Clint did not reply. He was listening to the dull boom and roar rising from the valley; he was thinking of the cataclysmic forces which even now were shaking the mountain beneath him.
A heavy shoe glanced from his throbbing temples; and Gozano cursed. “Fool—’ave you lost your tongue? I am talking to you!”
With painful effort Clint smiled again. “There is a strange odor In this room since you entered.” he said evenly. “I wish you would leave—you make me sick!”
Gozano grimaced hideously as he raised his foot and stamped brutally on Clint’s face. Then he turned and stalked from the room. And Clint lay in a pain-wracked, inert mass, fighting against a black cloud of nausea which threatened to rob him of his senses. The blood gushed from his bruised nose and bathed his face and neck. Agony stabbed his face, throbbed in his head, tore at his body; and he could do nothing to check the pain or stop the crimson flow.
Interminably be lay there, only his will keeping consciousness in his body. Gradually the pain abated to some degree, and his mind began to function. It was a foolish thing he had done—goading the Peruvian on as he had—but that didn’t justify his brutality. He’d kill him for that! Kill him—if he got the chance! As things looked now. he thought grimly, there was little possibility of his getting the chance. Unless he found some way to release himself . . .
His eyes slowly circled his shadow-filled prison. He must be in a cave—or perhaps a sort of cellar beneath the building in the fortress. The ceiling, a single slab of stone, was barely high enough to permit a man to stand erect; and the walls and floor, like most Chimu masonry, were of white granite, carefully cut and fitted together. There was one doorway—but that was blocked by a massive door of logs, evidently part of the modern repair work. Little chance of escape in that direction, even If he were free—and he was bound, hand and foot—a good Job, too, as he discovered when he tried to burst his bonds.
He thought of Louisa Castilla. She didn’t seem to be the type of woman who would associate with a brute like Gozano. Nor, for that matter, did Don Alfredo seem such a bad sort. But one never could tell—not where Latin Americans were concerned. They were usually excellent actors, adept at creating any Impression that suited their fancy; and doubtless, the Castlllas were no exception. Things looked black; and that was expressing it mildly.
As hour followed hour in slow succession, the outlook became even blacker. The rumbling down in the Urubamba Valley continued with no sign of abating. Indeed, the roaring sounds were increasing in volume, and even where he lay he could feel an unnatural warmth seeping through the walls. As the day wore on, his bruised head began to throb and beat with maddening steadiness, in time with a thudding half-delirium that plagued his brain.
But worst of all was the thirst. Merely a discomfort at first, tt increased steadily until his tongue fell swollen in his flannel-dry mouth, and his throat seemed stuffed with cotton. The heat from outside made the thirst doubly unbearable. But no relief came.
At one time during the day he heard loud voices above him, the angry treble of Alfredo Castilla, and the heavier tones of Gozano. He called out for water, then, but his plea was ignored. After that his thoughts settled into a plodding cycle of thirst and fury, reeling around and around endlessly.
Darkness had fallen over the world, filling Clint’s prison with solid shadows, when he hoard stealthy sounds at the heavy door. He clamped his teeth together, wrenching futilely at the cords about his wrists, staring toward the place he knew the door must be with a faint creak It swung open, and a slim figure stood silhouetted for an instant in the rectangle of ghostly light. The door closed, and Clint heard a low feminine voice:
“Senor Morgan—where are you? It is I, Louisa Castilla.”
“Here.” Clint croaked. “What do you want?”
“I bring you water.” There was pity in her voice. “You must be terribly thirsty. I could do nothing before, for Senor Gozano Insisted that you must be punished, and Don Alfredo was too busy to Interfere. But hurry—drink!”
Guided by his voice she found him in the darkness, and held a flask of water to his lips. He drank greedily, the cooling liquid sending new energy and strength through his body. At last he sank back, gasping for breath.
“Thanks,” he whispered finally. “But tell me—why am I held here?”
She had turned him on his side and was fumbling with the restraining cords. “There is no time now,” she said, and her voice trembled.
“I must free you while I can. They have gone to prepare the plane for the flight tomorrow, and I must release you before they return. Gozano wants to leave tonight, but Alfredo will not do so. He wishes to save what he can of his months of labor. So Gozano plans to leave tonight—without him! He has told me so—and he wants me to go with him! I dare not tell Alfredo, for there would be a light—and Alfredo, though wise, is so helpless. You. my friend, must help me!”
Clint nodded vehemently In the dark. “If it means getting a sock at that damned Gozano, count me in! But tell me, what is that machine about which you are so secretive?”
“I should not tell you. I understand little about such things. I can only say that it is a machine with which electricity may be sent from place to place without wires. Other countries would like to have this invention; and Gozano said he recognized you as an Equadorian spy. That is why we hold you . . . Talk no more till I loose these cords.” There was silence while the girl struggled with the stubborn knots. One by one Clint felt them give way, and a savage eagerness surged through him at the thought of freedom. A spy, eh? The accusation might better fit Gozano himself . . . So he’d burn, would he? Maybe Gozano would taste some of that Are down in the valley!
Suddenly Louisa Castilla stiffened. Footsteps sounded outside! Clint rolled over on his back, and the girl picked up the flask.
“It is Gozano,” she whispered frantically, “and you are still bound!” The door swung open and a flashlight beam cut the darkness. Behind it Clint saw Gozano’s face, crimson with rage, the veins standing out on his forehead like fat, pink worms. He cursed In Spanish.
“So—you give the pig water! Carmnba! Why must yon meddle with my affairs?” He reached out, caught her wrist. “I looked for you everywhere—and find you here! Come—there Is no time to lose. This mountain will not last another night. We are going—now!”
“Release me!” the girl whispered fiercely, “or I will scream for Alfredo!”
Gozano laughed. “Call him and be will die!” At that instant a thunderous detonation shook the mountain to its foundations, and the fat man cringed. Hastily he wrapped his arms around Louisa Castilla and flung her over his shoulder. “Enough nonsense! We have no time to spare.” He vanished through the doorway, flung the door shut behind him.
Instantly Clint Morgan set to work on the cords that held bis wrists. He thanked his lucky star and Gozano’s cowardice for the latter’s failure to Inspect his bonds. The Senorita had almost released him; in moments he completed the job. Pausing only long enough to restore circulation to his hands and to untie the cords about his feet, he sprang after the Peruvian. He felt somewhat groggy, and needlepoints stabbed at the nerveends in his feet as blood forced its way through constricted veins and arteries. But he ignored these minor annoyances.
Outside his prison he darted along a short corridor, through another doorway, and reached the open. It was night, but the sky, a pale green, was as light as a cloudy day, reflecting the glare in the valley. A tropical heat hung like a haze over the mountain top. Clint saw Pardo Gozano, carrying Louisa Castilla, rushing toward the autogiro. The girl was screaming now, hut the Peruvian had almost reached the machine.
Clint sprinted across the intervening space, a shout on his lips. Gozano heard him and spun hastily around. With a furious curse he flung the girl aside and clawed for a weapon. But Clint was too close; and they crashed to the ground in a savage clinch. They were on their feet instantly, crouching.
Under normal conditions Clint would have finished the
Peruvian without difficulty, and quickly, at that; but these were not normal conditions. He was stiff and sore from the ordeal he had undergone; and Gozano was lashed on by a stimulus of fear.
The fat man landed a powerful blow on Clint’s bruised nose, almost blinding him with pain, and followed it with another to the side of his throbbing head. Clint staggered; and Gozano leaped after him, hurling fists to stomach, body, face, lighting with brutal ferocity.
Retreating, Clint stumbled over something soft and motionless—and out of the comer of his eye he caught a glimpse of Louisa Castilla, stunned. Wrath flamed within him, steadying his reeling senses. Hell! he’d been letting this little Peruvian hit him just about as he pleased! But that was finished now! His fist swung viciously against a fat oily cheek, rocking the other’s head. A second blow thudded against the Peruvian’s mouth, crushing the thick lips. Gozano sprang in blindly, wrapping his arms about Clint In a terrified clinch. Then they were on the ground, rolling over and over, kicking, gouging, punching.
Abruptly, in the chaos of battle, Clint heard running footsteps behind them. Gozano, white with fear now, and weakening rapidly under the punishment he was receiving, suddenly shrieked:
“Help! Help! Alfredo—he is killing me!”
Clint hoard the high-pitched voice of Alfredo Castilla: “Mother of the devil! I shall stop this!”
Hastily be rolled free of Gozano’s clutch, was on his knees—find for a second time a black pall of unconsciousness crashed down upon his head.
IV
FAINTLY, through a throbbing crimson haze, Clint heard a faint drone of voices speaking in Spanish. One said, “How he freed himself. I do not know. But I found him, carrying Louisa, just before he reached the plane. I stopped him—and you saw us struggling. I told you we should kill him and have him out of the way!”
Another voice spoke, and there was something deadly in the sound of it “I think you are right, Pardo. We shall wait till he wakes, and we shall hear what Louisa has to say when she recovers—and if what you say is so. I myself will cast him down Into that pit the green things have made! Mother of the devil—I thought him a spy. yes—but not a stealer of women!”
“But why need we wait?” the first voice demanded uneasily. “Have I not already told you? Lot us be done with It—then let us got in the plane and be gone from this accursed spot before it is too late!”
Clint did not hear the second man’s reply: there was a pause, then:
“Very well. Don Alfredo. And while we wait. I shall go out and Inspect the autogiro. Perhaps the gringo tampered with the motor before I got there. Call me when he wakes.”
After that there was silence. Weakly Clint tried to correlate and understand what he had just heard. Something was wrong—he knew it dimly. Those voices—he recognized them, or thought he did—and he knew that the owner of the first voice should not go to the autogiro. But why? Another voice spoke then—a woman’s voice—and abruptly memory returned, and with it reason, and an overwhelming knowledge of disaster.
He opened his eyes; cried hoarsely: “Stop Gozano! Don’t lot him get to that giro!”
In surprise Alfredo Castilla spun around to where Clint lay bound upon the stone floor. “Are you mad, Gringo?” he demanded.
“Hell—can’t you understand?” Clint’s voice was frantically impatient. “He means to take the plane and leave you two here!”
“Oh, he is right!” It was Louisa. “He is right! Gozano told me—wanted to take me with him—and this Americano tried to stop him!”
As proof of what they said, the sharp roar of a high-powered motor suddenly burst upon their hearing!
With a bitter, furious oath Don Alfredo sprang to the door. As he flung it open, the motor’s roar mounted thunderously—and the autogiro with its great propeller a disclike blur, rose high into the air! Dumbly Castilla watched It rise, his face paling.
“Mother of the devil!” he exclaimed stupidly. “Mother of the devil!”
“Cut me loose,” Clint cried. “Maybe you have a gun—a rifle or some thing—oh, damn! I couldn’t bring him down with that!”
The words seemed to electrify Don Alfredo. “Por Dios—I will bring him down! I will shoot him with a gun that cannot miss!” The last words trailed after him as he ran through the open doorway.
Louisa Castilla bent over Clint, a knife in her hand. “This time, Senor, I shall really free you.” she said, smiling.
In a moment he arose; and they followed the little Peruvian outside. Clint saw him at the base of his giant electrical apparatus with its burnished copper reflector turned toward the speeding autogiro. The giant tubes flared with brilliant life, and a shrill whine came from a motor concealed in the base of the contrivance. Now Don Alfredo closed a switch—and a vast sheet of lightning, a hurricane of electrical flame, leaped up from the reflector, crackling ominously, and hurtled into the sky!
The bolt missed Its mark: but it sent the giro reeling through churning billows of air. Cooly the Peruvian turned the reflector on a giant swivel, aiming it again with utmost care. A second bolt followed the first—and this one did not miss! It struck the plane, flowed over it like something liquid—and sent It spinning downward like some great wounded bird, trailing a plume of gray-white smoke. Down. down, in an uneven spiral, toward the depths of the Urubamba Valley were a constantly growing mass of emerald fire spun In a tremendous chasm where a metal mountain had been.
With a bitter shout of rage. Don Alfredo spun the reflector around again, tilting it toward the valley. “Caramba! And another blast will he get—that stealer of women!” And alter the burning plane leaped volley after volley of manmade lightning, a veritable electrical deluge, blindingly brilliant, charging the air with a tingling, prickling energy, and a tang of ozone.
Climbing speedily upon the Inner wall to watch the crash of the giro, Clint saw those lightning blasts rend the machine into a shattered mass of fused metal; saw them tear past the plane, bury themselves in the whirling mass of green—saw them rip great empty swaths In the substance of the vaporous Sun-things!
The barrage ceased; and Clint climbed down from the wall. His thoughts were confused, shaken, filled with questions. What strange “power transmitter” was this with its ability to hurl lightning through the air? He looked at Castilla, frowning. To his amazement, the Peruvian had burled his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook with mighty sobs. Louisa rushed to him with consternation on her face, wrapped her arms about him consolingly.
Awkwardly Clint approached. “Don’t mind It Don Alfredo,” he said. “He got what he deserved. He tried to kidnap your daughter—and he was a brute of the worst type.”
“And yes.” Louisa added, “he also told me as be carried me away that we would receive a most cordial reception in Quito. He was a spy in the employ of the Equadorian government!”
Alfredo Castilla looked up, his face wrinkled with surprise. “You think I weep for that cholo, Gozano? Valgame Dios! Him I would kill a million times! A spy, eh? I am not surprised. But look—” He gestured toward the lightning projector. “Here is the greatest war machine ever invented—and I. Alfredo Castilla, am the only one who knows the details of its construction! It would protect us for all time against those cholo hordes from Equador and Bolivia; it would free us forever from the menace of our friends in Chile! So beautiful! So simple! Power comes from Lima by radio. Is picked up by my big toy, and goes forth as lightning—lightning to rend and destroy our enemies?
And because of that damned Gozano who stole the autogiro, and because of those things of green flame which are devouring the mountains. I cannot carry my plans back to Lima! My invention will die here with me—with me and my Louisa!” A second uncontrollable fit of weeping burst from him.
Painfully Clint shifted from foot to foot. It was embarrassing to watch a grown man weep. His mind groped for a way out. So this was the explanation of all their secrecy! A war machine! The Senorita had tried to mislead him with a tale about a power transmitter—but he coul
dn’t blame her for that. With Latin-American intrigue what it was, they looked for deception everywhere.
Those green things in the valley below—how could they cope with them? Thus far they had been content to remain In the gorge—but what would happen when all the green metal had been consumed—bad been transformed, as they apparently were changing it. to vaporous green spheres like themselves? Would they continue melting the mountains In search of other masses of metal? Or would they sweep over the world, treating men as they had the burro right here In the fortress? He looked at Louisa and Don Alfredo Castilla. Then he looked at the lightning reflector—and a sudden shout burst from him.
“Don Alfredo!” he said eagerly. “I have It!”
The Peruvian’s grief disappeared as if by magic, and he looked at Clint with wide-eyed interest “You have what, amigo mio!”
“A way out! A way to save ourselves and your Invention! When you blasted the auto giro as It fell Into the valley, I was watching from the wall. I saw those blasts tear into the green things—and where it crashed, they disappeared!”
Excitement beamed from Don Alfredo’s face. “Perhaps it would work.” he said slowly. “Those globes—they may be electrical. The spectroscope shows that they are coronium—but who knows what electricity is? If they are electricity, my blasts tearing into them may short circuit them—and bum them out! If they came out of the sun—and I see no other possibility—they cannot be gaseous or liquid, as cold as they were when they came, else they would be consumed by the sun’s heat . . . At least we can try!”
He sprang to the lightning projector. Its copper reflector was still turned toward the valley. Clint and Louisa climbed the steps to the top of the wall to watch.
Forgotten Fiction Page 65