PART I: THE LOST PRINCESS

CHAPTER 1

Warriors of the Stone Age

As somebody once said, without the power of sheer coincidence life would be duller than dishwater. Or if nobody ever said it, somebody should have.

It had been pure coincidence that I had met Professor Percival P. Potter, Ph.D., in the native bazaar of Port Said. If I had come along a moment or two earlier—or a moment or two later—we would never have encountered each other. And he would never have hired me and my Sikorsky helicopter, Babe, for his expedition into the Ahaggar region of North Africa.

Which would have meant that neither of us would have found our way into the Underground World of Zanthodon.

For beneath the hollow mountain, far below the earth’s crust, we discovered a vast cavernous region presumably created by the impact of an enormous meteor of antimatter in prehistoric times. Whispered of in old Sumerian myths, Babylonian legends, Hebrew writings, the Underground World, we found, was a realm of marvels and perils beyond belief.

For into that gigantic subterranean land had filtered, over the ages, remnants of the extinct dinosaurs of the Jurassic and sabertooths and cave bears and mastodons from the Ice Age. And men, too—both the hulking, apelike and primitive Neanderthals and their tall, stalwart, handsome near-contemporaries, the Cro-Magnons, our own direct ancestors.

Locked together in a life-or-death struggle for survival were these twin branches of primordial humankind…and both were at war with hostile nature, the savage wilderness and the mighty beasts that roamed and ruled this fantastic world.

Into the very midst of that endless war for survival and supremacy the Professor and I had been thrust. Captured by slave raiders from the Neanderthal country of Kor, we had met and befriended the beautiful Stone Age girl, Darya, who had won us to the cause of her people.

She was about seventeen and absolutely the most gorgeous girl I have ever seen. Which may perhaps explain how she recruited so easily a tough, hard-bitten soldier of fortune like myself, and a wooly-headed, absentminded old scientist like Doc.

Not only was the Cro-Magnon girl the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, but she was also totally different from the women I had previously known. Nearly naked, save for a skimpy, apron-like garment of soft, elegantly tanned furs, which extended over one breast and shoulder but left bare the other perfect young breast and creamy, rounded shoulder, she was lithe and supple, her slim, tanned body graceful as an acrobat’s. She had a long, flowing mane of silky hair the color of ripe corn and wide, dark-lashed eyes as blue as rainwashed April skies and a full, luscious mouth the tint of wild strawberries.

Darya had been a revelation to me: imagine a girl who had never heard of perfume, cosmetics, mascara or underwired bras…a young female ignorant of the latest fads and fashions…a lithe, teen-aged Amazon who could swim, hunt, fight like a man but was as soft and sweet and demure as any princess in a fairy tale.

Such was Darya, gomad or princess of the Stone Age kingdom of Thandar. Is it any wonder I had fallen helplessly in love with her?

* * * *

Together we had managed to escape from our captivity by the Apemen of Kor, but not without making some enemies. Among these foes were Fumio, the handsome but villainous Cro-Magnon chieftain who had been an unsuccessful suitor for Darya’s hand; and One-Eye the Neanderthal, who had seized the kingship of Kor when I had slain Uruk the former High Chief with my revolver; and Xask, wily and cunning vizier of Kor, who was of neither race, but an exile fled from the wrath of his own mysterious people, who dwelt somewhere in the interior, far from the shores of the sea of Sogar-Jad.

But we had made good friends, as well. There was Hurok, the brawny Neanderthal to whom I had taught the meaning of friendship; and Jorn the Hunter, a brave youth from Darya’s tribe; and her mighty sire himself, Tharn, stalwart Omad or king of distant Thandar.

Just when it seemed that all of our difficulties were at an end, the mysterious force of coincidence intervened once again.

Pursued by a great war party of Korians, Tharn’s small host of warriors (searching for the lost Darya) had seemed outmatched. But a fortuitously timed stampede of huge pachyderms had crushed the Apemen of Kor, while the men of Thandar had fled to safety behind the dense wall of the jungles. We did not at that point in our adventures realize that Xask, One-Eye and Fumio had eluded the destruction which had consumed the warriors of Kor.

However, coincidence had separated us. Jorn the Hunter and Professor Potter had sought to penetrate a narrow pass through the Peaks of Peril, believing they were closely behind the long-lost Darya. What they in fact discovered beyond those sinister mountains we, far behind them, did not at that time know. Neither did we know that Jorn, that gallant and faithful youth, had seemingly perished not long thereafter—leaving the helpless old scientist alone and friendless in the most hostile wilderness on (or under) the earth.

I had been separated from my friends, remaining with Darya’s mighty sire and his small force of fighting men, and with me was my giant friend, Hurok. At this time, I was ignorant of the fates which had befallen Jorn, Darya and the Professor, as were they of mine.

All I knew was that my friends were lost somewhere in the fetid jungles or grassy plains or unexplored mountains of Zanthodon. And in this weird and magnificent and terrible lost world ten thousand perils lie in wait for the unarmed or unwary traveler.

Even at this moment my beloved Darya might be suffering the cruelest of dooms.

Even now my friends might be staring into the fanged maw of one of the enormous predators that ruled this savage world.

And I—would I ever know of their end?

* * * *

In the first section of these journals I have narrated the tale of our adventures up to this point in far more explicit detail than the brief, cursory account given above. Since I cannot be fully certain that the first part of my journal1 has survived intact the rigors of travel, I have briefly encapsulated a description of how my friends and foes and I arrived at this point in our travels.

Now let me take up my tale where I left it off…for, if anything, the second-part of my adventures in Zanthodon the Underground World is even more incredible and fantastic than that which I have previously narrated.

If any eye but mine will ever peruse these words, that is.…

* * * *

Under the eternal noontide skies of Zanthodon we rested and broke our fast. Huntsmen easily found the woods teeming with game, for the stampede of the mammoths had driven smaller and more defenseless creatures from the plain to take refuge in the jungle’s edge, even as we had done.

In no time, cook-fires flared along the margin of the jungle and the air was redolent with the aroma of roast uld turning slowly on the spit.

Squatting on our heels, our backs to the bole of a mighty Jurassic conifer, we consulted as to the course of action we should choose, the leaders of the Thandarian host and I.

Dominating the council, as he would naturally dominate any gathering into which he entered, was Tharn, Omad or King of the Stone Age realm of Thandar, which lay distantly somewhere to the south.2

A very impressive figure of a man was this jungle monarch. Taller and heavier than I, his magnificent frame was superbly equipped with massive thews, and the innate majesty of his mien and manner would have marked him as royal in any age or society. His features were stern, with a strong jaw and fierce blue eyes under a lofty brow, framed in thick yellow mane and short curly beard. Heavy mustaches swept back to either side of his mouth and his head was crowned with a peculiar headdress whose main ornaments were two curved ivory fangs of prodigious length—the fangs of the vandar, or giant sabertooth. A triple necklace of the fangs of smaller beasts circled his strong throat. His tanned, muscular torso was bare, but there were heavy rings of bronze clasped about his brawny arms. An abbreviated garment of dappled fur clothed his loins, laced buskins of tanned leather clad his feet, a bronze dagger slept in its sheath of reptile hide at his waist, secured by a thong. Beside him, never far from his right hand, a long spear with leaf-shaped blade of hammered bronze rested against the tree trunk, and at his left a long wickerwork shield lay, covered with thick, tough hide.

Such a man was Tharn of Thandar, King of the Stone Age.

Just then he was speaking. The crude, primitive language spoken universally across the breadth of Zanthodon assumed dignity and resonance as it fell slowly from his lips.

“Against all hope, our enemies have been dispersed and trodden into the dust,” he said solemnly. “This victory, while not entirely of our own devising, yet stands to be acted upon. Shall we next pursue what remnants of the Drugars survived the stampede of the herd of trantors, follow them to their distant country of Kor upon the island of Ganadol and thus exterminate their repellent kind from the world forever…or shall we search yet farther for the gomad Darya, my daughter, who may yet live? What say you?”

Komad pursed his thin lips judiciously. The grizzled old chief scout, who sat across from his lord, was lean and wiry as the shaft of a spear. He said little, leaving the talk to others more voluble than himself; but when such a man as Komad speaks, men tend to listen.

“We came into this country to find the Princess, my Chief,” said Komad shortly. “It would be less than manly to give over that quest until we have proof that she no longer lives. As for the Drugars, they are few and scattered and can do us little harm, now or later. Let them slink back to Kor with their tails between their legs, unmolested.”

The others grunted in agreement. Beside me, Hurok shifted his enormous bulk uncomfortably. The Drugars do not like to be called Drugars, any more than the panjani enjoy being called panjani. This seems to be the way of the world, as I have observed the same reaction among the peoples of the earth’s surface as well.3

I turned to Hurok, questioningly.

“What is your opinion?” I asked him bluntly. “Do the Korians pose any further danger to us, or did the trantor stampede virtually wipe them out?” The question was not as rude as it may sound: outlawed by Uruk and hated by the present Chief, One-Eye, Hurok must from now on consider his own people to be his enemies.

He regarded me solemnly, shrewd, melancholy eyes blinking from beneath his overhanging brow.

“Few are the warriors of Kor left to give battle against Black Hair and his people,” he grunted, Black Hair being Hurok’s name for me. “No fewer than five tens of dugouts it must have taken to bring the warriors of Uruk the Chief hither, with no fewer than ten of the men of Kor in each. All, or almost all, must have been slain by the arrows of the Thandarians or beneath the feet of the trantors”

His heavy voice was somber as he recited the numbers of his tribe who had perished upon this very plain less than an hour ago. As well it might be, for five hundred warriors had died here…and, although cruel savages, the Apemen are brave and mighty warriors.

“And what say you, Eric Carstairs?” the jungle monarch inquired gravely. I shrugged.

“As for myself, I shall continue the search for Darya, your daughter, and for my friend Professor Potter, wherever you and your men choose to march,” I said quietly.

A proud gleam shone approvingly in the eagle eyes of Tharn. He nodded with dignity.

“So be it, then,” the High Chief said. “The search goes on.”

CHAPTER 2

The Parting of the Ways

Tharn and his warriors—and Hurok and myself, as well—were at that time suffering under a serious misapprehension. For the evidence we had discovered in the glade seemed to suggest that the Princess had been carried off and probably devoured by one of the numerous gigantic predators who roam this strange subterranean world.

This we believed for the simple reason that Tharn’s scouts had found the girl’s tracks in a forest clearing, together with certain articles which were thought to have belonged to Darya of Thandar.

The footprints terminated in torn and blood-bespattered turf, and while there were footprints leading to the spot, there were none which led therefrom.…

But Tharn of Thandar was not completely convinced. To such great-hearted men as the jungle monarch, death remains unproven until the last doubt has been dissolved.

And as for myself, I could not believe that the gallant, golden-haired girl was dead, that her bright, mercurial spirit was forever quenched, and her slim, vibrant loveliness mangled between the fearsome jaws of some mighty reptile from Time’s Dawn.

And, in actual fact, events had turned to other, happier conclusions. For the fate of Darya was more mysterious and far stranger than any of us could possibly have dreamed!

As you who have read the first part of these journals may remember, the cave girl had actually been carried off by a giant pterodactyl, but this occurred shortly after she had been attacked and almost raped by Fumio, from whom Jorn rescued her. The marks of trampled turf found by the Thandarian scouts and huntsmen were the scene of her attack by the villainous Fumio. We were at this time still ignorant of the fact that the flying reptile had borne her far from this place to its nest amid the Peaks of Peril to the north, beyond the plains of the trantors.

Therefore—whether alive or dead—we all believed Darya to be somewhere near at hand.

We feasted upon the roast uld and other game slain by the huntsmen. Then we rested briefly from our battle against the Apemen of Kor, while the warriors gathered up those of their arrows which had not been broken beneath the trampling feet of the stampeding mammoths, and their flung spears which had likewise survived intact.

Soon we went forward along the edge of the jungle, with search parties combing the depths of the woods while keeneyed scouts searched the plains for some sign of Darya, Jorn and the Professor.

I strode along behind the others, feeling restless and ill at ease. Everything within me instinctively hungered to strike forth on my own to search for my lost friends. I have always been a loner, never much of one for teamwork. And it seemed to me, with half a hundred warriors, scouts and hunters along, the weight of our numbers would somehow slow me down in my personal quest.

I don’t know quite how to explain this to you; it was just a feeling in my bones that I would accomplish more, and more swiftly, if I were on my own.

We were moving steadily west, toward the shores of the Sogar-Jad, with the jungle at our left and the plains to our right.

Beyond those plains loomed the peaks of mountains unknown to me. Glancing curiously at them, I thought to ask Hurok what he knew concerning them.

“Men call them the Peaks of Peril,” he said in his solemn, deep voice. “Black Hair would be wise to avoid them, for they have an unwholesome reputation. And Black Hair’s she could not possibly have gone so far.”

“How do you know?” I demanded testily. “She could be anywhere, by this time.”

Hurok regarded me, a look of baffled uncomprehension in his dim eyes. I have remarked before on the remarkable fact that the warriors of Zanthodon are completely ignorant of the existence of time, and have no word for the concept in their language. I had, unthinkingly, employed the English word in lieu of a Zanthodonian equivalent.4 Hence, I had puzzled him.

We plodded along in the wake of the more swiftly moving Thandarians, who advanced along the margin of the jungle at a steady, space-devouring trot. I found myself lagging behind.

“Black Hair does not wish to accompany his people?” inquired Hurok after a time. I had explained to him that these were not my people, of course, and that my own homeland lay a vast distance away, but to the limited intelligence of the Apeman there were only two races of men—Drugars and panjani. And I was a panjani; hence Darya’s people were my own.

I shook my head wordlessly, not bothering to answer, knowing I could not successfully put into words the vague feelings that oppressed my spirits. But I kept looking across the plains at the row of sharp-toothed mountains my companion had called the Peaks of Peril. Something about them attracted my restless, wandering attention.…

* * * *

When Xask and Fumio had observed, from the safety of the great trees which stood like a palisade along the jungle’s edge, the carnage which had destroyed all but a few of the Drugars when they were caught and trampled under the thundering feet of the stampeding pachyderms, they rightfully concluded that their continued presence in these parts could easily constitute a disaster; for, if Tharn and his warriors caught them lurking in the underbrush, both would have a heavy price to pay.

Xask was known as the renegade vizier who had formerly served Uruk, High Chief of the Apemen of Kor. And, as for Fumio, like all cowardly traitors, he was tormented by dread that his attempted rape of Tharn’s daughter had been discovered by now. Neither of this pretty pair of villains wished to hang around long enough to be discovered, and neither desired to face the music.

So, after a mutual glance, they melted into the underbrush and vanished among the trees. True, neither could think of any particular haven of safety to which they could flee, but almost anywhere else in Zanthodon was healthier for them than where they were.

So eager were they to be gone that they did not stick around long enough to learn that One-Eye had cleverly escaped the doom of his countrymen. The cruel and brutal bully had survived the stampede by the merest chance, flinging himself prone in a narrow trench as the mammoths came thundering down upon the Apemen. Bruised and battered, covered with dirt and nearly deafened from the earth-shaking tread of the maddened pachyderms, he had nevertheless lived through the ordeal and was not seriously harmed. As soon as he could safely do so, One-Eye came scrambling up out of his hole in the ground and took to the trees.

With the agility of the apelike ancestors he so closely resembled, he quickly scaled one of the lofty Jurassic conifers. Lying flat upon a mighty branch, he searched the aisles of the jungle beneath his aerie with one squinting, keen eye. And thus it was that he observed the hasty and surreptitious flight of Xask and Fumio, both of whom he instantly recognized.

To be lost and alone in a jungle now swarming with his deadly enemies was not a situation which exactly appealed to the hulking Neanderthal. Without thought, almost by instinct alone, he sprang from the branch, seizing a long jungle vine, and swung into the upper branches of a neighboring tree. Traveling in this manner, he was able to outdistance the Thandarians, and to keep his two erstwhile confederates in view.

For a plan was slowly evolving through the dim, dull wits of One-Eye.

And unfortunately it involved myself!

* * * *

It was not long before Xask and Fumio discovered that they were being pursued.

Seizing the slight arm of his comrade, Fumio uttered a warning word. Then, dropping prone upon the ground, the Thandarian warrior pressed one ear against the turf. Far and faint the sounds of running feet were, but a hunter of the Stone Age develops keen senses or starves.

He raised a frightened face to Xask. “They are following us!” whimpered Fumio. His companion regarded him quizzically.

“Who is following us?” he inquired curiously.

“It can only be Tharn—Tharn the Mighty!” cried Fumio in an agony of despair.

“Tharn, whose daughter you attempted to rape, before Jorn the Hunter made you turn tail and run?” inquired the other, maliciously.

The eyes of Fumio faltered and fell. “Even so,” he breathed.

Xask regarded him thoughtfully. A tall and strikingly handsome specimen of manhood was Fumio of Thandar, but nature had made his heart weak and cowardly, and Jorn’s fist had demolished his slim, handsome nose. Now, pale and sweating with fear, his sleek mane rumpled, his hands shaking, he was a remarkably unattractive specimen. And, for a moment, Xask considered deserting him and escaping alone, for he was becoming more of a liability than an asset.

But then he reconsidered. So far as Xask knew, the warriors and huntsmen of Thandar as yet had not learned of Fumio’s traitorous attempt on the maidenhood of his princess. Thus they could hardly have reason to pursue the fugitives; doubtless, they were merely searching the jungles, hoping to find some trace of the lost girl.

In rapid words he apprised Fumio that his fears were groundless. Although relieved, Fumio was still worried.

“Perhaps so,” he panted, “but if they continue in this direction, they will find us, nonetheless.…”

“Then we will climb a tree,” suggested Xask. “And they will go by underneath us. Since they are not searching for us, they will not bother searching the treetops to find us. Come—let us do this quickly. I have no wish to be taken prisoner by the enemies of Kor, for many of them will know of my former position among the Drugars.”

Fumio possessed great strength and vigor, nor was Xask, with his slender, wiry build, exactly feeble. They ascended the nearest tree and found places to conceal themselves behind convenient masses of dense foliage.

Before long, the two observed a grizzled Thandarian enter their vicinity. Fumio easily recognized the man as Komad, leader of the scouts. They watched as he went past their airy perch without once pausing to search the foliage aloft with his keen eyes. He vanished into the jungle gloom, soon followed by others.

Once the main body of the Thandarian war party had passed them by, both fugitives breathed easier.

But not for very long. With startling suddenness, a massive weight descended upon the broad branch where they crouched and huge hairy hands caught both men by the scruff of the neck, knocking their heads together with a resounding thump.

Dizzy—fear-frozen—they stared up into the ugly, grinning visage of One-Eye!

Displaying broken, discolored, tusk-like teeth in a broad grin, their captor uttered a phlegmy grunt, which was obviously his version of amused laughter.

“One-Eye never knew before that snakes could climb trees!” he chuckled.

* * * *

Hurok surveyed me puzzledly, for the two of us had fallen well behind the main body of the Thandarians and I must have seemed to my giant friend reluctant, for some mysterious reason, to keep up with them.

“If Black Hair lingers here, his people will outdistance him,” he observed at last.

I nodded, saying nothing. The fact of the matter was, quite simply, something within me clamored urgently to know about that row of distant rocky spires the savages knew by the ominous name of the Peaks of Peril.

A silent inward voice seemed to be drawing my attention thither. And I could not explain this to my huge companion any more than I could explain it to myself. But a lifetime of adventure and danger had taught me to trust my intuition.

And intuition told me I should strike forth on my own and venture among the Peaks of Peril.

I had, at that time, no way of knowing that it was into the shadow of those mysterious mountains that Darya, my beloved, had vanished. Instinct alone urged me thither.

But to leave the safety afforded by numbers and to venture forth on my own was more than reckless, it was downright foolhardy. And I certainly had no right to risk the life of my faithful, loyal friend Hurok in following a mere hunch.

“I have decided not to accompany the panjani,” I explained haltingly to my companion. “Something calls me to those peaks, and I must follow that call.…”

He regarded me with curiosity in his small, dim eyes.

“Is it that Black Hair feels his stolen she might be found in the mountain country?” he asked after a small lapse of time in his heavy bass voice. I shrugged helplessly.

“I do not know!” I confessed.

He regarded me stolidly, his expression unreadable.

After a time, he grunted, “To quit the war party of the panjani and go forth into an unknown country is very dangerous.” It was a remark made in neutral tones, not a complaint or an argument.

“I know,” I said. “And I will not ask you to go with me, Hurok, my friend. The panjani will not harm you, for they know you to be my friend. You need not accompany Black Hair into the unknown—for those peaks, you have told me, have a most unsavory reputation. Let me go on my own way and follow where my heart urges me; you can always go back to Kor and rejoin your own people. With Uruk and One-Eye dead, you could become the High Chief yourself! It would be very selfish of me to try to hold you by my side when you have no longer any reason to journey with me.”

He regarded me with a somber gaze.

“Is it that Black Hair no longer wishes the company of Hurok?” he inquired at last.

I opened my mouth to deny that assumption. Then I closed it, saying nothing. Perhaps the most gentlemanly thing for me to do was to permit him to think I no longer wished his companionship, although that was certainly untrue. But to urge him to go with me into danger for my own selfish purposes was unfair. Guiltily, I decided to evade the question.

“You may think what you wish,” I said coolly.

He gave me one long, searching look. Then, without a word or gesture of farewell, he turned on his heel and vanished into the underbrush.

I sighed, feeling a pang of dismay and loss go through my heart. But it did seem, at the time, the only thing to do.

Nevertheless, I had a feeling that I had just made one of the worst mistakes in my life.…

I turned away and struck out across the plains, heading for the shadowy peaks to which my heart called me.

And behind me in the treetops, three cold and cunning pairs of eyes gleamed with unholy joy as my giant companion deserted me and I went forth alone and friendless into the Unknown.

CHAPTER 3

Beyond the Peaks of Peril

At this time only one person knew the truth of Darya’s whereabouts and the mystery of her predicament, and that person was my old friend Professor Percival P. Potter, Ph.D.

Since the Professor and I first penetrated the earth’s crust and discovered this forgotten land of Zanthodon, we had been constant companions. Together we had descended down the hollow shaft of the inactive volcano. Together we had been captured by the Apemen of Kor, making the acquaintance of Darya, Fumio and Jorn the Hunter, who had been among our fellow captives. Together we had shared many exciting adventures and had faced shoulder to shoulder many perils.

But events had sundered our paths, and each of us had gone our own way.

Jorn the Hunter, that brave young cave boy, and the Professor had followed in the direction the pterodactyl had flown when it had carried off Darya from the jungle clearing. It had borne its helpless burden beyond the jungle’s edge and across the grassy plains to its nest high among the Peaks of Peril. And thither had Jorn and Professor Potter journeyed, hoping to rescue the girl.

But other dangers were to come, and from the very last of these she was not to effect an escape. For Jorn and the Professor had found a path through the Peaks, emerging to find on the other side a spectacle as inexplicable as it was amazing.

Having managed to escape from the nest of the pterodactyl, descending from the heights to the beach beyond the mountains, Darya had been enjoying a refreshing bath in the river when an unseen watcher surprised her.

And what Jorn and the Professor observed when they penetrated at last to the far side of the Peaks of Peril was a scene fantastic, terrifying and incredible!

Naked and struggling in the brawny arms of her villainous and swarthy turbaned captors, the Princess was about to be forced aboard an astonishing vessel. It was a full-rigged galley of Moorish or perhaps Saracenic design, with a green banner fluttering from its masthead, charged with the star and crescent of Muhammad the Prophet of Islam.

Such ships have not sailed the seas of the Upper World for generations—but here one was, and the Professor could only gape incredulously at the sight.

While Jorn stared with grim alarm, the Professor, shaken to the core of his being with sheer amazement, uttered a dazed ejaculation. From his omnivorous reading and the broad range of his scientific studies, he was able to recognize the sailing vessel and the dark-hued, bearded sailors as none other than mysteriously surviving descendants of the notorious Barbary pirates who had made all of the Mediterranean their realm until crushed by European troops in the early nineteenth century. They had since scattered, vanishing from the pages of history.

But what were Barbary pirates doing here in Zanthodon?

There could not yet be a simple answer to that mystery. But the enormity of the Underground World had already afforded a haven of safe refuge to many doomed denizens of past ages, from the dinosaurs and pterodactyls of the dim Jurassic to the Neanderthals, Cro-Magnons and giant sabertooth tigers of the Ice Age. Perhaps a handful of Barbary pirates, fleeing inland to avoid capture by the victorious Europeans, had made their way into Zanthodon, as well.

Such seemed to be the case, obviously.

While Professor Potter mused in his absentminded, scholarly way over the mystery, the simpler wits of Jorn grasped the girl’s danger, and acted upon it instantly. Flinging his lithe young body into the seething waves of the Sogar-Jad, he swam to the galley’s side in a gallant but hopeless attempt to save his Princess.

And then the villainous commander raised one bejeweled hand in a languid gesture, and archers cut the youth down even as he reached the galley’s side. He sank without a trace and, as the Professor watched dazedly, numb with horror, the laughing pirate commander bore the nude body of the struggling Darya within his cabin and the ship got underway, cruising into the north, soon to vanish into the distance.

In reaction the old scientist fainted dead away there on the sandy shores of the underground sea. And, for a time, he knew no more.

When Professor Potter awoke from his swoon, his first instinct was to peer aloft into the misty skies of Zanthodon, thereby to ascertain the approximate hour of day from a perusal of the position of the sun. But there is, of course, no sun that illuminates the cavernous dome of the Underground World; vexed, the old man bit his lip and uttered a rude expletive.

He might have lain unconscious for many hours—or for only a few seconds. There was, quite simply, no way to tell. But, searching the billowy expanse of the Sogar-Jad, he, saw no sign of the swarthy and beturbaned mariners who had carried off the Stone Age girl, nor any sign of their astoundingly antique vessel.

“Eternal Einstein!” said the Professor querulously. “The galley might be mere yards around the curve of the coast, or it could have sailed for leagues—and I have no way of telling which!”

Now, Percival P. Potter, Ph.D., was small and scrawny and elderly, certainly no young and vigorous fighting man. But the spark of old-fashioned chivalry that burns within the breasts of good and decent men blazed high within his gallant heart; and, man of action or no man of action, it went against the grain of such as Professor Potter merely to turn his back on Darya’s frightening predicament and seek to return to the safety of his friends.

So he began to explore the curve of the coastline to make certain whether or not the galley was still in view. At this particular point, the shores of the Sogar-Jad protruded in a long promontory which, like a sheltering arm, protected the small lagoon in which the Barbary pirates had moored their craft. In order to gain a full and unimpeded view of the sea itself, the Professor would have to traverse this promontory to its farther side. And without a moment’s hesitation, he proceeded to do so.

Thick tropical vegetation clothed the length of the narrow peninsula, down whose length marched like a rocky spine an extension of the Peaks of Peril, through which the Professor had but recently passed with Jorn.

And the moment this heavy wall of jungle closed about the old man, shutting from his view the warm light of open day, a peculiar premonition chilled his heart. There was nothing to meet the eye that hinted of concealed danger, and not the slightest sound reached the keen ears of the Professor, for all of the jungle drowsed in the simmering warmth of Zanthodon’s eternal noon. But the senses of men, even civilized men, number more than the known and recognized five; some faint instinct of self-preservation roused within the breast of Professor Potter, alerting him to the fact that all was not well in this jungle.

Globules of cold perspiration burst forth upon his bald and bony brows, and a clamminess was in his sweating palms, while his brave old heart beat lightly but swiftly. Again and again, the savant wished mightly that I, Eric Carstairs, could have been at his side. For not only was I younger and stronger than he, and used to extricating myself from dangerous predicaments by brawn or brains or luck—but I still bore at my side the precious automatic pistol wherewith I had slain the brutal Uruk.

And the pistol, of course, was the only such weapon of its kind in all of the Underground World. How much more secure would the old man have felt, with me—and the gun—near to hand!

A dozen times within the first several minutes of sensing the presence of lurking danger the Professor stopped short, peering about into the motionless underbrush, straining every sense to search out the cause of his trepidations.

But nothing that he could see or hear or smell seemed to afford him the slightest danger. Skyward soared the massive boles of Jurassic conifers, and the gloom between their trunks was impenetrable and ominous. Silence reigned within the depths of the jungle, as if all nature held its breath in suspense, waiting for some secret signal.

Erelong, the Professor had reached the range of rocky hills that ran the length of this peninsula. For the jungle aisle he followed terminated abruptly and he found himself confronted by a sheer, unbroken wall of solid stone.

Pausing momentarily, the Professor considered which way to turn. It did not seem to be within the physical powers of the old man to scale this cliff-like wall of smooth gray rock, and he debated the relative wisdom of turning back along the way that he had come, to seek a side path or alternative route.

But to venture again into the depths of the jungle…not knowing what hideous monstrosity surviving from Time’s forgotten dawn might be creeping on his track…that was almost more than the old man dared attempt.

Pondering this dilemma and striving to make up his mind what to do, the Professor stood there, brows knit, tugging thoughtfully and indecisively on his little wisp of stiff white goat-like beard.

And at that moment something moved behind him in the darkness.

He heard the snapping of a twig—

Startling loud in the ominous and all-pervading silence was that sudden sound—like a gunshot.

He whirled about, eyes starting from his head, mouth gaping open to give voice to a startled cry—

Then he froze—petrified with astonishment.

* * * *

Could the Professor have somehow known that I was not very far distant from him, was, even at that very instant, traversing with all such speed as I was able to attain the broad and grassy plain of the trantors, the knowledge may well have comforted him in his present danger.

When Hurok had parted from me, driven away by the seeming coldness of my ungracious rebuff, I hastened to divert from my former path at right angles.

Ahead of me, Tharn and his troop of warriors were scouring the edges of the jungle, searching for any slightest sign or token that might denote the whereabouts of the missing princess. During the brief while that Hurok and I had lingered behind to discuss my vague premonitions, they had drawn quite a ways ahead of our position.

I then traveled rapidly out into the midst of the plain, taking for my goal the line of soaring gray mountains that were known as the Peaks of Peril. I was young and vigorous and had rested well after my recent exertions; hence it was that I had reached midway into the plain of the trantors at the precise moment that Professor Potter glimpsed with amazement his peril.

The exigencies of narrative technique require me, thus tiresomely, to relate matters of which, at the time, I had no actual knowledge in simultaneity with those events which I witnessed or partook in. That this must seem confusing to my reader—if any!—is regrettable, but necessary. It is, of course, only in retrospect, long after we had all come back again together and found sufficient leisure to relate the tale of our adventures to each other, that I was able to get straight in my mind what each of my friends or enemies was doing at any given point in time.

And now, long after these events transpired, I am able to narrate these adventures, diligently striving to explain what each of us was doing more or less at the same time. This requires me to cut back and forth from the viewpoint of one person to that of another, but I am no seasoned writer and know of no other way to set all of these things before you. Bear with me, then, as my narrative becomes even more confusing and complex with the diversity of incidents yet to come.

* * * *

At the time, I had no way of knowing that I was being followed by anyone.

The wind was blowing into my face, all sound was dulled by the sighing of the long grasses and the thudding of my feet as I loped across the plain of the trantors, and I had no occasion to turn and look behind me.

After an interminable time I reached that mighty wall of gray and somber mountains that was my goal. Another hour or so of searching along the flanks of the mountain led me to the fortuitous discovery of a narrow ravine or chasm, into which I plunged. I followed the narrow way between the mountains as it twisted and turned, wearying now and beginning to become hungry.

And all the time, those that pursued me continued on my trail.

Before very much longer, I had penetrated the Peaks of Peril and had emerged on the far side of the range of mountains, to view a broad vista of shoreline and sea. Whether or not this was the same pass through the mountains which Jorn and the Professor had earlier followed I have no way of telling.

I was tired and hungry by this time, and, like an old campaigner, knew that I must pause, however briefly, to rest and to eat in order to take up again my quest with undiminished vigor.

No game presented itself, but the tidal pools along the shoreline contained a quantity of small fish marooned by the withdrawing of the tide. I made a fire with dry leaves and sticks, speared the three fish I had scooped out of the shallows with my bare hands, and cooked them over the sizzling flames.

Half-raw, half-burnt, the meat of the fish tasted to me more delicious than the sumptuous dishes I had once sampled in the finest restaurants of Paris or Rome. Satisfying my thirst with cool, clear water from the little freshwater stream that meandered down the shore to empty into the sea, I made a nest for myself in the thick grasses and composed myself for slumber. I had intended a brief catnap to revitalize my strength, but now in retrospect, I fear that I fell into heavier slumbers than had been my intention.

And from my sleep I was awakened suddenly and rudely.

For One-Eye was kneeling upon my chest. And he had snatched the precious revolver from my waist and was at that moment pointing it into my face, with an evil lopsided grin.

CHAPTER 4

Captive of the Corsairs

No words of mine can possibly do justice to the emotions which raged within the heart of Darya of Thandar. When the bearded chieftain of the corsairs had surprised her in the act of bathing in the little jungle stream, she had been furious and frightened. Helpless in the powerful embrace of the swarthy pirate, the girl had not been able to resist as he bore her aboard the Moorish galley and into his cabin.

Now, the Stone Age girl had, of course, never seen such a vessel as this, or such men as these in all her brief span of existence. Nor would the very name of the Barbary pirates have signified aught to the Cro-Magnon Princess. But to be plucked from the relative security of freedom and thrust into the captivity of hard and dangerous men is an experience disheartening and terrifying.

Hence, it is no reflection upon the brave and gallant spirit of the beautiful cave girl to admit that her heart faltered within her as she was borne, naked and struggling, within the cabin of the corsair chief.

With one booted foot the corsair kicked shut the door behind him. The furiously struggling girl he dumped unceremoniously onto his bed, a narrow bunk built into the curving hull of the pirate vessel. Then he stood grinning down at her as she lay, panting and disheveled and completely at his mercy.

For her part, Darya of Thandar took in the tall, commanding form of her captor with rage and detestation and a very natural amount of fear. Also very natural to the cave girl was the intense curiosity she felt as she examined with puzzlement the man who had seized her.

He was tall and hawk-faced, his lean, strong jaw adorned by a crisp trim of beard which was either naturally red in coloration or dyed to that hue. With the exception of the hulking Drugars, whose brawny, apelike forms were adorned by a short pelt of dirty russet fur, Darya had never before seen a man with red hair.

Nor a man so strangely clothed. For the pirate chieftain wore an old-fashioned corselet of overlapping bronze scales, a loose robe-like surcoat of coarsely woven cloth and a scarlet turban of rich silk bound about his brows. Jeweled rings adorned his fingers, a girdle of embossed leather cinched in his waist, boots of scarlet leather with toes that curled up were upon his feet.

The scent of perfume wafted from the folds of his raiment. A slender scimitar of cold steel was thrust through a loop fastened to his girdle; it slapped against his thigh as he moved. He was, all in all, the most curious figure of a man whom the maid had ever set eyes upon.

The information would have meant nothing at all to the girl, but the corsair was, of course, one of the modern descendants of the Barbary pirates who had been the merciless scourge of the Mediterranean many generations in the past.

And the man who now towered over her, tasting her nude loveliness with gloating black eyes, was none other than Kâiradine Redbeard, called Barbarossa—the seventh of his line to bear that once-feared and very famous name. as he was the seventh in direct succession from the notorious Khair ud-Din, pirate king of Algiers and last master of the Barbary corsairs.

And this was the man who had captured her!

* * * *

The reason the Stone Age maiden had never before seen one of the Barbary pirates, nor even one of the high-prowed, red-sailed galleys of Moorish design which they continued to build in imitation of their piratical ancestors, was that the kingdom of Kâiradine Redbeard lay far to the “north” of this part of Zanthodon. Farther up around the curve of the coastline of the Sogar-Jad lay the stone-walled fortress citadel the pirates called El-Cazar.

And while they lived according to the custom of their ferocious ancestors—which is to say by preying upon the tribes and nations of the coast and of those islands upon the breast of the Sogar-Jad which were inhabited by men, or by creatures very much like men—never had the galleys of El-Cazar penetrated far enough into the southern parts of the underground ocean to loot or raid or plunder Darya’s distant homeland, the kingdom of Thandar.

But while the figure and clothing of the Barbary corsair might be strange and unfamiliar to such as Darya, Kâiradine Redbeard had seen many Cro-Magnons of Darya’s kind. For the blond and blue-eyed race of half-savage cavemen were closely akin to many scattered tribes and war clans throughout the Underground World.

Never before, however, had Redbeard laid his dark eyes upon so tempting a morsel of femininity as was Darya of Thandar.

She was indeed an exquisite creature, as she lay there on the bunk glaring up at him with fury and loathing mingled in her wide blue eyes. As she panted for breath, her perfect breasts rose and fell, their delectable pink tips crisped from the coldness of the sea air on her damp skin. The corsair let his eyes travel caressingly down the sleek curve of arm and shoulder, belly and flank and long, slim, tanned thigh.

“By the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, wench, but you are a beauty!” the corsair breathed hoarsely as he reached out to fondle the nude and tempting loveliness sprawled out before him on the rumpled bedclothes.

Then, in the next instant, with a startled cry, he withdrew his hand, nursing it to his corseleted breast. For the girl had struck like an angry viper, sinking her strong teeth almost to the bone into the flesh of his hand. With a harsh oath, he stared at the red blood running down to drip from his fingertips. and raised his other hand to deal the savage girl a heavy blow.

But at that moment there occurred what could only be termed a fortuitous interruption.

To the rear of the corsair’s cabin, which fronted upon the foam that boiled in the ship’s wake, were a broad, curved row of diamond-paned windows.

These swung open suddenly as there came hurtling into the room a bronzed and naked figure, with wet, flying hair whipping about brawny young shoulders. And through this hair glared cold blue eyes, lion-like in their wrath.

As the corsair gaped incredulously, his hand hovering for one indecisive moment above the hilt of his long, curved scimitar—that lithe and naked figure launched itself upon him like a human thunderbolt.

As for Darya of Thandar, the cave girl crouched amid the disordered tangle of the bedclothes, frozen with astonishment.

For the half-naked figure that had burst upon them so suddenly, with his unannounced and unanticipated but nonetheless extremely welcome and timely interruption, was one that she instantly recognized.

And, recognizing him, her blue eyes widened with sheer amazement.

For her intrepid rescuer was a man whom the girl knew very well to be dead.

* * * *

For one long, frozen moment I stared up into the cold black eye of the unwavering gun muzzle. Then I sprang to my feet, hurling One-Eye onto his back with a thump that drew a growling oath.

And faced the three of them.

Fumio I already knew and disliked, for he was a treacherous coward and a preening swine.

Xask I had never seen before, and took in with one searching, curious glance. Slim of build, indeterminate of age, olive-hued, he resembled neither the russet-furred Apemen of Kor nor the stalwart blond savages of Darya’s tribe. His eyes were cold and shrewd and black as ink, and his hair was sleek and neatly trimmed and black as well. But it was his garments that caught and held my stare, for they were of fine, woven cloth—here in this primitive wilderness, where all others save for the Professor and myself went half naked, clad only in tanned hide and furs!

One-Eye sprang to his feet, red murder burning in his little pig-like eye. Spitting curses, he came toward me, swinging his heavy, ape-like arms, the pistol forgotten in the grip of one huge hand.

But the one whom I soon came to know as Xask stayed him. The slender little man laid a thin hand on the Apeman’s shaggy arm and murmured a word or two in his eye ear. Growling and licking his thick lips, One-Eye subsided.

I viewed the three of them with contempt.

“Well, here’s a fine trio of rogues!” I said boldly, deciding that it was best under the circumstances to put a bold front on it before the world. “One-Eye, you’d better put down—and carefully—that piece of iron you thieved from my person, before it explodes and rips your arm off as it split asunder the villainous brain of Uruk, your Chief,” I advised.

Beneath the dirt and matted fur that coated his ugly hide, One-Eye paled suddenly, staring down at the thing he held. And almost had he flung the pistol at my feet, as I had hardly dared hope he would. But Xask again stayed him with a crisp word.

“This is the famous thunder-weapon, then,” murmured the wily former vizier of Kor. “We have heard much about it. Give it to me, One-Eye.”

Not without reluctance, the hulking Neanderthal passed my pistol into the slim hands of the little man in the silken tunic. Xask handled it with cautious respect, turning it over and over in his hands.

“The workmanship is superb,” he breathed at last, “and far beyond the abilities of the artisans of my people. Your tribe, Eric Carstairs, must be far advanced in the arts of civilization. You must teach me how to work the device”

I folded my bare arms across my chest and gave him a cool, level look.

“I’d rather deliver a box of dynamite to a murderous maniac than teach you how to use it,” I said contemptuously.

A small smile hovered briefly about his thin lips.

“Well, as to that, we shall soon see. One-Eye has few virtues, but he is remarkably strong, and among his primitive kind, sheer cruelty is a trait necessary for survival. If it comes down to that, I believe a few minutes alone and helpless and in the grip of those huge paws will have you screaming for the opportunity to teach me how to use the weapon,” Xask said cleverly. And One-Eye leered and balled one huge fist suggestively.

I gave Xask stare for stare, and did not permit the slightest flicker of expression to mar my mask of nonchalant and contemptuous ease. But I could well imagine the brutalities of which the savage Neanderthal was fully capable, and my heart sank within me, wondering how much suffering I could endure in his grip before my will crumbled and my resolve broke.

It is not an easy question for any man to have to ask himself. And while I am, perhaps, bolder and stronger than most, and have lived a desperate life crowded with danger, the thought of torture touches the secret craven hidden in every man.

I did not care to have to put my own courage to that test.

“But,” smiled Xask with an easy shrug, “for the moment I am weary and also hungry. Fumio, bind our prisoner and see to it that he cannot wriggle free. One-Eye, come and help me build up the fire again…for I perceive that our friend did not entirely finish his fish dinner, and it has been long since I myself dined.”

They bound me, Fumio twisting my hands behind my back with cruel, numbing strength, and left me propped against a boulder while they rested at their ease, basking before the fire, leisurely finishing my meal for me.

And all the while, Xask eyed the automatic with shrewd, thoughtful, clever eyes.

CHAPTER 5

The Vampire Leech

When Professor Percival P. Potter, Ph.D., saw the thing that came slithering out of the shadows of the jungle, three things occurred almost simultaneously.

He paled to the color of fresh milk; his heart sank into what remained of his waterlogged boots and remained there, feebly palpitating; and his scientific curiosity awoke within him to acute and fascinated intensity.

During the weeks that he had spent here in the Underground World, the Professor had seen a wide assortment of rare and remarkable survivals from the remote eons of Earth’s distant past.

The omodon, or great Cave Bear of the Ice Age, and its contemporaries, the wooly mammoth which the men of Zanthodon call the thantor and the dreaded sabertooth tiger, the vandar. As well, he had viewed with awe and amazement survivals from the Age of Reptiles, such as the grymp, or triceratops, the plesiosaur, which the primitives call the yith, and that fantastic flying dragon of the dawn, the mighty pterodactyl—the thakdol, as the men of the Underground World term it.

But the elderly savant had also observed species hitherto unknown to men of science and as yet unrecorded in their fossil histories, and had heard of yet others unfamiliar to him and probably unknown—such as the enormous albino spiders called the vathrib, and a kind of giant serpent, the xunth, which attains a length of more than thirty feet.

The creature which now came creeping upon him out of the underbrush was like nothing which Professor Potter had ever seen or heard of before.

It was a huge, slimy, crawling slug or leech, and it was nearly five feet in length. The curved back of the creature was in color a slick, leathery brown, but its under-surface was tender pink in hue.

That tender and fleshy underbelly was lined with hard suckers, like craters left by a broken pustule. The Professor shuddered in loathing at the thought of those suckers clasping naked human flesh, and sucking therefrom the hot blood of men, as do the smaller leeches of the Upper World.

But the most horrible and repellent feature about the monstrous leech was not its size or its nature, but the uncanny gleam of cold, inhuman intelligence that burned in its eyes.

For the front portion of the enormous slug-like thing tapered into something like a curled snout. This obscene proboscis—it could hardly be dignified by calling it a head—bore rows of small, gleaming red eyes. These were six in all. And within them glowed an alien sentience that was appalling: they possessed at once the chill, unwinking fascination of the eyes of a cobra…and an intellect vast, frigid, awesome.

The unblinking gaze of those six staring eyes held the old man frozen where he stood, as the gaze of a serpent reputedly is able to root to the spot the helpless fowl which is to be its prey.

Dizzily, the Professor stared into that febrile, unwavering and multiple glare. In his fear-frozen mind, it seemed that the six eyes expanded like unto mad red moons, until staring into them was like staring into the lambent but motionless depths of a sea of scarlet luminance.

And all the while that it held the old man rooted to the spot with its unwinking and hypnotic stare, the monstrous leech-like thing crept slowly nearer and nearer to where he stood.

Sick with fear, petrified with fascination, the Professor dimly guessed that the gigantic leech lived upon the blood of men and of beasts, much as do the smaller leeches he was familiar with in the world above. They are noisome and squeamish-making, but due to their smallness, can do a fullgrown man little harm.

But the leech that slithered and crept toward him now was nearly as tall as he was.

And the horrible mouths of those crater-like excresences that lined its pink and tender underbelly could suck a man dry in minutes.

There was nothing the old man could do to defend himself against the slimy vampire leech. Fast fixed in the hypnotic gaze of those snakelike eyes, he was utterly unable to move so much as the tip of one finger. And even if he had been able to move, his back was set against a sheer wall of unbroken stone, and the only aisle through the dense, thick wall of solid vegetation was the aisle down which the loathsome slug came slithering toward him.

Cold sweat slicked the old man’s bald brow. It ran down the insides of his thighs and down his bony ribs. Fear and loathing such as he had never before experienced or even imagined rose within his heart. Sick with horror and disgust, he stared into the soulless glare of those inhuman eyes, and watched the most hideous death known to him as it crept to his very feet.

Now that wriggling proboscis touched the toe of his boot, all the while holding him entranced and helpless with the glare of its unwinking multiple eyes.

He endured the sensation—although his skin crawled and sickness was in the pit of his belly—as it fumbled at his feet.

Then—horribly!—it reared up before him with a lithe, snaky motion ghastly to watch.

For one unbearable instant those hideous eyes stared at the same level directly into his own.

And then it was upon him, and the Professor felt his consciousness dim into roiling blackness as he sank into the loathsome embrace.

And he knew no more.

* * * *

I must now turn back from the course of my narrative to recount certain events which transpired only a little earlier. If you have perused the first portion of the story of my adventures in Zanthodon the Underground World, you will recall how the Professor and the young Stone Age boy, Jorn the Hunter, found a narrow pass which wound through the cliffy walls of the Peaks of Peril, and how they emerged to view the shore and the lagoon and the amazing vessel of the Barbary pirates—whose presence here in the Underground World neither of them had ever suspected.

When Jorn exited from the mountain pass just in time to see his lost Princess borne a naked and helpless captive aboard the pirate galley, the brave cave boy did not for one moment hesitate to spring to her rescue.

Without a word to his companion, the warrior flung his lean, strong body into the seething waters that boiled in the wake of the Moorish galley.

As the half-naked lad clove the waves, heading directly for the strange ship—whose like he and his people had never seen before—the sailors along the rail caught sight of him and raised their voices to hail their captain, who had just come aboard, burdened with the struggling cave girl.

“O, reis Kâiradine! Behold!” they shouted, pointing. And the hawklike gaze of the Barbary pirate had narrowed, considering. He could not help admiring with faint astonishment the reckless and foolhardy daring of the savage boy, to strive singlehandedly to rescue the savage girl whom Kâiradine presumed to be his jungle sweetheart. But he wished to be gone from this place, and to enjoy his prize at leisure.

Therefore he had raised his jeweled hand carelessly in a languid gesture. And in the next instant his pirates unlimbered their horn bows, nocking barbed and deadly arrows and drawing the bows until the feathered shaft nestled against their ears.

An instant before the murderous rain of arrows hissed about him, Jorn sucked in a deep, hasty breath, and dove to the shallow bottom of the lagoon. He had just sunk into the depths as the deadly hail tore the muddy waters to froth. So closely simultaneous had been his diving to the bottom and the fall of the vicious barbed rain directly where his body had been but an instant before, that the sailors, squinting into the bright, dancing waters, believed they had slain the youth.

Moments later, the pirate galley came about into the breeze and swung out into the bosom of the Sogar-Jad. But, unbeknownst to any aboard the vessel, clinging to the keel was a stalwart youth with murder in his heart.

Pausing only to catch his breath, Jorn swung himself up out of the fuming wake and clambered up the rudder to a position just below the windows of the captain’s cabin, which gave forth a view of the ship’s wake.

Clutching the wooden sill in strong, wet hands, Jorn levered himself up and peered through the panes to see Darya struggling naked on the bed with the corsair towering above her, one heavy hand raised to deal the girl a resounding buffet.

Thus had Jorn, without a moment’s pause for thought, pulled himself up and hurled through the swinging windows to spring upon the astounded Barbary pirate like a striking leopard. He bore the larger man to the floor beneath the impact of his hurtling weight, and in the next instant his strong hands locked about the throat of the corsair, just beneath his thin fringe of red beard.

As Kâiradine kicked and struggled, striking Jorn about the face and shoulders, the savage boy buried his face in the pirate’s breast to avoid his stinging blows; and all the while his sinewy hands closed upon the throat of his gasping adversary with throttling pressure.

As for the pirate, his mouth was open, froth beading his thin lips and flecking his fringe of trim beard. His face blackened as he strove with starved and laboring lungs to suck in one precious breath of air, and a red mist darkened before his gaze while a stealthy numbness crept like some insidious venom through his veins. Taller and stronger was the older man, and in an even match there was little doubt that Kâiradine would, with some effort and a bit of good luck, have been able to best the savage youth.

But when the boy’s leap had bowled the pirate over, his turbaned brow had struck the edge of the bunk with stunning force. Half unconscious from the numbing blow, even the sinewy strength of the pirate chieftain was of little avail against the tigerish fury of the cave boy. And this terrible truth burned like a branding iron through the darkening brain of Kâiradine Redbeard as he sank into swirling darkness and knew no more.

“Reis? Lord Kâiradine? Is aught amiss?” came startled voices at the door, and the drumming of pounding fists. It was obvious that the noise of their struggle had aroused the pirate’s crew to the defense of their chieftain. Reluctantly, Jorn let his crushing grip loosen about the throat of the pirate. Automatically, the unconscious corsair drank into his starved lungs a delicious gulp of fresh sea air.

“Jorn!” cried Darya, springing from the bunk. “We must be gone from here before they come to aid him—”

The boy nodded. Seizing up Darya, he flung her through the open window. As she fell into the sea he sprang upon the sill, and launched his lithe bronzed body after her.

In an instant, both had vanished in the boiling waters of the ship’s wake. And when, a moment later, the wild-eyed corsairs burst into the cabin to find their captain half-throttled and semi-conscious on the floor and his young captive vanished as if into thin air, the superstitious pirates rolled their eyes in fright at each other, and mumbled half-forgotten texts from the Book of the Prophet.

In their tension and excitement, the corsairs did not notice that the rear windows of the cabin were even at that moment swinging slowly shut as the pirate galley pitched to the roll of the waves. Had Jorn burst through the portal, smashing his way into the cabin in a shower of shattering glass, the sailors would at once have realized the method of exit employed by the captive cave girl. But this had not been necessary, for Jorn had thrust the windows open with a nudge of his shoulders as he had levered himself up to the sill.

Hence the vanishing of the girl was a mystery which struck uncanny fear into their wild and untutored hearts.

For a grown man, in the full noontide of his strength, to be beaten to the floor and half-strangled to death by a mere slip of a wench scarcely out of her teens—who then inexplicably dissolved into empty air, leaving not a trace behind—caused the pirates to recall, with a shuddering foreboding, every weird and frightful legend they had ever heard whispered of the fearsome and mysterious Jinn.

1 Survive it did, and it came into my hands by curious means I am still not permitted to disclose. Suffice it to say, however, that the first volume of Eric Carstairs’ account of his adventures in Zanthodon has been edited by myself and was recently published by Wildside Press under the title of Journey to the Underground World. Since I am unable to explain how the manuscript came into my possession, my publishers have chosen to regard this as purely a work of fiction, placing no credence in my claims that the story is presumably a true account, and it was published under the name of Lin Carter.

2 Such directions are, of course, utterly meaningless in this sub­terranean world where the sun never shines. Lit forever by the perpetual phosphorescence of the cavern’s roof, the Underground World and its denizens have no need for such referents. But I believe Eric Carstairs uses such terms as north, south, east and west in the manner of a convenient verbal shorthand. The Cro-Magnons had yet to invent the compass.

3 Drugars, in the universal language of Zanthodon, means “the Ugly Ones,” and is used by the Cro-Magnons to refer to the Neander­thals. It may be presumed that, among themselves, the Drugars employ a more polite name for their own race. Panjani means “smoothskin” and is used by the Neanderthals to describe the Cro-Magnons, who doubtless also have another name for themselves.

4 Remarkable, indeed, but doubtless natural enough, in a world devoid of day and night, whose climate remains eternal sum­mer, without the cycle of the seasons or the grand wheeling of stars and constellations. The denizens of such a world would probably have no reason to invent so abstract a concept as that of time.