AIR MONSTER
Possibly an hour before dawn, strange things began happening in the night sky near where Doc Savage had lost the trail of Yuttal and Hadi-Mot and their prisoner—Lady Nelia Sealing.
The clouds, which had obscured moon and stars for most of the night, were gradually dissolving. But a few banks of vapor still mantled the heavens. Far below one of these, only a few thousand feet above the earth, a very small wad of gray suddenly appeared.
This wad seemed to stretch like a gigantic woolly worm crawling out of an invisible hole in the sky. It raced on for thousands of yards, then turned sharply and strung a gray column alongside the first.
A close observer might have noted a fleeing dark speck at the head of the gray worm, seeming to pull it along.
This speck was a monster trimotored plane, the engines silenced as perfectly as modern knowledge allowed. It was laying a smoke screen.
Back and forth, it swept. Back and forth! The smoke spread slowly, merging into a vast cloud. Since nature was dispersing her clouds, the aviator was making one of his own.
He even flew off to the sides and loosened a few puffs of gray smoke so the larger cloud would not be suspiciously lonesome.
A red flush suffused the sky. The sun was arriving.
The plane banked abruptly and vanished into the cloud of its own making. There was a breeze at that altitude. But the aviator knew just how fast it was blowing. He had released a number of test smoke puffs and, by watching their movement, obtained the information he desired.
The big cloud was moving along at such a pace that it would be almost above the ramshackle airport when the sun appeared.
Once inside his own cloud, the aviator remained hidden.
* * * *
At the ancient airport, four very relieved flyers greeted the sun. The fourth man had returned some time ago, with word that he had hidden the radio-equipped bomb in the autogyro.
“Savage will never find that pineapple!” he leered, very brave now that daylight was upon them. “I stuck it in the back of the fuselage, but close enough to the cabin to blow ’em all to blazes!”
The four rolled their brown monoplane out of the old hangar. They glanced about nervously, then got in, after one had turned the propeller over until the engine started.
“D’you reckon Savage was really around here last night?” one pondered, as they waited for the cylinders to warm.
“Sure! Didn’t you hear that stick crack?”
In due time, they took off. They pointed the noisy snout of their plane into the north.
“There’s the autogyro!” one shrieked over the engine howl.
“Pretend you didn’t see it!” the man at the controls was warned.
They watched, breath bated. They saw six men enter the autogyro. One of these six seemed to be suffering from an injury, since two of his fellows all but carried him into the plane.
The autogyro eventually took off. It climbed swiftly, as if those aboard were anxious to conceal themselves in the big, gray cloud overhead. The craft chewed its way into the cloud.
For a goodly number of minutes, it lurked there. Those in the brown monoplane, which had been speeding away all this time, became a bit worried.
All four heaved a sigh of relief when the autogyro appeared—following them.
They let the windmill plane trail along for perhaps twenty-five miles, all the while dropping back slowly until their brown ship was leading by no more than two miles.
“Now!” yelled one fiercely.
Another man bent over the radio transmitter and laboriously made a certain combination of dashes and dots.
They watched the autogyro—as long as it was there to watch. For, as the combination was finished, a hideous jinni of smoke and flame seemed to pop out of nowhere and gobble up the gyro. An instant later, the smoke jinni spat out the smoldering bones of the craft. These fell earthward.
There was no audible explosion—the engine of the old brown monoplane had a deafening howl. But the four schemers could see the bomb had done good work. They flew on.
“This oughta put us in solid with Yuttal!” one hazarded, screaming to make himself heard.
* * * *
The brown monoplane receded to a fly speck in the distance. Even the speck vanished. However, a good pair of binoculars could make it visible.
Good binoculars were trained upon it, too. Not one pair, but six. Those who stared were aboard the giant monoplane which had finally come out of the cloud of its own spawning.
Ham was flying the air monster. At Doc’s suggestion, Ham had sped to New York for the plane, which was Doc’s private craft. Ham, in addition to being a brilliant lawyer, could fly with the best and weave a mean smoke screen.
He had taken Doc and the others off the autogyro, which had then been allowed to fly away, controlled by an ordinary robot pilot, in the wake of the brown monoplane. As for the illusion of six men boarding the gyro in the clearing—the sixth man had been a scarecrow of sticks and various garments. The bomb had finished him.
Ham was proud of his cloud. He looked back at it. “Pretty neat, eh?”
Monk surveyed the mass of vapor critically. “Yeah, it’s swell! It’s just the kind of a cloud you’d make. It’s got the shape of a——”
Monk broke off to squawl as if he were a tomcat accidentally stepped on in the dark. He had intended to say the cloud had the shape of a pig, which was not far from the truth. But Ham had given him a crack with the cane.
“If you weren’t flyin’ this tin bird, I’d sure throw you out!” Monk growled.
Doc suggested mildly: “A little more steam, please. Those fellows are far enough ahead that we can start after them.”
Levity—it was merely a way of celebrating the tricking of their enemies—vanished. The trail became grim. They hoped that the brown monoplane would lead them to Yuttal.
To more than Yuttal! To Lady Nelia Sealing! And to those beings who were existing in mysterious slavery.
The pursuit extended into hours. Doc kept far back. Only twice could he discern the brown monoplane with his unaided eye. The others did not see it at all, except through their binoculars.
They passed over Connecticut, going slightly to the west of the State capital. Massachusetts dropped behind. The sun beat warmly on the wings of the great speed plane. The cabin, literally a huge vacuum bottle, was noiseless and comfortable. The men took turns flying and watching, those off duty catching up on their sleep.
In a remote corner of the cabin, Doc took his exercises. They were remarkable, those exercises. They ran two full hours, and Doc had been taking them from his cradle days. They accounted for his terrific strength, the keenness of his senses.
He made his muscles tug and strain against each other; he juggled complex mathematical problems in his head to sharpen his concentration. He had an apparatus which made sound waves of remote frequencies; he had an assortment of scores of different odors which he identified swiftly. A page or two of Braille printing—the writing of the blind—developed his touch.
He had many other things in his routine. Two hours of terrific work!
It made the other five men perspire to watch him. After seeing Doc’s grueling daily work-out, it was no mystery why he had become one of the most remarkable of living men.
* * * *
The southeast corner of New Hampshire unrolled like a green carpet beneath the plane. Then came Maine. Mile after mile of it. The pursuit seemed to have no end.
Doc’s men swapped looks. Monk voiced their thoughts.
“The ghost Zeppelin! It was sighted up here!”
“Does any one want to bet that Zeppelin is any more of a ghost than I am?” Johnny invited hopefully.
“You always want a sure thing!” Monk snorted.
Deep in the Maine woods country, the chase ended. The finish was, as they rather more than expected—the Zeppelin!
Doc was first to sight the craft, to catch the glint of sun on the great, cigar-shaped envelope with its coating of aluminum paint to minimize the absorption of heat.
It lay in a cup of a hollow among the hills, in the center of a natural clearing of considerable extent. The bow was moored to a large tree; the stern was drag-anchored to a weight, probably of logs, which permitted the airship to swing with the breeze.
Doc, who was flying the plane at the moment, banked slowly around, careful not to cant the ship enough in the heavens that it would reflect a betraying sun flash.
He could see the brown monoplane spinning slowly down into the clearing where the sky monster lay.
“Imagine that!” Ham exploded. “Where did that thing come from? What’s it doing here?”
“It might have come from a long way off,” Doc told him. “Those things can make tremendous flights without refueling.”
Ham scratched his head. “Do you think it is the vanished Aëromunde?”
“We are not near enough to be certain, of course. There is neither name nor identification numerals on the craft, you’ll notice. But her construction—she is a bit out of date, as shown by her streamlining—is that of the Aëromunde. We’ll have to get closer before we can be sure.”
“Going to fly over?”
“No. We’ll land and go forward on foot. It’ll mean a tough afternoon of walking. But it is our best bet.”
“If the airship just don’t pull out while we’re tramping through that wilderness!” Ham groaned, peering alternately at the brier patches below, then at his own immaculate garments.
Doc picked a handy lake—the great speed ship was capable of a landing on land or water—and dropped upon the surface. The beach was rocky, so they anchored the craft securely, some distance offshore, and paddled to land in a collapsible rubber boat.
Fashioning back packs out of their supplies—chemicals, electrical equipment, weapons—they trooped into the timber.
* * * *
The going was tough—very tough. It began to look as if the trek to the valley where the air mammoth lay, would be an all-afternoon affair.
“I think I’ll run on ahead of you birds,” Doc decided. “When you get on the scene, don’t go too near the ship. Hang around due south of the valley. There may be guards posted. I’d better say, there are sure to be guards posted. They think we’re dead now, and we don’t want to destroy the illusion. Stay to the south, and I’ll find you.”
Doc swung on ahead, traveling easily, although he bore the heaviest pack of the group by a good many pounds.
If it occurred to his men that south of the valley took in considerable territory for a meeting place, they did not remark on it. They were cognizant of Doc’s somewhat astonishing fund of wilderness lore. He would have little difficulty locating them.
Mounting toward a ridge, the way lay through evergreen trees and small brush. Doc settled into a distance-cutting run. Miles lay ahead, but he gave no thought to fatigue. Not for nothing had he schooled his muscles from childhood.
After crossing several ridges and intervening valleys, he came to a region of swampy ground—not mire, but damp earth covered with big, thickly packed trees. The ground was a mat of brambles and thorny vines.
Doc stopped under a drooping-branch, sank to his haunches, then leaped and caught the branch. A flip put him atop it. He ran along the swaying limb as if performing on a tight rope. A plunge through space to clutch another bough on the next tree—he made a good deal more speed than on the brush-cankered ground.
It was no job for average muscles, that swinging along the aërial lanes. Nor for an uncertain eye or hand. Often he was a score of feet above the earth, sometimes more.
He covered half a mile before lowering to the ground where the timber was open, with many glades where he could sprint. Doc was traversing in an hour the distance which his men would expend two hours or more in conquering.
And Doc’s friends were far from being inexperienced woodsmen. Their physical trim was of the best. They simply fell a good deal short of Doc’s abilities.
Anxiety to solve this whole puzzling business was behind Doc’s hurry. He wanted to get Lady Nelia Sealing out of danger. He wanted to find and destroy that hideous thing of fluttering death, whatever it was.
He wanted—and this last was steadily growing in his thoughts—to probe the mystery of the slaves. What was this horrible existence to which they were enthralled? Who were they? Where were they?
Lady Nelia was one being in trouble. Those others were many. That was why their predicament was growing in import.
* * * *
Well along in the afternoon, Doc came to the cup of a valley in which the dirigible lay.
Encircling the depression, and at a distance of perhaps a mile, guards were stationed. They were not many rods apart. This meant a considerable force of men were present.
Doc studied the guards with no little interest. They were natives—of Africa, he concluded—for the most part. Great, strapping fellows! Nearly all bore scars. Fighting men! And cruel men, judging from their features.
They were armed with the latest automatic rifles, and handled the weapons as if they knew very well how to use them.
There was a regular sentry system, with a roundsman visiting each man at short intervals.
“Opaf! Dur!” the watchmen challenged each sound. “Imshi! Yallah!”
The words were Egyptian for the military commands of halt, and move forward. These fellows apparently knew no English.
Doc crept past them. With an aboriginal stealth, he glided forward. Rarely was he visible amid the brush. And seldom did a leaf flutter because of his passing.
His progress was almost magical in its quiet. Doc had devoted study to this business of stalking; he had observed the great predatory creatures of the jungle, masters of the hunt.
He was soon ensconced in a cluster of evergreen seedlings, looking out upon the glade where the airship was moored.
The craft was the Aëromunde, the vanishing of which had become one of the aërial mysteries of all time. The name and identification numbers had been daubed over with aluminum paint, but from close range, they could be discerned still.
ZX 03! The Aëromunde!
Lady Nelia Sealing could be seen in the control cabin. She was seated, evidently, at a chart table. But she arose from time to time and paced nervously. Doc perceived she was chained to a girder. The chain was light, and fastened about her neck—slave fashion!
Yuttal and Hadi-Mot appeared. They rambled about, giving orders, always together. It was apparent, however, that Yuttal possessed the greater authority.
There was no sign of the sinister wicker basket.
* * * *
A few hours later, Yuttal and Hadi-Mot consulted with a strapping, sepia-skinned native near the clearing edge. When the native departed, the pair lingered, conversing.
Neither were aware of a man, a great bronze man like a tawny animal, who was harbored by near-by shrubs.
“Oh, that woman!” Hadi-Mot complained in Egyptian. “Akhkh! I think it best that we use a singa upon her pretty throat, opening it from ear to ear!”
“La!” snapped Yuttal. “Bi-ziadah! No! That is enough! I do not want to hear any more about it! We take her back, alive and unharmed! Fahemt? Do you understand?”
Hadi-Mot shrugged. “She has already caused trouble. She may do so again. Wallah! Why do you want such a woman?”
“You’ll see!” Yuttal leered. “When we get her back, and she realizes there is no hope of escape, her spirit will break.”
Hadi-Mot shook with laughter. “Na’am? Yes? We shall see!”
“And you keep the men from harming her!” Yuttal scowled. “Her spirit will break, all right. It took a big crack when she found out that Savage bird was dead.”
The two moved off, Hadi-Mot saying: “We shall depart with night.”
Soon afterward, a great, tawny figure moved from the concealing bushes. Noiseless as a shadow, the bronze form quitted the vicinity.
Doc was no little relieved. Lady Nelia Sealing seemed to be safe for the time being, due to a rather grotesque idea of chivalry on Yuttal’s part.
Once clear of the sentries, Doc put on speed. He had formulated a plan—a daring plan! One that risked infinite peril. But he had five men to whom just that sort of thing was the spice of existence. They would give it a try.