picture,” he said. “This short-cut through the bush should do the trick. Lucky I was waiting around to see your father. Too bad you couldn’t hire a few brown boys, though, instead of a freelance mining engineer hunting a job. You’d be moving faster now. Personally I’m glad the natives turned out to be so superstitious. This promises to be mighty interesting.”
He turned and his powerful arms swung his machete into the thorny bushes before him.
“What are we waiting for?” he asked her.
Despite the increased vigor of his attack, their progress seemed maddeningly slow to Jim Murray. The jungle seemed to have a will of its own, bending every effort toward holding them back. Immense, thick-rooted trees rose everywhere to support the shadowed, leafy ceiling. Lianas spiraled around them like crazy, broken springs out of some huge, mad clock. Giant vines, writhing like snakes from the lower branches of the trees, combined with the undergrowth to form an almost inpenetrable barrier. And it was hot—terribly hot. A steaming, miasmatic heat that had the sodden effect of a Turkish bath, that made Murray’s whipcord breeches and leather puttees almost unbearable. A reeking, buzzing, droning, vegetable hell, tinted an incredible violet, suggesting the landscape of another world!
They paused after a time to rest and to refresh themselves with water from their canteens. In the comparative quiet, Murray thought he heard the distant rumble of thunder. He listened curiously, doubt in his mind. It did not exactly sound like thunder; the rumble was somehow metallic, and it seemed nearby, for it was interrupted now and again by a faint sucking sound, as though a huge boot were being pulled out of a mud-bank. It faded, then vanished.
“Odd,” Murray said. Then he turned again to the interminable task of slashing a path through the undergrowth.
Gradually the jungle thinned, grew swampy, and the blazing heat of the sun drove down through gaps in the foliage in concentrated beams. Drove down out of a sky of brilliant violet. Before them, through the brush, they saw a stretch of open plain, thick with grass hummocks and frequent scum-covered pools. Here and there a lone tree raised its head, and on the far edge of the open ground loomed the green border of the jungle.
Murray stared into the dancing waves of heat that rose from the malodorous surface of the savanna, his eyes searching for the best path to follow. A frown appeared on his face. Something strange out there. It looked as though a geometrically perfect design had been punched into the mud. It was no more than twenty feet away. Curiously he moved toward it, the girl at his side.
They paused at the edge of the strange depression, and Jim Murray felt the hair rising on the crisping skin of his neck. The thing before them looked like a footprint—but that was ridiculous! What could make a footprint six feet broad! It was fully that wide and shaped like an open umbrella—an umbrella with six ribs. It was perfectly smooth, except where the ribs had pressed deeper into the muck. And the surface of the print was a good two feet below the level of the plain!
Valaire Buchanan spoke. Her voice was hushed and her face was drained of color. “It is the track of the thing that destroyed the mine,” she gasped.
Murray laughed shortly—and was startled by the unnatural sound of his own voice. He had thought of the same thing—but by human standards it would take a monster forty feet tall to make a print of that size. And there was only one print . . . Unless . . .
HE SCANNED the ground around him, and suddenly he saw, about twenty feet to one side, a second umbrella-shaped depression. And beyond that, another, all in perfect alignment!
Murray was an experienced big game hunter. He looked down at the print at his feet, and his eyes widened. The track had been pressed into the moist soil of the savanna—and only now was the water beginning to seep into the deeper parts of the print!
Minutes before, whatever had made that mark had passed that way. Grimly Murray wondered if it could have passed with the rumble of rolling thunder broken by sucking sounds of whatever had made these huge depressions.
He turned to Valaire Buchanan.
“This gets more interesting all the time,” he said. “It strikes me speed is what we need right now. Let’s continue to investigate.”
Briskly he stalked across the swampy plain, avoiding treacherous quagmires, and generally following the course of the great tracks leading toward the jungle. The girl followed a foot or two behind him. At the edge of the wilderness they found another of the strange prints, with bushes and saplings pressed into the earth, like flowers in a book. For a silent moment man and girl stood gazing at the mark, striving to visualize the gigantic thing that had made it. Then with Valaire at his side they resumed their laborious progress through the jungle.
Relentlessly Murray drove himself, thought of everything thrust from his mind but their goal and the strange things he had seen. The violet sky—footprints that were too immense to be footprints—yet could not possibly be anything else . . . The strange silence of all radios—Val’s glimpse of a great pit where a diamond mine had been . . . Whatever the cause of all this, it was big.
They reached another of the umbrella shaped depressions and paused to rest for a moment on a level spot. Both man and girl were bathed in perspiration, and Murray saw with sudden contrition that the girl was close to collapse.
“Our trip has been too tough on you, Miss Buchanan,” he protested, “From now on you’d better take things easy. After all it isn’t a woman’s job. Perhaps I shouldn’t have let you—”
He broke off abruptly as the crack of a rifle shot slashed through the keening hum of jungle noises. A pause—then another. They came from their left, in the direction of the river.
Both waited, nerves straining. Then faintly Murray thought he heard, mingled with the jungle noises, a snapping and crunching like the sound of a man walking through dry faggots, but on a greatly magnified scale. With it came the low rumble of thunder. It ended in moments, absorbed by the multitude of sounds.
A SMALL, strong hand gripped Murray’s arm. He turned and met the stare of two hazel eyes. Valaire Buchanan’s face had grown pallid with fear.
“The thing must have caught up with the boat,” she whispered. “My father is in danger. Oh, please! Can’t we do something?”
“Steady—steady!” Murray held his voice at normal pitch though his throat felt dry as flannel. “Keep your nerve. Hysteria won’t help. Remember we really haven’t seen anything yet except tracks, if that’s what they really are.” He paused, staring off through the jungle. “We’ll do all we can to help your father of course. But it’s more likely he doesn’t need us. Probably we’ll discover he has everything under control. The best way is to go and find out.” With his last remark, he turned and commenced a savage attack upon the jungle growth with his blade.
After what seemed an eternity in a leafy purgatory where he was doomed forever to swing an intolerable weight.
Jim Murray heard the ripple of running water. And after another eternity, when it seemed that human muscles could endure no more, they reached the Javary River. And a dozen yards upstream lay John Buchanan’s motor launch.
A strained, anxious cry burst from Valaire Buchanan.
“It’s my father’s boat,” she said. “Dad! Are you all right?”
Ominously, only the cease
less drone of the jungle answered her—and abruptly the girl sank in white-faced exhaustion to the bole of a giant fallen tree whose branches thrust into the water. Eyes filling with tears, she looked up at Murray in mute appeal. Words failed him as, sweat-drenched and panting, he turned hastily to survey the launch. What was a guy supposed to say under such circumstances? Unscrewing the cap of Valaire’s canteen, he held it to her lips; took a quick, lukewarm drink from his own flask.
“Stay here and rest,” he told her. “I’m going to look over the boat and find out what we must do.”
By clinging close to the water’s edge and utilizing every bit of open space, Murray made his way to the tree to which the boat was moored. About to leap to the deck, he glimpsed a flash of crimson out of the corner of his eye—and he stiffened with horror. Almost at his feet was another of the great tracks. Along one edge of the print a red blotch stained its smoothness—and within that blotch lay a flattened human torso, crushed beyond possible recognition, a rifle like a twisted gas pipe pressed into the flesh. The clothes were those of a native.
He flashed an involuntary glance over his shoulder, then gritted his teeth and looked in the general direction of Val Buchanan. She must not see this or he’d have an hysterical woman on his hands, not that he would blame her—she was dead game—but he did not feel so healthy himself. Resolutely he turned from the gruesome spectacle and jumped to the deck of the launch.
As he had expected, the boat was deserted. A glance showed why they had tied up there. Engine trouble. Tools and greasy rags lay scattered about the floor of the engine pit as though Buchanan and his men had been interrupted—as they probably had—by the arrival of the Thing. Apparently, though, they had practically finished, for, beside a loose distributor cap, Murray found everything in order . . . Before he did anything, he decided, he would pick up Val Buchanan. He would feel safer with her in the boat.
Forgotten Fiction Page 61