PART V: SOLDIERS FROM YESTERDAY

CHAPTER 21

HOW NIEMA FOUND ZUMA

When the huge, hairy giant burst growling from the underbrush to jab his crude spear at the naked breast of Zuma, the black warrior instinctively leaped backward and raised his own Aziru assegai in defense. The two circled each other warily while a second apelike creature, obviously female with full bare breasts, cowered fearfully amid the shrubbery.

Zuma had never faced an opponent so large and impressively muscled, or at least not a human opponent. Or was the growling creature before him fully human? His broad, sloping shoulders and long apelike arms were matted with russet fur, and his low, jutting brow and prognathous jaw made him resemble a beast as much as a man. Zuma had lived all of his days in Zanthodon and therefore had never seen a gorilla such as dwell in the jungle’s of the upper world, but he had heard fearsome tales told of such dangerous manlike creatures from the lips of his grandsires, and this was the first thought that rose to his mind.

The hairy Apeman jabbed at Zuma’s breast, but the black with swiftness and agility deflected the spear with his own, although the strength of his foe’s thrust jolted the black to his very heels.

In a contest of sheer muscle, Zuma knew, he stood little chance against so huge an enemy. All he could hope for was that his intelligence and quickness were of an order superior to that of the Apeman.

He aimed a cunning thrust at the hairy beastman’s abdomen, and, as he had hoped, the other lowered his spear to deflect it. In the same instant, his belly-stroke having been a mere feint, Zuma’s point flashed for the other’s thick throat.

Gorah—for of course it was she—spied the feint in the same moment, and cried out in fear and warning.

“—Hurok!”

Zuma managed to turn his thrust awry in the very nick of time. Amazement flashed in his dark eyes and he stood back, half-lowering his assegai.

“Are you truly the one called Hurok?” he asked.

Blinking curiously, his foe lowered his crude spear.

“Hurok is Hurok,” he growled. “But how can that name mean aught to one whom the eyes of Hurok has never beheld ere this?”

Zuma grinned. “I am a friend of Eric Carstairs and the white warriors,” he explained swiftly. “They have mentioned your name in Zuma’s presence and have related of their search for their missing comrade. I am Zuma, a warrior of the Aziru people.”

Hurok examined the tall, lithe black warrior narrowly, rather liking what he saw. Slowly he grounded his weapon and a huge smile creased his thick lips.

“If you are a friend of Black Hair, as am I, then it is good that Hurok and Zuma did not slay each other,” he said in slow, deep tones.

Zuma grinned and dropped his own weapon.

“Things could not have turned out happier for Zuma,” the black declared. “In truth, the strength of Hurok’s arms is such that Zuma is relieved there is no need for us to fight one another. Eric Carstairs and his friends will be pleased that Hurok has returned to Zanthodon, for they were bewildered by your disappearance and have traveled hither in search of you.”

Hurok dragged the reluctant she female from the bushes and proudly displayed her to the Aziru.

“Hurok returned to the country of Kor to fetch hither a mate from among the shes of his people,” he explained. “Is she not a fine she?”

“She is indeed, and Hurok has every reason to be proud,” said Zuma, with some prevarication. In all honesty, the Neanderthal woman looked unappetizing to him, and his memory summoned forth the image of the slim and beautiful young woman of whom he nightly dreamed and for whom he had sought so long.

Gorah then tugged at the powerful arm of her mate and pointed timidly back up the shore.

“O Hurok,” she said timidly, “behold where another dark-skinned one approaches!”

Zuma turned to see the person to which the Neanderthal woman referred, and froze as if rooted by sorcery to the spot. For a long instant, the dazed warrior believed himself caught up in another of his nightly dreams, for the long-legged, slim and beautiful black woman who came sprinting lightly down the beach to where he stood in converse with the two Korians was none other than his beloved Niema!

Calling her name, he ran to meet her and caught her up in his strong arms. As she was crushed against the stalwart chest of her beloved, held tightly in the embrace of those powerful arm’s, her cheek against his naked breast, feeling the pounding of his heart, Niema felt bliss such as she had only dreamed of. Zuma covered her beautiful face with fierce, happy kisses and she smiled and lifted her lips to his.

After a time, he held her away from him at arm’s length, his face serious, his eyes stern.

“Niema, daughter of Kirah and Junga, virgin of the Aziru, I, Zuma, the son of the chief Waza, claim you for my mate against all the world,” he said formally. “Look not henceforth with the eyes of love upon another warrior, and, for his part, Zuma will no longer look with desire upon any other woman.”

She smiled, saying nothing. The ceremonial phrase did not require her acquiescence. But then Zuma spoke another query, softly, for no ears to hear but her own.

“Is this what Niema truly wishes in her heart?” he asked.

“Niema could not ask for more than this,” she said simply, “unless to pray that the Ancestors permit the loins of Niema to bear many strong sons and healthy daughters sprung from the seed of Zuma of the Aziru.”

While the two Neanderthals watched with only dim comprehension, the two briefly embraced, exchanged a chaste kiss, and turned smiling to face the Korians.

“Hurok and Gorah of Kor,” the warrior said formally, “this is my mate, Niema.

“Is she not beautiful to behold?” he asked, grinning proudly.

Hurok admitted that she was, although privately he thought the black woman much too skinny and vastly preferred Gorah, whose proportions were ampler. But everyone to his own taste, he thought to himself.

The mating ritual of the Aziru is short and simple. By publically claiming Niema before all challengers, Zuma had married her.

It was that simple.

* * * *

Tharn and his fellow chief saw to it that their people had crossed the deep crevasse and were assembled in good order on the far side. The herd of grymps had moved far off in the eastern corner of the plain and were by now too far distant to be of any potential danger to the Cro-Magnons.

At council, it was decided that the tribes should skirt the marshy borders of the swamp, circling them in order to march across the plain and reach the jungles of the south.

Long ago, at the very beginning of our adventures in the Underground World of Zanthodon, Professor Potter and I had gone by this same route into the north, when we were captives of the Neanderthal slavers from Kor. It was during this brief but irksome period of captivity that we had first made the acquaintance of Darya and Jorn, and the villainous Fumio. Hurok of Kor had been one of the warriors accompanying the slave-raid, of course, so all of these parts of Zanthodon were more than familiar to us.

Tharn regretted the absence from the tribes of my own company, although he understood and sympathized with our desire to find the missing Hurok before continuing on south to Thandar; and he was annoyed that his daughter Darya had gone back into the jungle to find Eric Carstairs.

He was reluctant to venture into the southern jungles until all of us were rejoined to the tribes.

“Let us camp on the edges of yonder jungle,” he said to Garth, “within easy view of our missing friends when they emerge from the brush.”

“That is agreeable to me,” said Garth. “And may I suggest that it would be wise to leave the felled trees in place so as to afford an easy bridge across the abyss for them when they arrive on the scene.”

Tharn of Thandar agreed that this was a sensible idea, and issued commands to his chieftains to set up camp once they had crossed the small plain, circled the swampy area, and reached the jungle’s edge.

This was accomplished in very little time, and, while the scouts and huntsmen ranged afield to procure food for the meal, youths and oldsters dug fire pits in the floor of the grassy plain and women and girls constructed braces and spits from tree branches, wherefrom to suspend the hunters’ kill above the coals.

After the meal was slain, cleaned, cooked and eaten, while all those not stationed on sentry duty were bedding down for the sleeping period, Tharn stood with strong arms folded upon his mighty breast, staring with brooding eyes back across the plain and the abyss to the edges of the jungle.

There Garth and his mate, Nian, joined him.

“Is all easy in your heart, my brother?” the High Chief of Sothar solicitously inquired. Tharn nodded somberly.

“My country of Thandar lies only a few wakes’ march to the south of these jungles,” he said. “Very soon we will return to our villages and you will enter the new home of your people, and our tribes will be joined in friendship forever. It is only that I wish that Eric Carstairs and his warriors, and Darya the gomad were with us.”

Garth nodded understandingly, saying nothing. He knew that Zanthodon is always full of surprises, and that in the weird subterranean cavern world, the unexpected usually happens.

They turned away to seek their rest, leaving Tharn to brood on the missing.

CHAPTER 22

WHEN COMRADES MEET

“What the devil am I supposed to do with you!” repeated the Professor, and indeed it was a bit of a problem.

Baron Von Kohler regarded him thoughtfully.

“If I may ask a question, Herr Doktor,” he said, “then permit me to inquire, now that the war is over and ended, are our two countries still enemies?”

Professor Potter slowly shook his head.

“No, as a matter of fact, sir, they are firm friends and allies,” he said reluctantly. The German officer smiled.

“Then, since we are no longer at war with each other, cannot you and I, and the pretty fraulein here, emulate our governments and be, if not exactly friends—for friendship must be earned before it is returned—at least allies?”

The Professor thought it over, chewing on his moustache.

Von Kohler smiled. “After all, we are civilized white men marooned in an unknown world among primitive savages and terrible beasts, a world torn by storm and earthquake, where deadly perils are to be found on every side. Should not civilized gentlemen stand together against the common dangers with which we are so continuously beset?”

The Professor looked at him with candid suspicion.

“Your words are persuasive, and peaceable, my dear Baron,” he admitted. “But it is difficult for me to decide whether they are honestly representative of the emotions within your heart, or, as seems more than likely, prompted by the fact that my spearpoint is leveled at that same organ.

“In a word, sir,” he added bluntly, “I do not know whether I can trust you.”

The officer nodded thoughtfully, with a charming smile. “Your caution is only common sense, I suppose,” he admitted. “And were I in your position, sir, I have no doubt that I would feel the same. Well, then, what are we to do? I cannot remain long absent from my camp, for my superior is gravely injured and, before long, one of the two men under my command will come looking for me. If you will permit me to return to my camp, I give you my word of honor as an officer and a gentleman that I shall neither interfere with your own freedom nor attempt to molest either you or the young fraulein.”

They both glanced at the Mauser which lay at their feet.

“I am, however, reluctant to brave the hazards of these jungles without the comfort and security of my rifle,” Von Kohler added.

“I can understand that,” muttered the Professor fretfully. “As I am reluctant to permit you to resume possession of the firearm, while the girl and myself have nothing wherewith to defend ourselves against you save for these flimsy spears.”

“We are on the horns of a dilemma, then, as one of your English poets has so graphically put it,” said the officer. “In all candor, Herr Doktor, I wish that I could think of a way in which to demonstrate decisively to you that my men and I mean you and the young lady no harm, and would in fact desire to become friends and allies with you and your people. But, alas, I have nothing but the words uttered from a sincere heart—”

At that moment someone cleared his throat behind them.

“Herr Oberlieutenant, I am here!” said a guttural voice in German. The Professor felt his heart sink into his boots, or would have, if he had been wearing any boots, which he was not.

He turned to see a second German in tattered army uniform, leveling a Mauser rifle at himself and Darya.

Heaving a gusty sigh, the old scientist let the spear drop to the ground as Von Kohler knelt and recovered his own rifle, which he snapped to safety and slung over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Schmidt, your intervention is a timely one,” he said crisply. Then, turning to the old scientist, he said with equal crispness:

“And now, Herr Doktor, the conditions are reversed. How does it please you to no longer have the upper hand?”

* * * *

My hunters had mostly returned with game, which we cleaned and began to cook. We had dug a fire pit in the sandy shores of the underground sea, and were relaxing when a far-off halloo called to our attention the return of the missing hunter, Varak.

His companions were such a surprising and a welcome sight that we sprang to our feet in delighted amazement.

“Jorn! Yualla!” I exclaimed. The two youngsters were grinning broadly as we crowded around, all talking excitedly at once. Since none of us had ever expected to see them alive and whole again, our excitement was understandable.

“Yualla,” I said, hugging the smiling girl, “your father, Garth, will certainly be relieved to see you, for he long since presumed you slain by the thakdol.”

“Where is my father, and our people?” she asked. I pointed into the jungles.

“The tribes are on their way south to the land of Thandar, your new home,” I said. “Nor are they very far ahead, for we but recently parted from the host in order to find Hurok of Kor—”

Jorn, who had grown to love the huge, hulking old fellow during their march across the plains of the north to the range of mountains known as the Walls of Zar, grabbed my arm.

“What has become of Hurok?” he demanded. I shrugged helplessly.

“He left us during the sleep-period,” I explained. “We tracked him here, to the shores of the Sogar-Jad, but can go no farther. We believe that he returned to his island homeland for some reason, but whether or not he will return to rejoin us on the mainland, we do not know.”

“Have you seen Niema?” interrupted Yualla of Sothar, looking around her, hoping to see her new friend.

“Who is Niema?” I asked.

“A beautiful, tall woman,” Jorn informed us, “who joined us in the mountains and captured Xask and that little villain, Murg.”

“Xask and Murg, eh?” growled huge Gundar at my side. “Are those two still about?” The giant Goradian had known of Xask’s villainies while a gladiator, fighting at my side in the arena of Zar during the Great Games. And he had heard tell of Murg since then. We all looked at one another with grim consternation, for while nobody had much to fear from pitiful little Murg, Xask was a wily and cunning foe, and an adversary to be reckoned with.

“Jorn forgot to tell you that Niema is black of skin,” offered Yualla. My frown cleared, for now I recognized the name as that of the black woman for whom Zuma had been searching.

I opened my mouth to say as much, when the swift movement of events made my remark unnecessary.

Varak yelled excitedly, pointing with his spear. We turned to look down the beach and saw a most welcome sight, indeed. For toward us strode a grinning Zuma with his arm about the supple waist of a stunningly handsome black woman garbed and armed as he…and behind them waddled the huge, hairy form of Hurok of Kor, accompanied by a smaller, slighter Korian, obviously the female of the species.

Before long we were all together again, and many tales were told and Zuma introduced us to his mate, Niema of the Aziru, while Hurok made us known to his she, Gorah of Kor.

Niema greeted us modestly, beaming with happiness at finding her beloved Zuma, but Gorah was more timid and reluctant and hung back shyly, saying little and half afraid to meet our eyes. She had seen very few of the panjani and had always been taught to regard them as her implacable enemies, and the enemies of all her kind.

For our part, however, we looked the Neanderthal woman over with frank curiosity, never having before seen a female of the race. As I have mentioned, Gorah was smaller and lighter of build than her mighty mate, and where his muscular body was thatched with matted russet fur, her skin was less hairy than his, and the fur was more downlike and silky, a lovely shade of coppery-red. It grew on her forearms to the elbow, and on her heavy thighs, and a patch grew between her shoulder-blades, while the hair on her head was heavier and longer than Hurok’s. As well, her features were less crude and more refined than his, although she was certainly not to be considered handsome beside the Cro-Magnon women.

Still and all, in the eyes of Hurok she was beautiful, and, after all, that’s what really mattered.

“Now we are missing only the old man, your friend, for our number to be complete once again,” sighed Varak, sliding his arm around his own mate, little Ialys of Zar. I nodded grimly.

“I would have thought the old fool would have returned quite a while ago,” I grumbled, “since the volcanic action has subsided long since.” And it was true: an hour or so had gone by since the eruption and earthquake had shaken the jungle and split the southern plain, and still Professor Potter had not returned to our camp.

“Then it is the suggestion of Zuma that we go and find the old man,” said that warrior.

By this time we had all eaten, sharing our food with the new arrivals, who were rested from their various exertions and adventures, so we broke camp, extinguished the cook-fire by raking dry sand over the glowing coals, took up our weapons and entered the jungles.

“See! Did not Varak speak the truth awhile back?” exclaimed Varak, pointing to where a crude mark had been cut in the bark of a tall cycad.

And I remembered that he had earlier predicted that the Professor would not be foolish enough to try to go through the jungle without blazing a trail so that he could find his way back to our encampment on the beach, since one part of the jungle looks so very much like every other part of the jungle, and it is easy to lose one’s way therein—especially if one lacks the Zanthodonians’ innate sense of direction.

“Thank heaven for small favors!” I said grumpily.

Following the trail the Professor had left, we moved swiftly through the jungle country.

CHAPTER 23

THE LOST TRAIL

With a gloomy look on his face, Professor Percival P. Potter surrendered his spear and Darya did likewise, while Manfred Von Kohler stood smiling at his ease, his own rifle now slung upon one shoulder.

“Well, sir, we are your prisoners now, for the sudden appearance of your comrade has quite effectively turned the tables,” said the old scientist stiffly.

Von Kohler smiled broadly and clicked his boot heels together, inclining his head in a brief nod.

“I thank you, Herr Doktor! And I must admit that this turn of events pleases me deeply, for it gives me precisely the sort of opportunity I was just wishing for.”

While the Professor and Darya looked at him uncomprehendingly, the officer turned to the second soldier who stood at the far side of the glen, his rifle leveled.

“Corporal Schmidt!”

“Ja, Herr Oberlieutenant?”

“You will oblige me by putting up your rifle,” said the officer crisply. Schmidt blinked, but obeyed, slinging the Mauser over his shoulder.

Von Kohler turned to the Professor and the Cro-Magnon princess.

“Herr Doktor, if you and the fraulein would likewise oblige me, you would take up your weapons again,” he said.

The Professor wasted no time in stooping to snatch up his spear and Darya took up her own.

“Now you are armed again, and our firearms are across our shoulders,” said the Baron. “Corporal Schmidt’s unexpected appearance on the scene has granted me the very opportunity I wanted—the perfect way to prove to you and the fraulein that I and my soldiers wish to be your allies, not your captors or even your enemies!”

The Professor gaped.

“Well, upon my soul,” he stammered helplessly. But Darya proved herself quicker on the uptake than was the savant. With a warm, generous smile, she shouldered her spear and stepped forward to lay the palm of her hand lightly upon the breast of the German officer. It was the simple Cro-Magnon equivalent of a friendly handshake, the welcome to a new ally.

And the officer gallantly returned the gesture in his own way, by lifting her hand gently to his lips with a courtly bow which the jungle girl privately thought charming.

“Now that these matters have been settled,” Von Kohler said, turning to Professor Potter again, “I really must return to my Colonel; I could wish that you and the fraulein might accompany Schmidt and me back to our camp to enjoy what rude hospitality we have to offer, but if you wish to return to your own camp, I will certainly understand, and let us part as friends, on the understanding that the world is small and we shall all doubtless meet again.”

The Professor cleared his throat.

“Kerr-hem! Well, and as for that, we have not been absent long enough to be seriously missed, or to cause our friends to worry concerning our safety and welfare, and…Holy Hippocrates, sir, I have some little understanding of medicine, and feel obligated to offer your Colonel whatever help I may be able to give—”

“I am delighted to accept your kind offer, Herr Doktor! Our camp lies in that direction—Schmidt! Fall in behind to guard our rear.”

And with those words, Manfred Von Kohler turned, offering Darya his hand to assist her over a fallen tree, and the four of them disappeared in the underbrush.

* * * *

Xask followed Darya, the Professor, and the two German’s back to their camp in the jungle, with poor Murg whimpering at his heels. The vizier was afire with lust to get his hands on one of the thunder-weapons with which the strangers seemed so lavishly equipped. Surely, before very long, an opportunity for him to do so would present itself, for neither the Professor nor Darya knew that he was anywhere in the vicinity, and the German soldiers were not even aware of his existence.

From the cover of the underbrush between the tall trees, he and Murg observed as the party entered the camp. Yet another soldier was on guard with yet another Mauser rifle, and he clicked his heels and saluted with the weapon as the Oberlieutenant came up to him. They conferred briefly, and then Von Kohler led his guests to the rude hut where an older, white-haired man lay on a crude litter. His garments had been torn away from his side, and a gory mass of bandages was held there by strips of cloth. It would seem that the Colonel had been gored in the side by a beast, and from the looks of him, Xask shrewdly guessed that the older man had not very long to live.

The camp was situated at the edge of a small stream, with its back against the shelter of large rocks. Bedrolls were neatly lined up beside a small fire which crackled merrily, browning plucked-and-gutted zomaks suspended above the flames on a spit made from tree branches.

While the Professor knelt to gingerly undo the wad of blood-soaked bandages and examined Colonel Dostman’s injuries, Xask quickly surveyed the camp. Obviously, when the next sleeping-period came, the bedrolls would be occupied, with at least one of the Germans standing guard lest hostile natives or dangerous beasts attack the sleeping men.

Xask had no way of guessing which of the German soldiers would occupy which bedroll, but he noticed that one of the rolls of blankets was nearer to the huge rocks than were the others. He thought he could circle the camp without causing any sound, and, with a little bit of luck, creep through the boulders to purloin one of the thunder-weapons, which would doubtless be laid on the greensward beside its slumbering owner.

Finding a secure niche, he curled up on a bed of dry leaves between the enormous roots of a giant tree, and patiently awaited his chance to steal the rifle; leaving Murg to watch the camp.

* * * *

For a time we followed the trail the Professor had blazed on the trees of the jungle without difficulty. He seemed to be heading directly south and east, heading straight for Fire Mountain without diverging from his path, save to go around natural obstacles.

And then, quite suddenly, the trail of marked trees ended. He went on a bit, then paused, looking around. This section of the jungle seemed no different in any way from the other parts of the jungle, and we could not at once determine the reason why the blaze marks had ended so abruptly.

“Perhaps the old man, your friend, was frightened by one of the great beasts,” suggested Warza to me. I shrugged.

“Maybe, but I don’t see any signs of the passage of a beast large enough to have scared the Professor into flight,” I said. And indeed there were no trampled underbrush, broken branches, or footprints in the turf which would have suggested the sudden arrival on the scene of a dangerous predator.

“A vandar prowls silently, gliding through the bushes, and seldom leaves prints,” Jorn pointed out. I had to agree with him, and, armed only with a spear, the Professor would certainly have taken flight before the advance of the giant sabertooth, rather than staying around to fight the cat with so flimsy a weapon.

I turned to Zuma, who, with his sharp eyes and wilderness training, was the best scout in my retinue of companions.

“Perhaps we should stay here, Zuma, while you circle about to see if you can pick up the trail of the Professor,” I suggested.

The black warrior grinned. “Zuma has tracked the fleeting uld across the veldt ere this,” he said without boasting, “and he has no doubt that he can find the spoor of the old man, your friend.”

At his side, Niema spoke up.

“Niema will accompany her mate for two pairs of eyes are better than none,” she offered. But the male Aziru shook his head decisively.

“Niema will remain here with the other women, under the protection of the warriors,” he said firmly.

The black girl bridled for a moment, then smiled demurely and said that she would gladly obey her mate. Her tones were meek and I believe the amazon girl rather enjoyed being told what to do by her man. Most women do, although on this point the women’s liberation movement would doubtless disagree with me, and that strongly.

Without further words, Zuma glided into the brush and was gone. He moved as silently as any Algonquin brave ever did, and was all but invisible in the jungle gloom due to the dark coloration of his skin. I felt confident that if any of us could locate the Professor’s trail, it would be the black warrior.

We settled down to wait. The jungle still seemed as silent as the grave, although the earthquake and the volcanic eruption were over for hours; still the dangerous beasts remained cowering in their lair, or so it appeared. What, then, could have frightened the Professor into flight, in such haste to be gone that he stopped leaving his marks upon the trunks of the trees?

Time would tell, as it always does.

And there was nothing for us to do but wait…and wonder.

CHAPTER 24

THE THUNDER-WEAPON

Professor Potter examined the injuries of Colonel. Dostman and found them as serious as Von Kohler had stated. Half delirious, the older officer was running a fever and his wounds were infected.

With the medicinal virtues of certain leaves and jungle herbs known to Darya of Thandar, which were steeped in boiling water, the Professor cleaned and dressed the Colonel’s wounds. Cold, wet cloths were laid upon his brow and Darya prepared a hearty broth from cooked meat which she fed to the German officer. After a time, somewhat eased of his discomfort, the older man fell into a deep sleep, which the Professor and the Cro-Magnon princess felt would do him probably as much good as had their crude doctoring.

They joined Von Kohler at the campfire and shared the meal together, talking in low tones so as not to disturb their patient.

“I fear it would be gravely unwise to attempt to move your Colonel until ‘tomorrow,’” said Professor Potter, chewing thoughtfully. By this, he meant “until after we have slept again,” but Von Kohler understood his meaning without the need for explanations.

The officer nodded, saying nothing. He had already thanked his two guests in quiet tones for their assistance in tending the wounded man, and there was little more to be said. He refrained from asking their opinion as to whether or not Dostman would soon recover-probably because he felt in his heart that there was little or no hope that the Colonel would ever recover, and wished to spare his guests the painful necessity of admitting the uncomfortable fact.

Von Kohler grimly knew that very soon, perhaps within hours, the sole responsibility of command would devolve upon his shoulders. It was a sobering thought, but it had to be faced. Fortunately, during the long and weary years they had wandered through the swamps and jungles and grassy plains and mountains of the Underground World, seeking a way out of Zanthodon by which they might return again to the Upper World, he had come to know and like and trust the soldiers that had survived, and knew himself capable of their leadership.

But he had gone for so long under the command of his Colonel, that he knew he would for a time feel lost without the wisdom and experience of the older man.

The pleasures of a hot meal made them all sleepy, after the excitements and exertions of the day, so they resolved to take their rest now. In Zanthodon there are no clocks, and time is a purely subjective experience: the folk of the subterranean cavern world sleep when they are sleepy, eat when they are hungry, and wake when they have enjoyed sufficient rest, without recourse to arbitrary schedule’s.

“If you, Herr Doktor, and the young fraulein, would care to, why do you not spend this sleep-period as our guests?” Von Kohler suggested. “Private Borg will take the first guard watch, and there is no need for you to make the return journey through the jungles to rejoin your friends until you have slept.”

Darya and Professor Potter agreed that this was only sensible, and were given the loan of blankets by Schmidt, who seemed in charge of the supplies. Without further ado, the elderly savant and the jungle maid curled up to either side of the campfire and fell asleep. Von Kohler strolled the perimeter of the encampment, and looked in briefly on the sleeping Colonel, before seeking his own rest. Borg stood with his rifle slung at the ready, leaning against the boulders, taking his guardpost.

* * * *

Murg awakened Xask when these things eventuated, and the vizier observed the sleeping camp. He had intended to creep through the boulders, but with Borg stationed there, alert and armed and vigilant, this now seemed to the wily Zarian a risky and less than certain course of action.

Circling the encampment on careful and stealthy feet, Xask approached the rear of the small lean-to in which Colonel Dostman slumbered. The little structure was fabricated from branches tied together with thongs, with palm leaves stretched across the upper parts to afford some protection from the sudden torrential jungle rains.

Creeping up behind the rear of the flimsy structure, Xask peered through the interstices between the wooden sticks. He saw the silver-haired officer stretched out on his litter, blankets tucked about him, obviously in a deep sleep.

Propped against the side of the lean-to, stood the Colonel’s rifle, a Mauser like the others. A gleam of pure greed flamed in the cunning, narrowed eyes of Xask as he discovered himself so temptingly close to one of the thunderweapons he had for so long coveted.

This meant he would not have to attempt to steal one from the sleeping soldiers, risking discovery from Borg, but could safely purloin the Colonel’s weapon from the interior of the little hut.

Xask had carried off from the debacle of the three-way battle between the savages, the corsairs and the Dragonmen of Zar, a slim, sharp knife of that peculiar reddish-silvery metal which the Professor has tentatively identified as orichalcum, the mystery metal of the fabled Atlanteans.

Drawing the blade from its sheath, he sawed stealthily at the thongs which bound the tree branches together to form the rear wall of the lean-to. Erelong, he succeeded in creating an opening large enough for his slender form to make entry. Moving with all of the cautious stealthiness of a stalking cat, the Zarian entered the lean-to and reached out to grasp the precious firearm.

The sleeping officer opened sharp blue eyes and looked at the thief!

Without a moment’s thought or hesitation, Xask struck like a cobra. The Minoan dagger was still clenched in one fist; an instant later it was sunk to the hilt in the throat of the injured man, who stared up at Xask with wide, astonished eyes, which soon were closed in the final sleep of death.

* * * *

Murg lurked miserably at the edge of the clearing, just behind the cover of a thick wall of bushes, whispering woefully to himself. He was, in fact, counting in the only way known to a savage race who have yet to progress farther in their mathematical computations than the number of fingers on their hands.

“…Thakdol…thakdol…thakdol…thakdol,” whispered the little man to himself, according to the prearranged plan in which Xask had sternly instructed him. It had been Xask’s opinion that he would need a diversion to draw the attentions of the sentry from the encampment; and he had commanded Murg to count thakdols on his fingers until he had counted the sum of both hands three times over. Then he was to throw a gourd which Xask had found lying at the base of one of the palmlike trees which grew in this part of the jungle.

This, Xask presumed, would draw Borg away and give him time to enter the camp and steal one of the rifles lying beside the bedrolls of Von Kohler or Schmidt. As we have just seen, the small stratagem proved unneccessary, for at the last moment Xask had switched to a new plan, entering the hut where Colonel Dostman slept. But Murg had no way of knowing this and assumed Xask by this time to be hiding among the huge rocks at the far end of the German camp.

Counting thakdols is dreary, boring work, and it left Murg’s mind free to wander among happier memories and more pleasant vistas of the imagination. The miserable little rogue heartily feared and detested Xask, who used him with casual cruelty, ignoring his feelings. Feverishly did Murg wish that Xask would never return from the German encampment, or that he would be caught, thus affording Murg an excellent opportunity to creep off into the jungle and vanish to some haven of safety which, surely, he could find in this uninhabited wilderness.

But he was afraid not to throw the gourd, fearing that Xask would return and beat him for ignoring his commands. So, when, at length, he had counted the thirtieth thakdol, the little fellow rose, hefted the hollow gourd, and flung it into the depths of the jungle where it thumped and clattered against the trunk of a tree and fell with a muffled thud to the ground.

The clattering noise came from the pebbles which Xask had inserted into the hollow gourd.

Even as Xask had expected, Borg stiffened, swiveling his eyes toward the direction from which this unusual sound had come. He strained his ears, but heard no crackle in the underbrush which would be the sign of a dangerous predator’s furtive advance upon the camp. However, all in all, it would be wiser to investigate the sound, before dismissing it as harmless, reasoned Borg to himself. Charged as he was with the safety of his sleeping officers and fellow-soldier in the camp, the conscientious Borg stepped away from the rocks he had been leaning against, and crossed the clearing to peer through the trees in the direction from which the small sound had come.

The sound had been too small to arouse the sleepers, who still lay wrapped in their blankets.

Now Xask, armed with the stolen Mauser rifle, came from the entrance of the lean-to and crossed the greensward himself, after a quick and careful look at Borg, who had disappeared through the trees, having gone some little ways into the jungle.

On swift feet, Xask crossed to crouch beside one of the blanket-shrouded sleepers. His sharp eyes had, of course, noticed that Professor Potter was among the visitors to the German camp, and, next to the thunder-weapon, he most fervently desired to take captive the one man in all of Zanthodon who knew the secrets of its manufacture.

But, alas, things have a way of turning out wrong, it seems. For Xask himself had been dozing when the Professor and the others took to their rest, and, although Murg had pointed out to his master the blankets under which the Professor slept, Murg had blundered in his identification.

So, when Xask reached out to snatch away the blanket from the sleeper’s face and, with the other hand, thrust the muzzle of the thunder-weapon threateningly into that face, he saw with a start of surprise that it was Darya who blinked amazedly at him from the bedroll.

CHAPTER 25

MURDER!

Prowling like a hunting panther, Zuma glided on silent feet through the thick underbrush of the prehistoric jungles, every sense alert to the presence of danger. The black warrior knew no other life than this, having been born and raised in the kraal of his tribe on the edges of the jungle to the north, where it bordered upon the plain of the thantors. A trained, experienced hunter since boyhood, instructed in the arts of stalking game by the mature men of his dwindling people, Zuma knew the jungle and its ways as well as you and I know our own living rooms.

He knew the thousand small signs which indicate the perils which might lurk to every side—the snapping of a twig beneath the weight of a crouching beast, the rustling in the foliage overhead as leaves gave way to the gliding coils of a monstrous serpent, the sudden deathly silence that falls upon the jungle as the small, timid beasts huddle in trembling terror when the great predators are aprowl.

But when there came to the sensitive ears of Zuma the thump and hollow rattle of the gourd thrown by Murg when it struck the tree, the black warrior froze into instant immobility. Such a sound—slight disturbance though it was—was unfamiliar to the Aziru, and it puzzled him.

Instants later there was borne to his nostrils with the shifting of the breeze the unmistakable scent of burning wood, as from a campfire.

This was followed by a slight rustling in the bushes, as if some large and bulky form were attempting to pass through them.

Without thought, Zuma dropped his assegai and leaped into the air. Catching hold of a low bough he swung himself lightly up into the cover of the leafy branches, flung himself at full length along a broad branch and watched with keen eyes to discover what was about to appear.

The man who stepped through the wall of brush to peer about was strangely clothed to the eyes of Zuma and was a stranger. The black warrior had learned from his experience with Eric Carstairs and the Cro-Magnons that white men, albeit strangers, are not necessarily to be counted as among his enemies; still and all, Zuma had not survived the perils of Zanthodon to this point in time by acting on rash, imprudent impulse. So he held his tongue and watched, and waited.

The man, whoever he was, did not seem to be a Cro-Magnon, for Zuma’s experience with that race had taught him that such have invariably blue or grey eyes and yellow hair, whereas the eyes of this man were brown and his hair the grey of granite boulders. He covered his body with pieces of tan-colored cloth, clumsily and insecurely sewn together, and wore a strange piece of cloth atop his head.

Zuma had never seen a campaign cap such as those once worn by the soldiers of Rommel’s famous Afrika Korps, so he could hardly have identified the item of headgear.

More to the point, the stranger bore in his hands a curious contraption made of blue-black metal, with a thick tube of the stuff at one end and a brace or stock of wood fitted to the other. Zuma knew even less of rifles than he knew of German headgear, but something in the way the apparatus was held gave the black warrior the conviction that the device—whatever it was—was a dangerous weapon.

Invisible in the gloom of the thick foliage, lying without moving a muscle or making the slightest sound, the Aziru warrior observed the stranger, taking no chances.

The stranger looked about this way and that, then went into the trees from which he emerged in a few moments, a rueful grin on his features, sheepishly regarding a dried and hollow gourd for no particular reason that the mystified black could imagine.

Then the stranger turned about and reentered the wall of bushes from which he had come.

Zuma swung lightly to the ground a moment or two later, retrieved his assegai, and stepped into the bushes to investigate.

* * * *

Xask bit his tongue fiercely, to choke back an oath of anger and surprise. Any instant now, the sentry would return to the scene, having investigated the odd sound and finding nothing dangerous—which gave the vizier no time to awaken the Professor. If he tried to do so, the whole camp would be awake and upon him, as two captives are difficult to control and either of them might manage to give the alarm.

Briefly, a vicious thought flashed through Xask’s mind: it would be easier to club Darya into unconsciousness or slip his blade into her, as he had done to the old German officer in the lean-to. Just as swiftly as the idea had occurred to him, the vizier dismissed it. Darya would make as good a hostage as the Professor: holding her, he could force the old scientist to surrender to him on peril of the Cro-Magnon girl’s life.

He urged her to her feet with a brutal gesture. Darya silently obeyed, knowing the power of the weapon which Xask had pointed at her face. But her mind was racing with ideas as the resourceful jungle girl tried to figure a way of arousing the others without causing Xask to pull the trigger.

Alas, no idea good enough to risk her life on occurred to her at the moment.

Xask drove her at gunpoint into the trees which fringed the camping place, and urged her about the camp to the place where he had left Murg.

The little man was surprised and disconcerted to see Xask reappear with the Cro-Magnon princess, but sensibly held his tongue, rather than blurt out questions. One apprehensive look at the murderous expression on Xask’s smooth features made the miserable little fellow decide wisely to restrain his curiosity.

Xask bade Murg bind the girl’s wrists behind her back and gag her with a bit of cloth, which Murg hastily did.

“This way—quickly, now!” hissed Murg. And he guided his captive and his hapless accomplice into the further depths of the jungle where they vanished in the gloom.

* * * *

As soon as Borg returned to the camp, he at once noticed that one of the bedrolls was unoccupied. He recalled that the Cro-Magnon woman had been sleeping there, and did not at once realize that anything was wrong. I suppose he merely assumed that the fraulein had sought the privacy of the bushes in order to relieve nature.

But she did not return.

Remembering that he was supposed to look in on Colonel Dostman from time to time, Borg entered the little lean-to and uttered a shocked, horrified cry which was loud enough to rouse Von Kohler from his slumbers.

Snatching up his rifle the German officer burst into the hut and stared with incredulous horror at the sight which met his eves. The old man lay on his side, eyes open, glazed and sightless. His throat had been slit and bright blood bedabbled his bare chest.

“Gott in Himmel!” breathed Von Kohler, white to the lips. He knelt and swiftly examined the body, but his probing fingers found no pulse. The Colonel was dead.

He glanced up at Borg’s shocked face.

“Did you see anything—anyone?” he demanded.

The soldier came to rigid attention.

“Nein, Herr Oberlieutenant,” he replied stiffly. Then he reported on the sound of the hollow gourd, how he had briefly left the area to investigate, and had returned to find the Cro-Magnon girl missing. Von Kohler pursed his lips thoughtfully. It seemed hardly possible that the young woman should have so brutally murdered an injured, helpless man whom she did not even know, but no other solution presented itself for immediate scrutiny. But what could possibly have been her motive for—

“Herr Oberlieutenant,” said Borg, licking dry lips. Von Kohler followed the direction of the soldier’s pointing finger and realized that Colonel Dostman’s Mauser was not in its accustomed place, propped against the side of the little lean-to. His face hardened: they had few firearms left, and precious little ammunition, so the loss of a single loaded weapon greatly reduced their ability to defend themselves against the savage tribes and ferocious monsters of the jungle.

But then his features relaxed, for his thoughtful gaze, as it strayed about the cramped interior of the small hut, discovered a further item, and that was the opening which Xask had made in the rear wall.

“The murderer entered from the rear,” he breathed. “I believe the savage fraulein to be innocent. Whoever the man was, he must have forced her to accompany him during the few moments you were absent from the scene, investigating the source of the sound you heard, which was obviously planned to divert your attention.”

Rising to his feet, he addressed the soldier.

“Rouse the camp,” he said crisply. “They will not have had time to go far!”