The Polar Terror

THE POLAR TERROR A Doc Savage Adventure BY HOWARD HOPKINS

I

THE POLAR TERROR

All characters are a registered trademark of the Conde Nast Company This work solely intended for fans and may not be sold or altered. All monetary rights reserved by the original copyright holder of Doc Savage Magazine Electronically Published July 2001

II

THE POLAR TERROR From the snow-shrouded reaches of the North Pole comes a being in glittering blue who turns men to ice with a single touch. After a vicious gang gets hold of the secret, a trail of frozen corpses leads the mighty man of bronze on a perilous quest beneath the earth for the answer to the mystery behind an ancient lost race's desperate battle for survival and a fortune in sapphires.

Who is Doc Savage To the world at large, Doc Savage is a strange, mysterious figure of glistening bronze skin and golden eyes. To his amazing co-adventurers--the five greatest brains ever assembled into one group--he is a man of superhuman strength and protean genius, whose life is dedicated to the destruction of evil-doers. To his fans he is the greatest adventure hero of all time, whose fantastic exploits are unequalled for hair-raising thrills, breathtaking escapes ands blood-curdling excitement.

III

CONTENTS

1 THE-HOT COLD CORPSE 2 MYSTERY--AND DEATH! 3 DANGER TRAIL 4 LONG TOM'S FOLLY 5 CALAMITY, A DISH BEST SERVED COLD 6 THE STINKING PIG 7 FROZEN BRAINS 8 THE ANNOYING MR. HANNERAN 9 SURPRISE ATTACK 10 RUMBLE 11 PLANS 12 GIRL ABDUCTED 13 MORE CORPSICLES 14 DEVILED HAM 15 ESCAPE 16 HOTEL HELL 17 CLUES 18 THE TRAIL NORTH 19 FLIGHT INTO FEAR 20 HELL AND ICE 21 THE SAPPHIRE CITY 22 DEATH IN SAPPHIRE 23 INSIDE THE PYRAMID 24 THE ICE WIZARD 25 SAPPHIRE CHARADE

IV

1 7 12 17 22 29 38 46 54 61 66 72 78 88 96 101 110 114 125 132 140 148 155 162 169

A Doc Savage Adventure

1

Chapter 1 THE HOT-COLD CORPSE

The thing that pursued him was getting close. Too close. He could almost hear the shivering rustle of its glittering blue flesh as it moved with its strange shuffling gait, feel its chilling touch upon his shoulder, and that scared the living hell out of him. Nonsense! he scolded himself, nearly stumbling on the protruding lip of a sidewalk brick. After all, the thing was just a man. Wasn't it? It had to be, because if he gave in to the notion it was anything more than that he would lose his nerve and come apart. A thought startled him: How many men could freeze a victim solid with the merest laying of a hand? Not bloody many; he was damn near certain of that. His name was Professor Reginald Denton and though he had always been one to believe that every event and incident that occurred on this world could be pulled apart, analyzed and dissected then fitted neatly back together with its workings clearly known and understood, he knew different now. Some things on this Earth couldn't be explained in a laboratory and the thing stalking him might well be one of them. Chancing a backward look, his heart leaped into his throat. Had he glimpsed a ripple of blue? A furtive shape gliding into an alley along the crowded New York street? He couldn't be sure. He could no longer be sure of so many things, perhaps even his own sanity. A frightened man, even one who had spent the better part of his fifty-five years digging lost artifacts and forgotten relics out of the sands of Egypt or the jungles of South America, was wont to imagine a goblin or two, considering the circumstances. Only in this case the goblin was real and it had risen from beneath the Arctic snows. With a burst of fear-induced insight, he realized even a Professor of Archaeology could be taught a valuable--and perhaps final--lesson: some things were better left buried. A band of pain clamped about his chest and his breath staggered out in searing gasps. Weakness gripped his legs, for he had gone far too long without a decent meal and lost a third of his weight on his journey back from the North. He doubted even William Littlejohn would recognize his once-strapping old professor now. Fear did funny things to a man, things besides making him believe he saw quivering blue apparitions around every corner. It set triggers into his nerves and molded him until he was no more than a perverse reflection of what he had been. In weight, in emotional fortitude, and in courage. It was the last trait that would likely be the death of him. In another flash of comprehension he realized where he had made his mistake. He

The Polar Terror

2

should have gone to Savage the moment he got back, one week ago. He supposed his reasons for putting it off were complicated, compassionate and not a little bit fear-driven. His elation at having made it home, managing to evade the Blue One, had over-ridden the need for urgency and good sense. Past that, he had let terror keep him hidden like a rabbit in a hole, afraid to venture out of a seedy hotel room he'd engaged on the lower east side. He dared not go near his own apartment. That would have made matters too easy for his pursuer, though rationally he knew the being--if it could indeed be termed that--had no way of knowing how to locate the Park Avenue abode. Or did it? The race possessed knowledge of the outside world. Wasn't it conceivable the Blue One had learned enough to function here, in this city of concrete, steel and indifference? Survivors of shipwrecks, a few intrepid explorers such as himself, had wandered into their realm, enlightening them on many of the advancements of society. That possibility had kept him away from his own place, but, stupidly, it had not kept him away from Doe's. That was the second mistake, the one that put the thing on his trail. Doe was still back there, wasn't he, in that land beneath the snow? And his daughter was here, anxiously awaiting word from her father. A fault of compassion had motivated him to go to her, assure the young woman that her father was alive, if not entirely safe. At least Doctor Jefferson Doe would have claimed it to be a fault; Reginald Denton simply called it human. He had seen his error the moment he walked into her building, after noticing the two men skulking across the street. Posted, as observers, who no doubt took word back to his enemy. The thing had learned the ways of the modern world quickly and all too well. Or perhaps it had always known them, for Evil sought its level and if there were such a thing as the Devil He imbued all his minions with an inherent knowledge of the workings of chicanery. Corruption was the one truly timeless trait. Doe's daughter had not answered her door, but by the time he found his way back to the street the Blue One was awaiting him. Barely avoiding its icy touch, he had run for his life. The Blue One was swift, but perhaps more cautious than he would have been in his own element. Reginald had managed an escape of sorts, but his legs were giving out; he could barely control them, stumbling, staggering, nearly falling more times than he cared to count. How far had he run? He couldn't tell and it didn't matter. The chase would be over in a few moments because he was slowing, his chest throbbing with spikes of pain and his heart choking his throat. A cab. There, on the corner. If he could just make the hack maybe he had a chance. A sound came from behind him, a shout, and he shot a look back, seeing the thing swooping along the sidewalk, two men--the men posted outside Doe's building--flanking its sides. They were ordinary men, except for the murder on their hard faces and the bloodlust in their eyes. Yes, the Blue One had learned quickly, indeed. The Blue One. He wore a long brown robe, one that covered his entire body and concealed his head with a cowl. A hump protruded from his back, and he looked like some sort of insane hunchbacked monk, yet he moved smoothly and with the speed of a jungle beast. Flashes of glittering blue shown as the breeze and movement whipped at the

A Doc Savage Adventure

3

sleeves of the garment. A gasp escaped Reginald's lips and he knew, as only a dying man knows, in a matter of seconds the thing would have him. He swore his heart stopped at the thought. He had seen all to many times what happened to those the Blue One touched. Terror sending a surge of adrenaline through his veins, Professor Reginald Denton swiveled his head forward and put the last of his strength into a headlong lunge towards the cab. Gripping the handle like a drowning man clinging to a log in a raging river, he hurled open the door and collapsed onto the back seat. "Go!" The shout came as he yanked the door shut behind him. The driver jolted, the Shadow pulp he'd been reading fluttering to the seat. "Hey, bub--" The professor fished in a pocket and drew out a glittering blue gem the size of a robin's egg. The driver's eyes popped. "You know where Doc Savage has his headquarters?" The professor's words came on a fiery gasp of breath. "Sure, pally. Who don't?" "Take me there--hurry!" Reginald threw a glance behind him and saw the thing in the robe descending upon the back of the cab. The driver saw it, too, let out a bleat and apparently decided any further questioning could be done en route. He stamped the accelerator pedal and the cab's back tires squealed, spewing black clouds; the Checker shot into the street. A loud thump hit the side of the cab as the robed being made a last attempt to reach Reginald Denton. Its hand, a glittering blue, slammed against the window and an incredible thing occurred. Blue fluid boiled across the surface. The window turned a vile shade of milky quartz, then shattered. It shattered not by the force of the blow but because the glass had suddenly changed. It was as if the pane had frozen, then fragmented, dropping completely out of its frame on its own accord. Frozen, though the temperature was at least sixty-five degrees, warm for mid-October. The cabbie blew a startled whistle and fear twisted his face into frightened mask. "What the devil was that?" His voice came a notch higher than it had a moment before. "That was something the world would be better off without..." The professor managed a bit more control over his tone, though he still couldn't pry his heart out of his throat. The cabbie shook his head. "Whatever you say, bub, but I want no part of it. That Savage fella, he sure knows how to attract the strange ones. You hit the ground runnin' when we reach his place." Denton nodded, barely hearing the man. He had few blessings in his life, the way he figured it, but he was counting every one of them now. Only a thin pane of glass had separated him from the touch of the Blue One, but it might mean the difference between life and death for an entire race of people. If he could enlist Savage's help. He remembered Littlejohn as a man who never bet unless it was on a sure thing. He wagered placing the house on a man named Clark Savage was as close to that as an aging professor could get. "Say, this bronze guy, you seen him?" The cabbie's voice jumped up and down a

The Polar Terror

4

nervous scale, but it held a certain amount of reverence with the question. Denton shook his head, frowning. "No, never. Knew a friend of his years back. Man name of Littlejohn." "Hear Savage is a muscular marvel. Papers say he's big as a house and goes to the ends of the earth punishing evildoers and all that." "Reporters exaggerate." Reginald hoped at least part of what they wrote was true. Too many lives were at stake for it not to be. The cabbie prattled on, apparently not accepting the response. "They say he's got these five pals with him, each a marvel in his own field but Doc still tops 'em all. Way I read it, they like adventure and danger, can't get themselves enough of it. It's in their blood. Heard they got back from Tibet a few months back where some blue thing from space was sending fellas to the bughouse." The mention of anything blue sent his nerves into a jig. "I wouldn't know. I have not seen Littlejohn in many years and never met this Savage, but I studied some of his papers on archaeology. He's quite a genius in that field, even more so than Littlejohn." "What you want Savage for anyway, you don't mind my askin'?" "I want to hire him." That was all the man needed to know and more. Denton supposed he was talking merely for the sake of his own nerves. He cast occasional glances behind him to see if the robed figure had followed but for the moment didn't spot his tormentor. "You're outta luck then, pally. He ain't for hire." Denton's stomach plunged. "I understood he aided people in need." "He does, but not for money. Does it 'cause he gets a kick out of helpin' folks. Makes it his life work." The cab driver yanked the steering wheel right and pulled over to the curb. "What are you doing?" Panic rose in Reginald's mind and a chilled sensation rattled through him. He prayed it wasn't an omen. "End of the road, pally. This is Savage's building. Eighty-sixth floor." The distance wasn't far enough from the Blue One, and that sent a new wave of shivers along his spine. Only a handful of blocks and the way that thing moved... Denton passed the egg-sized gem through the dividing window and opened the door in nearly the same move. The driver plucked the jewel from the professor's fingers and shoved it into a pocket. The cab pulled away nearly before Reginald's feet hit the sidewalk. The skyscraper before him stabbed upward a hundred and two stories, a dirigible mooring mast perched atop. It pierced the low-hanging clouds, which were splashed with gory shades of crimson from the setting sun. A gleaming spire of brick, steel and architectural majesty, it held him awestruck for a moment. Then the fear slithered back and he was in motion. He hoped he would have time to admire the building later. With a glance along Fifth Avenue, he darted inside and hurried across the lobby, which housed a restaurant and numerous small businesses. Selecting an elevator from a bank of sixty-three, he stumbled into the cage and jabbed a button for the eighty-sixth floor. As his gaze lifted from the panel to the lobby beyond, he let out a stifled bleat. A figure shuffled through the lobby doors. The strange monk-like apparition had found him! Two men crowded through the entrance with the thing. A few onlookers cast the

A Doc Savage Adventure

5

three curious glances, but, this being Manhattan, none gave them undue attention. The men spotted him, one of them who wore a pink pin-striped suit jabbing a damning finger in his direction just as the elevator doors swished shut. He forced out the breath jammed in his lungs and waited for his heart to start beating again. The elevator whisked upward, leaving his stomach on the ground floor, if the nausea flooding his belly were any indication. He didn't have much time. If he did not secure Savage's help within the next few minutes, his mission would fail and his life would be forfeit. The cage came to an abrupt stop, dropping him to his knees and the doors opened onto a richly decorated hallway. Straightening, he stepped across the tiles to a plain door without a handle. A plaque bore the legend Clark Savage, Jr. in small bronze lettering. As he approached the door, a peculiar thing happened. The portal swung inward on its own accord. Reginald Denton stopped, startled for an instant, but how or why the door had opened so mysteriously suddenly became unimportant compared to the site within. The door opened onto a reception room forty feet long, by twenty wide. A man stood beside a massive oriental table decorated with exquisite inlays, his fingertips resting on an edge. Those fingers, long and tapering, were attached to a hand that appeared chiseled from solid bronze; tendons played across the back of that hand and wrist, thick as bundles of piano wire coated with bronze lacquer. Muscles bunched like pythons on the bare forearm, hinting at incredible strength. The man's sleeves were rolled up, but Denton clearly saw the bulge of the fellow's biceps straining against the fabric. The man was a giant, though so symmetrically proportioned his size was only readily apparent when compared to the massive table. He stood nearly six-five and probably weighed closer to three-hundred pounds than two. His skin was metallic bronze, as if tanned by countless hours beneath tropical suns. His hair, which lay flat and close to the scalp, was bronze of a slightly darker hue. A high forehead, straight nose and mobile lips that were not too full gave him a handsome face. A square chin and strong jaw indicated a confidence and power of character rare among men, but perhaps his most amazing feature was his eyes. Like pools of flake-gold stirred by some mystic wind, they possessed a hypnotic quality the nearly made Reginald Denton forget the terror he'd endured over the past week. "May I help you?" The man's voice came deep and controlled and snapped Reginald's astonishment at the site of the amazing bronze personage, infusing him with a surge of courage and hope. This was the man he had traveled so far to engage; he was sure of it. Man of mystery and mental marvel, globe-trotting crimebuster; perhaps the papers hadn't exaggerated as much as he suspected. For Doc Savage appeared all they made him out to be and more. A sound came from behind him and though it registered somewhere in the recesses of his mind he paid it no attention. It was his third and final mistake. Behind him elevator doors whisked open and three figures stepped out, the two hard-faced men and monk-like figure. The robed stalker seemed to glide forward, silently and smoothly, a hand drifting up. Fabric fell away from the hand, revealing glittering blue fingers, incredibly long fingers, like the hand of some sapphire skeleton. "Mr. Savage, I need your help--"

The Polar Terror

6

He never completed the rest. A flutter of movement and shivering of fabric penetrated his awareness and terror swarmed through his being. Within the room, the bronze man's expression did not change; in fact, it remained passive, and he stepped forward, then stopped, as if knowing nothing he could do would change the course of events already set in motion. Something horrendously burning penetrated his coat and seared into his flesh. Denton's terrified gaze snapped to his shoulder, where a blue hand perched like an azure spider. A deadly spider. A scream welled from deep within his soul but it died in his throat. Incredible fiery pain rippled from his shoulder down his arm and the last thing he saw was wisps of smoke curling from his body where the hand had touched.

A Doc Savage Adventure

7

Chapter 2 MYSTERY--AND DEATH!

The bronze man saw the robed figure step from the elevator, but events occurred too quickly for him to alter the fate of the man standing in his doorway. He had never seen the man before but had taken the usual precautions when his arrival set off a small blinking alarm above the door. Doc, sitting at the oriental table examining a series of newspaper clippings delivered to him by an operative at his detective agency, had risen and depressed a certain spot on the inlaid table to automatically open the door. The man, whom he judged to be in his mid-fifties, appeared frightened, but then so did many of the visitors who sought his help. Things occurred with lightning rapidity beyond that. The bronze man instantly placed the two men accompanying the robed figure as common gangsters. His vision took in their arrival as a complete picture, noting and imprinting every detail of their appearance and manner in his photographic memory. One was dressed in a pink suit with gray pinstripes and a silver tie. His hat, gray felt and low-brimmed, shadowed his square face. The second man, more typically a hardcase, had a slighter, wiry build, and was garbed in a subdued blue suit. He gave them little attention, his focus centering upon the robed figure who moved with a peculiar shuffling gait. The figure's blue hand drifted up, alighting in an almost gentle manner upon the visitor's shoulder. A ghastly thing occurred as the being's fingers fell upon the man's body. The visitor's shriek snapped short and all motion of his body ceased. In fact, he stood as if frozen, shock and utter terror etched indelibly onto his gaunt face. Then the man began to smoke! Bluish wisps curled from his body, rising into the air and dissolving. Doc Savage had spent most of his life learning to control his emotions, steel himself against the most horrifying of sights. Since the beginning of his career he had observed countless slayings and many forms of hideous death. He had witnessed the demise of a beloved professor, the body dissolved by the murderous Smoke of Eternity, and watched men driven insane by the screaming blue meteor and not a muscle on his face had betrayed his inner horror. His expression now remained a chiseled bronze mask. His men thought him superhuman--though he believed subhuman might have been a better term. Others who knew him less well considered him immune to the basic human emotions, a cold unfeeling automaton. He might have told them they were wrong, but of all the skills he possessed one was sorely missing: the ability to relate his feelings to others. He supposed the blame lay mostly with his freakish upbringing in the hands of scientific men whose lives were dedicated to nothing more than shaping the young Clark

The Polar Terror

8

Savage, Jr. into the Nemesis of crime he would become, the culmination of his father's master plan. Yet even that failed to account for quite all of it. He had simply never learned a handful of the basics of being a normal human being. Those traits resided within him, somewhere, concealed beneath a layer of bronze armor and drummed-in lessons; he just had no ability to reach them, let them show, at least not as himself... That fact did not mean he felt nothing in the presence of grim death. He did. He felt it deeply, yet the control was automatic now and the only sign his visitor's horrible demise plucked at his heart was a peculiar stirring of the flake-gold whirlpools within the depths of his eyes. Perhaps if he were any less in control of his nerves a chill would have trickled down his spine, or his lips would have tightened into grim lines. Perhaps he would have lost his composure and delivered swift and deadly justice to the men in the corridor, the way he had after the events of his father and beloved professor's deaths. He possessed the ability and the means to at least stop the two gangsters, kill them if he were so inclined. But months of reflection in his Fortress of Solitude upon returning from Arizona after he caused the death of a man named Zortell had shown him destroying his enemies in a fit of anger and vengeance made him no better than the evildoers he brought down. The thought of those needless deaths had weighed heavy upon his mind. Vengeance had overpowered him, his supposedly iron emotional constitution. He was merely delivering punishment to his father and teacher's killers again and again, his psychology professor's would have told him. But in the final tally, not one of their deaths had lessened the turmoil and grief he knew was buried somewhere deep in his mind. Selfcontrol regained, he'd set a strict policy for his men and himself: no killing. They slipped, especially Mayfair. He might have told them that even for a "superman" restraint was sometimes a struggle, but that wouldn't help matters. They were their own men, and the most he could offer was an example. The strange being in the monk's robe withdrew its hand and its cowled head lifted, centering its attention on Doc Savage. The bronze man stood still, knowing it was too late to aid the man in his doorway, awaiting the being's next move. The robed one appeared frozen itself a moment, as if studying the bronze figure, deciding whether to launch an attack. The pink-suited gangster beside the figure grew suddenly antsy. He slid his jaw back and forth, the joint emitting a loud popping noise as if his jawbone had come unhinged. The sound seemed to jolt his nerves and he jerked a .45 from beneath his pinstriped suit coat. "Let 'im have it, Nate!" he shouted, a hitch in his voice. The robed figure appeared on the verge of intervening but at that point the smaller gangster's nerves proved as frayed as his partner's. The one called Nate hauled a gat from beneath his coat and both men leveled their weapons at Doc Savage's chest. Thunder exploded in the corridor as both guns belched flame and smoke. The slugs never reached the bronze man. Lead appeared to stop miraculously in midair, flatten and fall to the carpet. Blue smoke hung in the air and shocked expressions slapped the faces of both men. "Hell's bells!" Nate's voice exploded from his mouth in an almost girlish shriek. "He ain't human. Lead's bouncing right off of 'im!" The pink-suited gangster nodded his agreement and Doc Savage supposed from the outside it appeared that way. Had he possessed less self-control, Doc Savage might have allowed himself a smile of satisfaction over their confusion.

A Doc Savage Adventure

9

The explanation was far less unearthly than a bulletproof man, however. When the alarm light announced a visitor, he had slid a shoe toe over a certain area of the carpet, activating a switch that lowered a pane of invisible bulletproof glass between himself and anyone in the hallway. The glass would stop anything short of an elephant rifle and was of his own developing. Driven by panic, the two men fired again, afraid the man within would descend upon them like a great bronze bird of vengeance. They would have been right had their aims not been hasty and impossible not occurred. This time their lead never reached the bulletproof shield; it drilled into the smoking corpse. What happened next nearly snapped even Doc Savage's remarkable composure. The corpse, under the impact of .45 caliber lead, burst into fragments with a sound like glass shattering. The head toppled from its splintered neck and fell to the floor, smashing into a gory shards. Arms dropped off, fragmenting as they hit the reception room carpet. The body seemed to crumple into itself and slide downward, jagged chunks of it piling before the bulletproof glass. From the pieces rose wisps of bluish smoke. While the men had displayed fear at Doc's mysterious ability to repel slugs, it little compared to the terror they exhibited as they gazed down at the shattered remains of their victim. Doc started forward, a bronze hand brushing the table edge. A barely audible hiss sounded in the corridor and Doc would have bet only his highly sensitive hearing could have picked up the noise. He would have lost that bet. The robed figure's head lifted and an eerie voice issued from within the cowl. That voice sounded distorted, inhuman, and Doc could not immediately distinguish whether it belonged to a man or woman. "Hold your breath, fools! The bronze one has released a gas." With the pronouncement, the being in the monk's robe hurled backwards to the elevator. He managed to dart into it and hit the button, closing the doors, before the two gangsters could follow. Realizing their leader had deserted them, they spun, terror spurring their actions, and dashed for the stairs at the end of the corridor. Doc Savage let them go. He was more interested in the escaping robed figure. Whirling, a bronze hand sweeping out, he depressed a spot near the edge of the inlaid table, shutting off the gas. If he was surprised the figure had heard the hiss and realized the consequence, he failed to show it. His finger jabbed a second spot on the table surface and a panel slid open, revealing a concealed niche containing various indicators. A small counter was clicking off numbers--75, 74, 73... As it reached 70, he poked a button and the counter stopped. Closing the panel, he brought up his left arm. A thick leather band holding his watch encircled the corded wrist. The watch's face was oversized, with tiny buttons in a half-moon shape along its side. He touched one of the buttons with a fingernail and turned a peg on the left side. The watch held a tiny transmitter and could be tuned via the buttons to the frequency of each of his aides. Two of those men were in the building at the moment, on the floor below, installing a number of protective devices Doc had developed to prevent criminals from trying to enter his headquarters from the eighty-fifth floor.

The Polar Terror

10

"Renny?" His voice came steady, modulated, as if he had merely witnessed an opera a moment ago instead of hideous death. "Yeah, Doc?" The voice that sounded from the miniature speaker boomed like distant thunder. "There's...something trapped in the Number 1 elevator on the 70th floor. I want it to remain that way." "Trouble, Doc?" Renny's voice sounded depressed, which, to his friends and coadventurers, meant he was excited at the prospect of some action. "In a word." The bronze man paused. "And, Renny?" "Yeah, Doc?" The bronze's man's tone lowered, emphatic. "See to it no one opens that door. If by some chance what's inside gets out, under no circumstances let it touch you." "Holy cow! I'm on my way." Doc depressed a second button. "What's up, Doc?" The man who answered sounded as if he were annoyed at the interruption, though anyone knowing him would have claimed he always sounded irritated. "Long Tom, two men departed here by the stairs. Take an elevator to the lobby and stay out of sight until they arrive, then follow them." "How will I know which men?" "It will be obvious. Gangster types, one wearing a pink suit. They'll likely be in a hurry." "Pink? Jeez. Will do, Doc." The bronze man twisted the peg again, shutting off the wristband radio and slid a toe over a particular area of the carpet. The bulletproof shield slid silently into the ceiling. Gliding across the room, flake-gold eyes alert for any possible threat from the hallway, he reached the body fragments and knelt. His gaze roved, imprinting every gruesome detail in his mind. A strange trilling filled the air, melodious yet without tune. It seemed to come from everywhere yet from no particular spot. Low and mellow it might have been the voice of a breeze shivering through a tropical forest. The sound was a part of Doc Savage, a small unconscious thing he did in moments of intense concentration or surprise. It melted away and an eerie silence pervaded the room. Smoke still drifted from the remnants. It was a gruesome spectacle, shards of body parts all that remained of a man who had come to him for help and likely protection. The newspapers reported Doc Savage seldom failed, but at times like this, faced with the loss of an innocent life, he was forced to confront the fact that he sometimes failed utterly. Straightening, he vanished into the recesses of the eighty-sixth floor aerie, returning with gloves and a metal container roughly three feet long by two feet wide, and a trowel-like instrument. He placed the box on the floor and slid a cover back, revealing it to be empty, then snapped the medical gloves onto his hands. Using the trowel, he scooped the body parts into the container. The smoking quality was vanishing and a number of the smaller pieces were softening. He managed to get all the parts into the box, though a number of telltale stains remained on the carpet. Sliding the lid into place, he hoisted the box to a shoulder. It must have weighed in excess of a hundred pounds, yet he carried it as if he'd just selected a

A Doc Savage Adventure

11

heavy volume from a library shelf. Only the slight bulging of the muscles beneath his shirt indicated he was exerting any effort. The bronze man's strength was the result of two hours of intense daily exercise, a program designed to not only keep his muscles in peak form but to hone every area of his mind and senses as well. A majority of the routine was composed of pitting one muscle against the other, until even the limits of his endurance were thoroughly exhausted and a thin film of sweat glistened from his skin. Simultaneously he juggled complex mathematical equations in his head to sharpen his memory and mental facility. After, he toned his sense of smell by identifying scores of scents from a kit he'd constructed, then heightened his sense of touch by reading Braille and sharpened his hearing by listening to audio wavelengths above and below normal human range. His aide Mayfair once claimed the bronze man could hear a dog whistle before a schnauzer and that probably wasn't far from the truth, despite Monk's propensity for exaggeration. He supposed those exercises only added to his freakish perception, but he had spent too many years swearing by them and relying on their proven results to ignore the routine. The container, resting on his shoulder, felt incredibly chilled, even through the material of his shirt. He hauled it into his laboratory, one of the three main rooms to the headquarters. The lab occupied the largest section of floor space and was filled with tables of test tubes and burners, radios and machines that looked alien to anyone who didn't know science and perplexing to many who did. A small living quarters resided at the back of the huge room. The second largest section, which he passed through on his way to the lab, was a library jammed with scientific tomes and rare volumes, probably the second largest bibliotheca in existence. The first largest also belonged to him and resided within his Arctic Fortress of Solitude. Doc lowered the container to a countertop and peered at it a moment. The events that had occurred in only a few suspended moments of time struck him as incredible and horrifying in the same breath. A man had been killed with merely a touch, then shattered by chance bullets. Had the thing in the robe chosen not to retreat, the bronze man might have found himself in the same condition. Likely only the startled responses of the men with him--if indeed the being were a man--and the bronze giant's seeming ability to repel bullets had prevented such a fate. That thought in mind, it occurred to him getting the perpetrator out of the elevator without encountering the being's fantastic ability to deliver death was problematic. At present, he had little idea what constituted that power to "freeze" men solid and render them as brittle as glass, and consequently no way to defend against it. Yet he saw little choice but to contain the thing before it killed again. Going to a cabinet along the north wall, he pulled open a metal door and selected two insulated suits, one for himself and one for Renny. He would not have placed one of Johnny's bets on the suits protecting them from the frozen death, but at present it made more sense than risking wearing no protective clothing at all. Carrying the suits, he departed the laboratory and took the stairs to the seventieth floor.

The Polar Terror

12

Chapter 3 DANGER TRAIL

"Holy cow, Doc, that remote device we installed for stopping the elevator worked like a pip, but whatever you caught in there sure didn't want to wait around for us to come get it out!" The voice sounded like a bowling ball rolling around in an oil drum and came from the giant of a man standing in the seventieth floor hallway. Colonel John Renwick slammed a gallon-sized fist into a palm with a sound like shot going off and his face took on an almost cheerful expression--which meant he was none too happy with the situation. Standing four inches over six feet, he packed two-hundred and fifty pounds of muscle onto his large frame. Pomade plastered his dark hair to his head and his face held a perpetual disapproving expression, which grew gloomier the more excited he became. His most remarkable feature was the size of his fists, each consisting of a gallon of bone and gristle and capable of punching the panel out of any door made. Renny, the engineer of the group, commonly made a thousand dollars a day on big projects when some case Doc was working on didn't pull him away from his work. Although a giant of a man, Renny appeared almost dwarfed beside the bronze man, who stepped from the second elevator. Doc's flake-gold eyes roved, taking in the scene before him as he set the two protective suits against the wall. Where the first elevator door had been remained only a gaping hole; fragments of metal, most the size of a man's hand, littered the tile in front of the cage. From each of the pieces curled wisps of blue-tinted smoke. "What do you think shattered the door that way, Doc?" Renny's voice shuddered from the corridor walls and his forbidding dark eyes narrowed as he gazed at where the elevator door had been. The bronze man didn't answer, instead kneeling and studying the jagged pieces of metal. Doc Savage possessed a habit of choosing not to answer questions when it suited him, usually because he hadn't formed an opinion about the cause of some mystery, or wasn't prepared to state an idea without further proof. Renny was used to the trait, as were all his men, though not a one considered it any less annoying. Strangers, especially women, found it downright insulting. The bronze man stood and removed a shoe. Scooching, he slammed the heel against one of the door shards. A series of cracks spider-webbed across the surface. He straightened and replaced his shoe, then went to the protective suits and donned the thick gloves. Spreading out one of the jerseys on the floor, he placed a number of the fragments on the garment. Although the gloves would withstand a number of the more powerful acids, he felt the extreme cold penetrate the material. After collecting the shards, he folded the jersey over them, making a tight bundle, then tucked the bundle beneath an

A Doc Savage Adventure

13

arm. His gaze lifted to the interior of the cage, noting every detail, but nothing appeared out of order, other than the obvious fact of the gaping hole in the metal door. Renny's face went gloomy, deep lines creasing his high forehead. "You figure there's an element of danger involved in this, Doc?" The bronze man's features remained emotionless. "This may be the most dangerous thing we have come up against. I have a dead man in the lab in the same condition as this door." A shocked expression welded onto the giant engineer's face. "Holy cow! What killed him?" "A touch..." Doc Savage headed back to the Number 2 elevator, knowing his reply appeared enigmatic but at the moment that was as much as he knew. He hoped an analysis of the door and body parts would lead to an explanation, but if what he had witnessed so far was any indication it might only deepen the mystery. Renny gathered up the protective suits and followed the bronze man to the elevator. Once back inside the reception room Doc paused in the library door. "Call the management and tell them not to let any one near that elevator until its integrity is judged sound. No telling if whatever destroyed the door did damage to the cage structure itself." "The Otis fellows aren't gonna be happy we ruined another door." "They would be less happy if the cage plunged seventy stories." "You have a point." "After you're done, you might radio Monk and Ham and see if they want some adventure." Renny let out a rumble that was as close to a laugh as he ever came. "You know those two birds--they'll be here with bells on." The bronze man was already through the library by the time Renny completed the statement. Going to a long table holding a microscope, he set the bundle beside the instrument, then retrieved the container with the remains of the man who'd met death at the hand of the robed killer. The container felt as if it had resided in a freezer while he was gone, though the temperature in the lab was a controlled seventy degrees. Donning a frock, gloves and protective goggles, the bronze giant set about the gruesome task of examining the remains. As he opened the container, a puff of bluetinted smoke wafted out, but beyond that the gruesome shards of what was once a human being had stopped smoldering. With a special set of cutters he snipped off a small portion of bone and, using tongs, placed it on a glass slide. The bone proved amazingly brittle. As he studied at the sample, Doc's trilling ululated through the lab, stopping abruptly when he caught himself making the sound. One of these days that habit would get him in hot water, but he couldn't seem to break himself of it. Slipping the sample out of the scope, he replaced it with a fragment of the elevator door, after unwrapping the bundle. No emotion registered on his face as he peered into the lens, but the flake-gold of his eyes whirled. The door showed the same characteristics as the bone. As if the very structure had been changed, crystallized was the closest he could come to it for the moment, it was a phenomena unlike anything he had ever seen. A study of muscle fragment showed damage on a cellular level, for the cells had burst. Subsequent examination of brain, liver and kidney portions conveyed the same results.

The Polar Terror

14

He spent the better part of an hour running numerous experiments on the pieces, heating them, subjecting them to various acids and chemicals. All tests led to one conclusion, but that explanation appeared to be an impossibility. When he was finished, he stripped off the gloves, frock and goggles and sealed the metal container. He stored it in a refrigerated unit. Once he determined the victim's identity, he would have Ham Brooks see to burial arrangements if the man had no family. The bronze man returned to the reception room. Renny looked up from where he sat at the oriental table. Before him were spread the clippings Doc Savage had been reading earlier. As he picked them up, the scraps of paper seemed to almost disappear in his huge hands. "Find anything?" Renny's eyebrow arched. Tiny winds seemed to stir in the depths of Doc's golden eyes. "Both the elevator door and the body were subjected to trauma. With the body it was from .45 caliber bullets and with the door most likely a strong kick or ramming with a blunt object." "But what made them shatter that way?" The bronze man hesitated, certain of the method but perplexed by the delivery. "They were frozen within the space of half a minute, no more, likely less." Renny's gloomy features took on a puzzled expression. "Frozen? How in the devil is that possible? You saw the man killed by a touch and whatever would freeze metal to a point where it shattered would take some advanced scientific equipment. Whoever was in the elevator wouldn't be lugging that around." The bronze man seemed not to hear. In fact, it was as much a mystery to him as it was to Renny and voicing an opinion at this juncture would be futile. The big engineer frowned, then tossed the clippings on the inlaid table. "You figure these clippings relate to the case?" The bronze giant eyed the scraps. "Earlier I thought they were a curiosity, some sort of hysteria or hoax, but after the events of the last couple of hours they bear investigation. Apparently the man here tonight wasn't the first to meet up with whatever causes the frozen death." "Says here a fella was found frozen solid in Greenland, then another in Lubec, a fisherman." Renny's words encapsulated the stories. Two men had been found apparently frozen solid, one just outside a Greenland village and another at a dock in Lubec, Maine. As if whatever was causing the deaths was traveling southward, or perhaps following something in that direction. While Doc Savage always viewed the clippings sent to him by operatives hired to look out for just such mysteries, many proved to be the product of over-active imaginations, locals looking for a moment in the spotlight, drunk or mentally ill, while still others came from bored reporters not above spicing up a mundane news day. Only a fraction turned out to hold an element of truth. These suddenly looked to be from the latter category. "The mystery appears to come out of the North. Check on any recent expeditions to the Arctic Circle, see if anything relates to those clippings. Call the reporters of those newspapers and determine whether they have any further information or names." "Will do." Doc Savage returned to the laboratory and twisted the peg on his wristband radio, touching the button to Long Tom's frequency. The electrical wizard's voice sounded over

A Doc Savage Adventure

15

the tiny speaker. "Somethin's wrong with this set-up, Doc." The bronze man's voice came controlled, unemotional. "You followed those men?" "I followed 'em, but somethin's screwy. They lit out of the lobby like someone filled their pants full of fire ants. Looked mighty shaken up. They lit down Fifth and stopped at a cigar store. I saw the pink-suited fop through the window make a phone call. Couldn't get close enough without being spotted to stick my amplifier to the window." "You think they called someone higher up?" "I'd make one of Johnny's bets on it." "What happened after they came out?" "That's when things got strange. They just sauntered along the sidewalk like they had decided to take an evening stroll. Didn't seem in no hurry anymore. They just took their sweet time, peering into store windows, lightin' a cigar. The little one even made a pass at some gal on the street." "You think they spotted you?" "I was careful, but I reckon they did, because it seems as though they're giving me plenty of time to follow. Made it too easy." "Where are they now?" "Down by the waterfront, seedy area." As Long Tom provided Doc Savage with the location, the bronze man saw the outline of the streets in his mind, which was nothing unusual. He carried the maps of many cities in many countries in his memory, the result of years of intense study. He could recall the layouts as accurately as if he were looking at them spread out on a table before him. "Keep an eye on them and inform me if anything changes. I'll be there in a few minutes. In the meantime, if anyone joins them; namely, a figure in a monk's robe, get as far away from the area as possible." "Why, Doc?" "Whatever it is in that robe killed a man with a touch. If it is a man he is one unlike any I've encountered and too dangerous to defend against for the time being." A grumble came from the other end of the radio. Doc knew Long Tom didn't like the idea of retreat but would not question the bronze man's orders. Although free to use their considerable intelligence and act on their own, each of his aides had learned Doc always had a good reason for issuing a directive, usually one that saved their lives. Doc switched off the radio and moved to a section of the laboratory wall. As he pressed his palm against the surface, the section slid back, letting him out into the hall. He went to a secret elevator he'd recently installed that dropped him the eighty-six floors to his subbasement garage at phenomenal speed. The stop buckled even Doc's knees slightly. His assistant Monk Mayfair had been known to ride the thing up and down for the first few weeks after it was installed just for the thrill of it. The subbasement garbage housed Doc's fleet of automobiles. They ranged from touring coupes and roadsters to armored limousines and an old laundry truck. To one side resided a small room with barred windows used for holding criminals in a pinch. Secret passageways leading to subways and other escape routes littered the walls. A concealed stairway led into the lobby. Doc selected a late model roadster in a subdued color with a low-numbered license plate and slid behind the wheel. A rolling fortress, the automobile came complete

The Polar Terror

16

with bulletproof windows and tires, nozzles that ejected smoke or gas at the press of a dash button, and various other devices. A complex receiver/transmitter radio built into the dash could follow signals from "bugs" planted on criminals' vehicles. At the southwestern corner of the garage a ramp led to a huge steel door that rose when Doc jabbed a dash button. He hit the accelerator and the car rocketed into the street. It was no feat of premonition that told him Long Tom was heading for trouble. The electrical wizard's conclusion he had been spotted seemed probable and though Doc had complete confidence in his aides' abilities, they were up against something new and deadly, a menace against the likes of which they had no defense. If the bronze man had allowed himself to feel fear, the thought would have chilled his blood.

A Doc Savage Adventure

17

Chapter 4 LONG TOM'S FOLLY

Major Thomas J. Roberts smacked a palm against his Steinmetz forehead and uttered a disgusted grunt. The slap sounded like a gunshot and echoed along the deserted waterfront street. Moving back into a darkened doorway, he peered about, hoping no one had heard the sound, but he supposed it didn't matter, because after following the man in the pink suit and his crony almost too easily he had suddenly lost them. Maybe the blame was his for getting complacent, or perhaps the two had vanished by design. Perhaps it was a little of both. He had taken his eyes off them for only a moment, when they rounded a corner, but that was enough. They seemed to have disappeared into the night and the thought of telling Doc about his lapse when the bronze man arrived in a few minutes made him all the more irritated. Of course, Doc would say nothing--he rarely did when on of his men blundered--but that didn't take the sting out of the fact he had let him down. He tugged on an over-sized ear and twisted his lips into a scowl. Peering again at the street, he listened intently. A foghorn moaned somewhere out on the river. The distant throb of traffic from the city and occasional blaring car horns reached his ears, but that was it. Not a sound came from the street. No movement, either. Serpents of mist slithered over the asphalt. A guttering street lamp cast glimmers of light within the fog, liquid opals. The night carried a chilled clammy quality and the air was heavy with diesel and exhaust odors. He slid from his niche, scuttling along the sidewalk, but making extra effort to ensure his shoes didn't scrape against the brick. Any noise echoed eerily within the fog and sound carried farther than normal. If by chance the men had not discovered his presence, he wanted it to remain that way. Major Thomas J. Roberts, Long Tom to his pals, was probably the least remarkable physical specimen of Doc's band of adventurers, the runt of the litter. Pale and unhealthy looking, he stood five-foot-four and weighed barely a hundred and forty pounds. An enormous head capped with blond hair perched atop a scrawny body. Although he appeared a weakling, even the apish Monk Mayfair knew better than to poke a stick in his cage when Long Tom got his dander worked up. The homely chemist of Doc's group said Roberts had the disposition of a wasp whose nest had been swatted with a broom. His nickname came from the Great War, after a mishap with a seventeenthcentury cannon known as a "long tom". Surpassed in skill only by Doc Savage himself, Long Tom was a wizard with the juice, an electrical genius. Letting out another grunt, he knelt, plucking a peculiar object from his coat pocket. The thing resembled a doctor's stethoscope on one end, except from the

The Polar Terror

18

diaphragm ran thin coated wires that terminated at a tiny ear piece. His own invention, he hoped to modify it into a smaller unit that would someday aid the hearing impaired. He placed the diaphragm to the sidewalk; if a footstep fell within a hundred feet of where he stood he would catch the sound. He hoped it would indicate which direction the men had taken. Sticking the earpiece into his left ear, he concentrated, brow crinkling. He heard more than he bargained for. With a deafening roar, an engine came to life, then a second motor thundered, a beat behind the first. The roar sounded like a cannon going off in his ear and nearly shattered an eardrum. It did little to improve his already annoyed mood. "Oh, blazes!" Tearing the device from his ear, he jammed it back into his pocket. He leaped to his feet but knew it was too late. Twin sets of headlamps stabbed through the mist, spotlighting him in their glare. A store front stood in back of him and the corner was at least fifty feet away. He saw no chance of escape in either direction. The cars, two dark sedans, screeched to a halt. The tires skidded on the slick pavement and men piled from doors that flew open before the machines came to a full stop. Long Tom glimpsed the pin stripe-suited man and his pal stepping from the first vehicle. The dandy, who appeared to be leading the group, snapped clipped orders. "Take 'im, men!" The gangster waved the others forward. Counting at least ten others with the two, he realized he had little chance of getting out of this alive if they pulled guns, even with the chain mail underwear all Doc's aides wore. So far they hadn't, but he had no time to puzzle over the fact. The electrical wizard's hand darted beneath his coat, whipping out a peculiar looking gun. Resembling an oversized automatic pistol and fitted with a ram's horn magazine at the grip, the compact weapon was capable of firing single shot or discharging an incredible number of rounds per minute. Invented by Doc Savage, they were called rapidfirers and released "mercy bullets", thin-shelled glass projectiles filled with an anesthetic drug that merely knocked out enemies, instead of killing them. With a flick of his thumb, he notched the supermachine pistol to rapid shot and hit the trigger. The gun emitted a bull fiddle moan that thundered through the street. Two men to the right dropped, writhing on the ground only few seconds before going still. "Hell's bells, he killed 'em!" yelled a gangster, whom Long Tom swung the weapon towards. The man got a terrified expression on his face, tried to whirl and run back to the car, but two more men were getting out, blocking his entrance. He crashed into them just as Long Tom loosed another round. The thug collapsed against his pals and the electrical wizard permitted himself a slight grin of satisfaction. Something slammed into him from the side, hard, wiping the grin from his face. He nearly lost his grip on the rapidfirer and stumbled sideways. A man had lunged at him from the left, crashing into him and sending him off balance. The rapidfirer discharged, his finger jerking the trigger reflexively, and sprayed the sidewalk with shells. Long Tom tried to swing the stuttering gun up, but another crook hit him from the right, clamping arms around his waist and endeavoring to throw him to the ground. Breath exploded from his lungs with the impact and he struggled to remain on his feet, clubbing at the attached gangster's head. A fist from the first man collided with his temple and lights exploded before his eyes. Someone plucked the machine pistol from his grip and he had all he could do to

A Doc Savage Adventure

19

remain on his feet. He somehow managed to disentangle himself from the thug fastened to his waist and stagger forward a couple steps. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he made a lunge for the man who had grabbed the rapidfirer, but the gangster in the pink suit sprang forward, voice snapping like a whip. "Get 'im, men! He lost his gat. He's no trouble now." The thug couldn't have been more wrong if he tried. Although puny and fraillooking, Long Tom could whip nine out of ten men on the street and the tenth would know he had been in a fight. The gangsters discovered that fact seconds later. Men piled on him, as quickly dancing backward or flying sideways. Long Tom's bony fists popped out, each punch connecting with a chin or nose. One gangster's proboscis became a bloody pulp and he bleated. Under the pounding of the electrical wizard's knuckles, another's jaw took on a peculiar shape that would require some deft wiring to return it to normal. Fighting on instinct, he lashed out with an elbow, burying it in a crook's breadbasket. An oomph exploded from the thug's lips and he doubled over, heaving whatever he'd eaten last for a meal. Senses clearing, Long Tom attempted to twist and get a foot into another crook's southern states, but missed. He jabbed two fingers into another gangster's Adam's apple, sending the man stumbling backwards, gagging. An object collided with the back of his head and the world suddenly spun. The street became a cascading panorama of mist streaked with streamers of headlight glare and shadow. It flashed through his mind the object had to have been the butt of his own rapidfirer. The blow took most of the fight out of him. Another fist crashed into his temple and he dropped to the sidewalk, half on his stomach, gasping. Sounds thrummed in his ears, muffled and ululating, as his consciousness wavered. The pink-suited man's voice cracked again as he examined the two gangsters hit by the supermachine fire: "Hey, these birds ain't dead! They're still breathin' and not even bleeding more than a scratch." His tone came with a note of puzzlement. "Get them in the car. Throw 'em in the trunk if you have to." Men gathered up their prone companions and hauled them to one of the cars. The pink-suited leader stepped closer to Long Tom, glancing first at the bedraggled gangsters standing beside the electrical wizard. The looks on their faces said they had just walked into a bear cave and discovered the bear at home. "Took enough of you for one skinny little twist, didn't it?" "Hell, that runt's an alleycat that's been caught by hounds!" the gangster called Nate muttered, a heavy note of respect in his tone. "He got lucky, is all." The pink-suited man glanced at the gangster. "The Blue One will take care of him. Let's get 'im back to Pizzicato, 'fore Savage shows up." The leader yanked a length of electrical cord from his pocket and handed it to Nate. "Why don't we just plug him now and be done with it, Snapper?" The man scratched his head; he clearly preferred not to touch the fallen electrical wizard again. "Hell, what if we don't get Savage? Boss says we have to keep him around for

The Polar Terror

20

insurance." "I don't like it." Nate said it with a grumble and the pink-suited man's face hardened. "You ain't paid to like it. You're paid to take orders, unless you want to become one of them human Popsicles…" The gangster's face paled and he grabbed the length of cord. Long Tom's mind was cloudy but he kept his senses enough to manage to dig a small piece of chalk-like substance from a pocket and maneuver it to a spot against the sidewalk without the men noticing. He scrawled blocky letters onto the brick, hoping it would take against the damp layer of grime coating the walkway. Oddly enough, the words failed to show up, but he kept writing just the same. He made it most of the way through the word before the gangster knelt and jerked his hands behind his back. He managed to drop the piece of chalk before the man noticed it. "Get 'im up," Snapper commanded. Nate peered at Long Tom as though he had just been ordered to grab a live electrical wire, then stooped and took hold of an arm. A second gangster seized the other and they hauled the puny Doc Savage aide to his feet, though not without difficulty. Long Tom kicked and twisted as they brought him up, managing to wedge a shoe against the lip of the sidewalk and shuck it off so it fell into the street. He wanted to leave a clear marker for Doc when the bronze man arrived. He knew the bronze man would search for any message, and didn't want it missed. Snapper hauled back a foot and planted it with full force in the electrical wizard's ribs. Long Tom saw the kick coming and managed to turn just enough to prevent any bones from being broken, but the impact sent spikes of pain radiating across his back and chest and the air bursting out of his lungs. The pink-suited gangster let out a harsh laugh then slid his jaw back and forth, which resulted in the mandible joint issuing a resounding pop. Each man holding an arm, the electrical wizard's body slumped forward, his head resting on his chest. Snapper grabbed his face, jamming a thumb and fingers into the hollows of each cheek, and jerked up his head. "Hey, palsy, you think I ain't smart enough to figure out what you were doin'?" Long Tom gave him a bleary-eyed stare. "Didn't think you could see anything past the glow of that suit." He spat. Spittle dribbled down Snapper's face. The pink-suited man's features went livid and he gritted his teeth, sliding his jaw back and forth again and letting out another joint pop. A sarcastic laugh came from his lips. "You get yours, palsy. Oh, yeah, you'll get yours. But just so you know how you helped us out, I needed something to make sure that bronze fella knew right where to go and you solved my little problem. See, soon as he reaches that shoe we got a little reception planned for him. Nothin' like the one you got, though. He won't get the option of living through his." Long Tom's belly plunged. Unwittingly, he may have just led Doc to his death. The notion sickened him. Nate's face took on a nervous look. "Hey, we better scram 'fore that bronze fella shows up. The runt was talkin' to him on that wrist thing of his." The pink suited man let a sneer flow onto his lips. "Throw 'im in the car. With a little luck we can dump him in the river a half-hour from now. I'm gonna enjoy that." He

A Doc Savage Adventure

21

wiped a line of spit from his face. The pink-suited man whirled and headed for one of the cars, the two gangsters dragging Long Tom behind him. They hurled him to the floor of the first car, at Snapper's feet; the dapper gangster jammed a heel into a particularly sensitive spot on the electrical wizard's anatomy. But that pained him less than the thought that his bronze leader was likely at this very moment driving straight into his doom...

The Polar Terror

22

Chapter 5 CALAMITY, A DISH BEST SERVED COLD

Doc Savage brought the roadster to a halt three blocks from the last location Long Tom provided him. The final hundred yards he cut the engine and lights and guided the machine to the curb. Sitting in the fog-shrouded night, a peculiar dread overtook him. It was a small feeling, that dread, like a chipped tooth he could not keep his tongue away from. He felt it there, and it annoyed him, because he wasn't used to such things. He doubted he ever would be and maybe that made him less a freak than he thought. He should have gotten better at controlling those impulses by now. After all, his men wound up in trouble more often than not. But every once in a while one of them slipped past his guard, mostly when danger threatened any of his aides. Part of it was the gloom of the night, the slinking satiny fog that left beads of glittering moisture upon the roadster's bulletproof glass, and part of it came from some suppressed thing seeping through the cracks in that bronze armor. He was wont to blame his mother for that, but how could he? He had never really known her. She died that night so long ago and he could not even really say he had ever missed her. He wondered if he missed what she might have given him, the gift of balance in his life, the ability to display the proper emotions when they were called for--grief, sorrow, fear--and a sense of security around women. But he didn't have those things, though God knew he possessed myriad other skills. He wondered--perhaps even feared--if those subtle suppressed emotions would one day subvert the infallible bronze hero the papers and his men made him out to be, if he wouldn't just come apart all at once when it counted most. Didn't that make him more human than he often admitted he was? Was that not a normal thing? Somewhere in the fear-shrouded corners of his mind, he knew someday one of his men--and likely himself--would be caught in some dire situation their--or his--abilities could not extricate them from. But as in every case where danger threatened he told himself not tonight, not this time, because he had prepared for as many eventualities as he could think up, and those were legion. One time he would miss something, make that fractional error in judgment that would sacrifice one of their lives, and if anything brought terror to a man named Clark Savage, Jr. that was it. One of these days luck would run out. It had with his father, after all. He wondered if he missed him, the stolid adventurer who had provided such a life for his progeny. Clark, Sr. always seemed a cold distant figure. He had to be, didn't he, to sacrifice the life of his only child to... To what? What was this life? Punishing evildoers and righting wrongs? Judge, jury and sometimes even executioner? On the surface it struck him as silly, a Galahadian notion

A Doc Savage Adventure

23

applied to a quickly changing world. The world had suffered through a war that would supposedly end all wars, yet anyone with a sense of history and a modicum of intelligence knew that would never be the case. Wars only became more sophisticated, waged on a grander, deadlier scale. Something bigger would come and likely soon. He had lived through war, as had his men, enough to realize it was an undying beast. In a way, that was what his father had prepared him to learn, to experience, to cope with. A war, if much more subversive. A war already in progress, perhaps unendingly so. A war that spread through the brick and steel canyons of this city and every other town and burrow throughout this shrinking planet. A war of crime in which he and his men were soldiers in the trenches, sniping at individual enemies while the platoons of evil multiplied like some all-consuming virus. A man with less self-control might have chuckled at the lunacy of fighting such a war, ridicule the ideals. But not him. And not the five men who carried the rifles of justice. For as silly as it sounded when spoken, the ideal glowed with sheer golden brilliance when imprinted on his soul. Let me strive every moment of my life, to make myself better and better...so that all may profit from it... A code, Galahadian, perhaps, the matrix of his being nonetheless. Yes, he missed him. Perhaps others might have damned his father, but Clark Savage, Jr. felt only the deepest remorse and sorrow at the loss of a man who had chosen to sacrifice the only remembrance and legacy of the woman he loved to the service of others. And wrong no man... It all began at home. The depths of his flake-gold eyes stirring, his hand drifted to dash, lowering a panel and switching on the radio. A green light glowed in the darkness and low static sizzled from the speaker. He adjusted the frequency to the one Long Tom used and spoke his aide's name. His voice came steady and modulated, any indulgence in emotion buried once more. Only white noise whirred from the speaker and somewhere inside him the nascent dread was likely beginning to scream, but he kept all signs of it from his face. If anything, his features grew more metallic. Not a soul would have seen if he had registered concern, fear or even shock at receiving no response from his aide and long-time friend, but that made no difference. Because someday observers would be present and if anything had been drilled into his brain it was the idea that he had to exhibit only strength for others, to give them courage, a sense of security that whatever evil they faced would be confronted and dealt with. A man who displayed panic did nothing for the composure of those around him. The war remained him of that at sixteen. He'd never forgotten the lesson. "Long Tom...?" His voice remained steady, as if he had just requested tickets for a violin recital. Static answered. Bronze fingers flicked off the radio and snapped up the panel. The interior of the car went dark, except for the ambient light of a far-off street lamp scattering mother-ofpearl ghosts within the fog. Anyone standing within inches of the roadster would have sworn the door had not opened and closed, but it had. A bronze wraith drifted through the fog. Ears pricked, he

The Polar Terror

24

listened as he moved onto the sidewalk and headed south, towards Long Tom's last known transmission. On the water, a buoy clanged, the ringing echoing eerily in the night. Distant traffic, a car horn, perhaps even an argument between some fishermen on a boat far out on the river. But nothing else. He glided along the darkened street, his form seeming to blend with the mist and darkness. Keeping close to buildings, eyes roving, he scoured every shadowy niche for any sign of movement or threat. In his mind, he ran over the details Long Tom provided, the men stopping to make a call, then proceeding at a suddenly casual pace. He felt certain they had spotted a trailer and taken steps to deal with the situation. Which indicated the mysterious robed figure and two gangsters who had shown up at his headquarters earlier tonight were part of something larger, a gang with a leader, who for some reason wanted Doc's visitor silenced in such a way the bronze man would either be scared off their trail or too perplexed to follow at all. Whoever was behind the scheme made a mistake if they thought killing a man on his doorstep would result in that eventuality. They were not using their heads. The horrendous nature of the death only made him more determined to protect the innocent and get to the bottom of the mystery. He might have labeled whoever led this gang a fool, but he doubted anyone capable of organizing something so hideous and using a weapon--if indeed it was a weapon--that froze men solid could be classed as such. The leader was simply unschooled in the nature of certain types of human beings. In the nature of Doc Savage. Pausing at a corner, he pressed himself against the damp cool brick of a building. His heart thrummed steady and smooth and any flicker of emotion was snuffed out. He would need every advantage his years of training had given him now; that meant total concentration on the task at hand. He could afford no mistakes, especially where the life of one of his men was concerned. He edged around the corner, an awesome figure that seemed to swell from the tendrils of mist into a figure of solid bronze. A swatch of diffused street light played over his frame. Due to the perfect symmetry of his musculature, his size became more apparent as he passed by a mail receptacle. Melting back into the marbled fog, he paused near a certain section of sidewalk. Flake-gold eyes swept over the brick, noting the tiniest disturbances in the oily residue coating the surface, then lifted to the alley a handful of feet away. Suffused with darkness, the alley interior proved too murky for even his superhuman gaze to penetrate. His gaze traveled back to the street, where fifty yards away a dark sedan sat idle and seemingly empty. His eyes held the sedan a moment, noting the incongruity of it on the deserted street, but if threat were to come from there in the form of men with guns they would have little chance at hitting him where he stood from that distance. He knew he was capable of moving faster than they could aim, and had complete confidence in the chain mail vest he wore beneath his shirt. His gaze moved away from the car, though he kept it at the corner of his eye in case movement came, stopping suddenly at a point where a shoe lay on the asphalt. Long Tom's shoe. Recognizing the shoe and size, he instantly knew it belonged to his aide. The notion his man had been taken solidified in his mind, though something struck him as off kilter. Why hadn't whoever abducted Long Tom noticed the shoe? Because of the fog?

A Doc Savage Adventure

25

The night? Haste to quit the area? Or something more devilish? His bronze form faded back into the swirling mist and he went back in the direction from which he had come. With deceptive speed and utter silence, he appeared again next beside his roadster on the passenger side. Swinging the door open without the slightest creaking of hinges, he located a dash compartment and fished within, bringing out a square box-like device that sported a lens on one end. Closing the door, he was again in motion, all senses functioning at a level above even the most alert jungle cat. Anyone attacking at the moment stood little chance at taking him unaware. The bronze man came around the corner a second time, appearing to glide to the spot he had noticed on the sidewalk. A glance at the parked car showed no change, and his flake-gold eyes settled upon the disturbances in the oily dust. A scuffle had occurred. It took little of his uncanny deductive abilities to determine that much. Skids of rubber from Long Tom and other men's shoes, a piece of torn clothing and drops of blood. The blood might have given him pause but the spilled fluid appeared from something much smaller than any mortal wound, perhaps a smashed lip or broken nose. He doubted whomever had taken Long Tom had encountered an easy time of it. His attention went to the small black box in his hand and bronze fingers found a tiny switch on the side. At first nothing seemed to happen other than a hollow click. He adjusted the angle of the box, and anyone observing might have labeled him daft for wasting time with something that obviously wasn't working. They would have been wrong in both assumptions. For against the slick darkness of the sidewalk a word sprang out in electric blue. The device in his hand was a black light projector, whose beam, when it hit a particular substance such as ordinary Vaseline would cause the substance to fluoresce. All Doc's aides, and the bronze man himself, carried special nubs of chalk with which they commonly left messages for one another on windows or other smooth surfaces. Long Tom had apparently managed to inscribe the word on the sidewalk. It read: Pizzicat... Doc swept the beam over other areas, then straightened, switching off the projector. If Long Tom had left a clue it meant he was alive, at least for the moment. Doc Savage made a slight error in judgment then. Of any other human being he would have forgiven it, but not of himself. He took the message to mean whoever abducted his man had left the area and whatever reasoning behind the snatching would likely become evident soon. He lost interest in the automobile fifty yards away and stepped into the street to retrieve Long Tom's shoe, deciding its presence there was insignificant. A hidden foot punched the starter button and the sedan roared to life as he knelt to pick up the shoe. His head snapped up and golden eyes settled on the automobile, which with a horrendous screech of tires and plume of rubbery smoke shot towards him. Headlights flashed on, pining him in their glare. He had seconds, if that, before the thing ran him down. Superman or not, even his bones would be crushed under the impact. He came to his feet, powerful leg muscles uncoiling in an explosive burst. The projector flew from his grip to land in pieces against the sidewalk as his arms snapped upward to give him more thrust. The car bore down on him like a charging beast, tires still shrieking. With the terrific flexing of bronze thighs, he hurled himself straight up into the

The Polar Terror

26

air, in the same motion snapping his knees to his chest. The maneuver required splitsecond timing. If he misjudged it, his heels would hit the car top and he would likely go careening off the hood into the street. At the very least he would have broken bones, internal injuries. Doc, with a sensation as if time stopped and left him suspended in the air while the sedan passed beneath him, straightened his legs as he cleared the roof and came down. Powerful muscles cushioned the landing. He whirled, in motion in nearly the same movement, just in time to see the car careen onward another thirty feet before whoever was driving stamped the brakes. Tires shrieked and a cloud of bluish smoke billowed from the rubber as the sedan fishtailed. The driver exhibited difficulty controlling the sedan as the left tires hit the sidewalk and rebounded, lifting the vehicle completely off the ground on that side. The car canted precariously and for a moment it looked as if it might actually flip over onto its side. It did not. The wheels, after the vehicle seemed to hang suspended for infinite seconds, slammed to the ground with a clank and burst forward. The bronze man ran, feet gripping the slick roadway and hurtling him towards the car, which slowed as a head popped from the driver's window and looked back, in all likelihood to see if by some miracle his dastardly goal had been accomplished. A bleat came from the driver and his eyes widened like boiled eggs at the sight of the bronze giant streaking towards him. The head snapped back into the car like a gopher darting down a hole and the vehicle picked up speed. Doc's body became a bronze blur in the fog. Perhaps some shred of ego got the better of him or perhaps it was a outburst of that suppressed anger he had felt not so long ago that sent him after the sedan, heedless of any danger. He could have caught it, so great was his speed, faster than any runner holding an Olympic record. He could have caught it, except the passenger window flew down and a machine gun poked through. Doc veered right, having slight trouble with his footing on the slick pavement as he switched directions, and hurtled sideways just as the tommy gun belched smoke and flame and lead stitched a path along the street where he had been just a second before. Shards of asphalt spewed into the air and lead ricocheted, but none of the slugs hit him. He reached the sidewalk before the gunner could adjust his aim and his companion sent the car speeding into the night. Doc came to a stop, his breath barely quickened, his heart perhaps a beat faster but not taxed. Flake-gold eyes watched the car vanish in swirls of fog, noting the license plate number and committing it to memory. He doubted it would lead anywhere but he preferred to leave no angle unchecked. The street went silent and a mild sensation of disgust coursed through him. He was no closer to discovering what lay behind the mystery of the frozen death and now his aide had vanished. He had been nearly run down, only his lightning-quick mind and reflexes saving him, but was no closer to the truth. It was not a banner night, he thought dryly. The thought dissolved instantly and for the second time in the last few moments his reflexes saved him from certain death. It was almost inaudible, the swish of cloth behind him, but his trained ears caught it. Something had swooped from an alley and was descending upon him. Instinct honed by years of training guided his movements and he swept right,

A Doc Savage Adventure

27

ducking at the same time. Something brushed by his head, lightly skimming the surface, and a burst of incredible coldness went through his skull. Without thought, his hands became a blur as they flashed to his head and yanked free the hair, throwing it to the sidewalk. A metallic clank sounded and burning cold sizzled through the tips of his fingers but he survived with no other damage. The strange denuding of his head was in fact rendered by a metal skull cap he commonly wore. Matching his own hair exactly, it was bulletproof, at least as much as the thinness of the alloy would allow; it had saved his life. A freezing tingle rippled through his scalp as it was, but whatever caused the freezing death had not gone through the cap onto his head or he wouldn't have been breathing any longer. The thoughts flashed through his mind, as his bronze form whirled and angled away from whatever attacked him. He saw it then, the wavering robed figure, its hand lifted, fluttering like some vile bluish bat in the night. The figure shuffled forward, endeavoring to make a second attempt at touching the bronze giant. Doc's fist shot out, a blur as it streaked directly into the cowl opening. He had no other choice. Even his speed would not take him out of the figure's reach in time, for the being moved with incredible swiftness. The bronze fist impacted with a sound like concrete blocks slamming together. The robed being seemed to shudder and for a moment Doc thought it would topple over backwards. The figure did something amazing. It steadied itself and its hand darted forward like a cobra, its speed blinding. Doc, nearly as surprised as he had ever been, barely managed to avoid the clutch. He had hit the robed attacker as hard as he had ever hit any man, yet the thing not only didn't go down, it came at him again as if it had merely shaken off a fly. Doc scuttled backwards as the being's hand came at him. Slightly off balance, he couldn't get out of the way completely and the spidery blue fingers brushed the upper swell of his chest. Just barely, but it was enough. A wave of chilling coldness swept across his chest but beyond that he was undamaged, saved by the chain mail undershirt. The material of his shirt crackled and fell away where the hand had touched and suddenly black smoke began pouring from the area. Accompanied by a fragile pop, it billowed outward at an incredible rate. The pall completely enveloped the area around the two and Doc was in motion before the thing decided to take another swipe at him. He realized instantly what had happened. Beneath his shirt he also wore a carry-all vest stuffed with every gadget he anticipated he might need during the course of an adventure. He never carried a gun, arguing anyone who did so only become dependent on the firearm. The being's icy touch had hit one of the miniature smoke grenades in his vest, freezing its shell, which, under pressure, had burst, releasing the inky fumes. The bronze man moved backwards and came out of the black cloud a block down, then circled the pall, waiting to see if the strange being emerged. It was no slight on his courage that he did not go in after the figure. Whoever wore that robe was as deadly a foe as the bronze man had come across since beginning his career; blindly charging after it

The Polar Terror

28

was sheer foolishness. The thing in the robe apparently had the same notion. For as the smoke dissipated it became clear the attacker had vanished. Doc's trilling grew momentarily audible, fading like the ghostly figure he'd just encountered. The bronze man's fingers drifted to the spot on his shirt that had frozen off and the exposed portion of his vest beneath. It still felt icy, but did not burn his fingertips. He had been lucky the thing's touch had not found one of the glass-shelled gas pellets and rendered him helpless, or worse, one of the compact explosive grenades he was carrying. He spent another fifteen minutes scouring the area for any sign of the being, judging it had likely disappeared down the same alleyway from which it came, then returned to his car. Behind the wheel again, he backed around and headed to his headquarters, deciding whatever was beneath that robe was one of the strangest opponents of his career.

A Doc Savage Adventure

29

Chapter 6 THE STINKING PIG

"I'm tellin' ya, shyster, they have running boards so ladies don't get their dresses dirty!" The voice carried a quality akin to the shriek of a nail being pried out of wet lumber and came from the man sprawled in an overstuffed leather chair in the reception room of Doc Savage's eighty-sixth floor headquarters. Piping and childlike, the voice little matched the personage poking a pinkie through the bullet hole in one of his cauliflowered ears. The other ear looked as if it had been chewed on and considering the numerous scraps the man had become engaged in throughout his rough and tumble life that was a likely possibility. Where homeliness was concerned, Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair would have given anyone on the face of the planet a run for his money. At five feet six inches and two-hundred and sixty pounds he was nearly as wide as he was tall. Built along the lines of an orangutan, bristly red hair like shingle nails covered his brick-red skin. His friends called him Monk for obvious reasons and his enemies called him dangerous. His features looked as if a troop of grime-footed pigeons had pranced across his cheeks. The constant barrage of blows from adversaries' fists had pounded his nose flat. His eyes glittered like twinkling twin stars sunk deep within pits of gristle and his low forehead appeared to contain room for no more than a spoonful of brains. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. He was, in fact, one of the world's leading industrial chemists and commanded a fee high enough to keep him in the lap of luxury had he not possessed a penchant for chorus girls and an even bigger addiction to excitement. Dressed in the most hideous fifteen-dollar suit he could find--a checkered pattern with a bright yellow tie, gleaming green shirt, loud plaid vest and bulldog-toed shoes--he eyed the target of his present and constant verbal assault, one Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, and cocked an eyebrow. "Automobiles have running boards because they are stylish, you hairy baboon!" The argument wasn't one of Ham's strongest but he delivered it with the voice of a champion orator and all the skills his years as a Harvard-bred lawyer had taught him, so anyone over-hearing would likely have accepted the statement as gospel. Theodore Marley "Ham" Brooks sat in another chair, fingertip atop an innocentlooking cane whose other end rested against the carpet. With his thumb he gave the cane a spin and let a bored look filter onto his face. His deepset dark eyes rolled and he let out a patronizing sigh. Handsome featured, his mouth was large and mobile, his black hair straight and well-combed. Thin-waisted and waspish, he stood five-ten in his stocking feet and his sleek form carried one-hundred and fifty-five pounds of trim muscle. Perhaps

The Polar Terror

30

the first thing anyone meeting him noticed was his sartorial elegance. A fop, many would have called him, something worse if Monk had any say. His ensemble matched his moods and the occasion and he'd been known to change every two hours should the need arise. Tailors followed him down the street just to see their creations worn the way they were meant to be. At present, his dark lounge suit likely cost as much as a small automobile. Waistline set a hair above the natural line, its buttons and pockets moved up correspondingly higher, it consisted of a double-breasted jacket with shorter but wider lapels and built-up shoulders, providing a squareness of shoulder line. Sleeves narrowed towards the cuffs and the square-cut jacket fitted expertly at his slender hips. Trousers were close-fitting at the waist with turned-up bottoms. The material was a herringbone pattern. His nickname, Ham, which he detested, had come from an incident in the war with Monk he preferred never to think about. Monk grinned, the expression nearly swallowing his face. "Ladies dresses. No one builds cars for style, they build 'em for convenience and comfort." Ham frowned. "Posh! If you knew double as much about Ford as you knew about clothing you still would not be allowed a license to drive in New York." "And if you knew half as much about hams as you know about chasing ambulances you wouldn't have got caught with your hand in the pork barrel." Monk snickered, his little eyes twinkling with mischief. Ham's face darkened from ruddy to purple and he sprang out of the chair, eyes narrowing, hand clamping about the handle of his cane. "Why, you, you...you pigeontoed mistake of the monkey family! You know damn well I did not have anything to do with stealing those hams--you framed me!" The words came out in a sputter. Few things could get his goat other than mention of pigs in general and that incident in particular. Monk's expression grew sly. "Maybe you wouldn't have ended up in the brig if you hadn't taught me those 'polite' words to say to that French general. And French sounds like such a romantic language, too." Ham gritted his teeth and eyed monk with murder in his eyes. "If I would have taught you better ones maybe they would have done the world a favor and shot you at dawn. The president would have bestowed the country's highest award on me for that." "And I bet they would have found a nice place to pin it, too..." "Style!" Ham snapped the assertion like a barrister slamming home a point, either unable to think of anything further to say on the subject of ham stealing and obscene French words, or, more likely, to change the subject. Monk made a pig snorting noise. Twice. A quite expert one in fact, and Ham's face, if such a thing were possible, got even more purple. He grabbed the handle of his cane, gave it a twist and with a shik sound unsheathed a razor-honed sword. With the deft stroke of a fencer, he swept it left and right. "I ought to cut you down to size, you miscreant! You'll be peeking out of your eyelets when I'm finished with you." Monk braced his long arms, which dangled to his knees, on the chair arms, preparing to spring up. "Go ahead, if you've got the five seconds it'll take me to tear you into little pieces, fashion plate." Ham danced forward. Monk came to his feet, which made him look only slightly taller than when sitting. Slamming a phone into its cradle, Renny looked up from the big oak desk he sat

A Doc Savage Adventure

31

behind. "Holy cow, will you two pipe down! You're making my head spin. I'm trying to make calls for Doc. Don't make me tie the both of you into knots." His face grew more puritanical and his booming voice told them he meant it. Ham stopped, straightening, and Monk looked sheepish. "Heck, Renny, you know how Ham and I like to ride each other. I wasn't really going to tear him into pieces." "As if you could, ape." Ham's tone turned into a razor. The childish retort sounded a hell of a lot more serious than it should have. Monk glared at the dapper lawyer. "Don't push your luck. The world ain't ready for shyster cutlets." Renny grumbled. "I swear someday I'm just gonna let you two birds murder each other and save the rest of us the constant headache. I sure wish you'd find some other way to waste your time." "Aw, blazes, we're just bored while Doc's out there havin' all the fun." Monk settled back into the chair. "You find out anything 'bout that dead guy and them snow cone corpses?" Ham let out a titter and sheathed his sword cane, then leaned against the floor safe against one wall, near the corner. "Always the sensitive one." His voice carried enough sarcasm to incite a scathing glare from the apish chemist. "Not much." Renny paused, gloomy face thoughtful. "Those reporters didn't know much more than they printed. I got one to tell me he didn't even believe the story but needed to fill some space in the paper. Apparently no one had been gobbled by a polar bear that day so that was it." "He didn't believe it himself and he still printed it?" Ham's wide mouth pulled into a frown. "Sounds sorta like a lawyer to me." Monk grinned. Ham scowled. "Don't start up again." Renny slapped a ham-sized hand against the desktop. "He didn't believe it until he went down to the port where the frozen man was discovered and saw it for himself. He thought it was a dummy until the two fellas cartin' it off to the morgue accidentally dropped the thing and it broke into pieces." "Pieces?" Ham's eyebrows arched and curiosity twinkled in his eyes. "Just like the one Doc's got in a box in the lab. The writer said he didn't eat for two days after seeing that. He had no doubt it was real." "That all you got?" Monk scratched his rusty-haired forearm. "That's it, except I made a check on all the cab companies in case that fella who came here might have taken a hack. Maybe he told the cabbie something he didn't get the chance to tell Doc." "Any luck?" Ham shifted his sword cane to the other hand. "Well, no lemons at any rate. Seems one driver remembers bringing that fella here. He remembers it because he got his payment in sapphire." "A gem?" Monk's face captured a surprised expression. "Big as a robin's egg. Company said they'd have the guy come up here after he got done his shift at midnight." "Who pays cab fares with precious gems that large?" Ham mused aloud. A scratching noise sounded and Ham's attention traveled to the library door, which was open. A peculiar animal wandered in, hooves clicking on the carpet as it walked. Pranced might have been a better word, for despite its homeliness the pig

The Polar Terror

32

strutted as though it considered itself the height of porcine elegance and dignity. Ham's face got the purple color back and Monk's grin widened. The hairy chemist thought if steam could have come out of the dapper lawyer's ears it would have done so with the force of a teakettle going off. The animal in question was probably as ugly a specimen of the pig family as Monk was of the Homo Sapiens variety. Gangly legs protruded from its scrawny body and ears like sails drooped to the floor. An Arabian miniature hog, the pig wore a platinum collar studded with jewels and seemed to cast Ham a wary glance, which was fortunate, because the dapper lawyer sent a vicious kick towards the animal as it passed. The pig grunted and sprinted out of the way. "Hey, you stop treatin' Habeas like that!" Monk's childlike voice piped up a notch and Ham let out inarticulate sounds of disgust. The pig hopped onto a chair and eyed Ham. Monk had acquired the animal on a recent adventure in the Middle East and named him Habeas Corpus to annoy Ham. He'd paid the owner one qirsh for the porker, which amounted to about four cents American, and had spent many hours training Habeas to perform various tricks, most of them designed to send Ham into a fit. "What the devil is that stink, anyway?" Renny looked up from the desk and paper he'd jotted notes onto. With the pig's entrance had come a reek as flowery as an explosion of spring lilacs mixed with musk. "That's-that's-that's--" Ham sputtered, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. Monk nodded his nubbin of a head. "That's your cologne. I dumped two bottles of it into Habeas's mud bath this morning. Habeas wanted to smell good too, didn'tcha Habeas?" "That cologne costs a hundred dollars an ounce!" Ham managed to get out with a spray of venom. "They're over-charging you." Renny was unable to hide a slight upward turn to his normally dour lips. "No amount's too much for my pig." Monk's voice carried a cheerful ring. Ham let out a sound that could have only been bested by the shriek of a steam train whistle and started for Monk. Renny's booming shout stopped the dapper lawyer. "Hey!" His arm lifted and he jabbed a finger at the light blinking above the door leading to the hallway. "We got a visitor." Ham's features lost some of their purple color, the insults and ire of a moment before seemingly forgotten. Monk's face turned serious. The apish chemist sprang from his chair. "Hope it ain't the gollywockus that froze that fella." "He could only do the world a favor by ridding it of you." The insult carried little conviction and Ham stared at the door. He gazed at Monk, cocking an eyebrow. "You answer it." "I swear you meant that, shyster!" The feud nearly got stated again, but Renny jumped from the behind the desk and went to the inlaid table, touching a spot. The reception room door swung open automatically and all three men stared at the vision poised in the entryway. "Hey, she sure ain't no golly-whatcha-call-it. She's a dish." Monk's grin turned

A Doc Savage Adventure

33

amiable and his features became pleasantly homely instead of baby-frightening. Monk's expertise with feminine pulchritude matched his skill with chemistry--she was, indeed, a dish, and he felt bells ring somewhere south of the border. Her short permed hair, the color of a mesa at sunset, framed a face with high cheekbones, a slightly turned-up nose and full lips. Her large round eyes shimmered like polished mahogany, though if one slightly off kilter trait had to be singled out it was the fact that those eyes seemed to contain tiny storms that detracted only a fraction from the softness of her features. She was dressed in a short lilac jacket with padded shoulders. Unfastened between the waist and her full hips, it had wide revers, no pockets and bishop-style sleeves, snug at the wrists. Beneath the jacket, a simple matching colored dress reached to her shapely calves. A close-fitting lilac hat tilted at a jaunty angle completed the ensemble. Slim fingers, white with strain, clutched a strapless brown handbag. Her figure was one to make even the most jaded of men fall over themselves. Full of hip and plump of bosom, she had an hourglass shape that made Monk's legs turn to jelly. Ham appeared spellbound, his usually composed good looks breaking out into a foolish grim. Only Renny, who came around beside Monk, seemed unaffected. "Her eyes are hard," the giant engineer whispered to Monk. "Didn't notice..." The hairy chemist's voice came even higher than normal. "Take you eyes off her bubs a minute and you might." "Er..." Monk couldn't think of a retort but moved towards the vision of loveliness standing in the doorway. Ham went towards the young woman at the same instant, getting in front of the chemist and reaching her first. "Permit me to introduce myself. Theodore Marley Brooks at your service, Miss…?" The young woman smiled. It was a totally entrancing smile designed to melt the hardest of men but it was largely wasted, for Monk and Ham were already puddles as far as the woman was concerned. "Miss Doe." Her voice, sweet and dulcifying--Monk would have sworn angelic, though he was known to label even a chorus girl with a bullfrog in her throat in that manner--carried a note of strain. "Doe?" Monk tried to push in front of Ham, who elbowed the chemist in the chest. "Jane Doe." She smiled wider and Monk reckoned his feet lifted off the floor. Behind them, Renny let out a snort. "You're pulling our leg." "I assure you, Mr. Renwick, my name is quite real. My father is Doctor Jefferson Doe and he has almost as peculiar a sense a humor as he does a dedication to his family." Her voice sharpened and the storms in her eyes seemed to intensify. A perplexed look jumped onto the dour engineer's face. "Hey, how do you know-" "Your name?" Her voice became soft and angelic again. "I know all your names-Mr. Brooks and Mr. Mayfair's as well. I have read much about you in the papers. You have quite a reputation. My father talked about the scientific work of Mr. Savage and yourself often...when he bothered to come home." "You come here just to display your knowledge of our outfit or are you in some sort of trouble?" Renny's voice carried a surly edge and Monk reckoned it was only because he had been cooped up in the office while Doc was out having all the excitement.

The Polar Terror

34

"You are beginning to sound like Long Tom, Renny," Ham said with a raised eyebrow towards his teammate. Monk made a slight snapping motion with his fingers and Habeas Corpus jumped off the chair and ambled over. He sat at Monk's feet and looked up at the woman. She looked at the pig, puzzlement touching her face. Habeas opened his mouth and spoke. At least he seemed to: "Pay no attention to that big lug, Miss Doe. He's just sore because he doesn't have a funeral to go to." Ham let out a stifled groan and appeared on the verge of taking another kick at the porker, but likely the presence of Jane Doe discouraged any such act. Her face brightened, "Why, Mr. Mayfair, you are quite a ventriloquist!" Renny let out a booming laugh. "I knew you'd run into a dame smart enough to figure out that trick sooner or later." Monk scowled and Ham suddenly seized his chance. He slipped an arm beneath the woman's and guided her past Monk into the reception room. "Do come in, Miss Doe. Please ignore the Neanderthal and Renny and tell us your problem." Ham's voice became thick as treacle with sweetness as he escorted Jane Doe to one of the leather chairs. She sat, ladylike, as if she had practiced the move until it was perfection and Ham sighed like a schoolboy with a first crush. Monk let out a grunt of disgust and grabbed Habeas by an oversized ear, swinging the pig into the nearest chair. The porker settled down and placed his head between his front feet, as if observing the proceedings. Jane Doe, her back arched and her handbag on her lap, let a look of sadness bleed onto her face. "It is not I who am in trouble, Mr. Brooks. It is my father." "Your father?" Ham's voice turned soothing and Monk felt his belly revolt. He needed some ploy to steal the play away from that over-dressed clothes dummy, but at the moment couldn't think of anything. Usually the pig trick worked better, at least on the type of women he was used to chasing. "Yes, he vanished over nine months ago. I fear something may have befallen him." A sob shuddered through her body and she appeared to struggle with a great sorrow. Ham leaped forward, plucking the handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to her. She accepted with a smile and dabbed at her eyes. "Jefferson Doe…why does that name sound familiar?" asked Renny as he went back around the desk and lowered himself into the chair. Monk leaned against the library door frame, arms folded. "He was--is--an explorer. He published a number of papers on polar ice shifts and Viking migrations. He theorized the Vikings may have reached the Americas before Columbus." Renny snapped his fingers "Yeah, that's where I heard the name. Johnny mentioned something about his work being fascinating and ahead of its time." Johnny was William Harper Littlejohn, the fifth member of Doc's band. A walking bag of bones with a penchant for three-dollar words, he was the archeologist and geologist of the group. "He is quite right. Mr. father's work is probably decades ahead of present scientific acceptance. It should be. He dedicated his life to it." Coldness came momentarily to her voice. "Where is Mr. Littlejohn? Perhaps I might discuss my father's work with him at some point?"

A Doc Savage Adventure

35

Ham made his face comforting. "Johnny's in Peru at the moment, uncovering the sacred ruins of Caral. He discovered six pyramids there dating back to 2627 BC. They may turn the archeological community on its head." She nodded, dabbing her eyes again. "I wish my father had gone there with him instead of...instead of..." "Where, Miss Doe?" Monk's piping voice filled with compassion. The poor girl was obviously having a difficult time of it. "Why do you think your father has vanished?" Jane Doe peered at Monk, a fragile smile turning her lips. "The North Pole, Mr. Mayfair. He mounted an expedition to the Arctic over nine months ago and never returned." "Is that unusual?" Ham asked, the lawyer in him taking over. "You said he goes away for long periods." "I might not have thought so until earlier tonight. He rarely tells me his plans, but I do know he thought he had discovered a Viking settlement much farther north than ever believed possible on a previous expedition. He planned to journey there with his close friend Reginald Denton and prove some new theory he was working on." "Did he actually depart for the north?" Ham's brow crinkled. She nodded. "To the best of my knowledge. That is where I believed him to be for all these months." "What leads you to think different, now?" Renny asked. "Reginald Denton called on me earlier tonight. I was not at home but the front desk man at my apartment--well, my father's apparent, actually, but I live there when he is abroad--told me he asked for me after finding no one at home. The desk man said Mr. Denton was quite frantic over something and when he left the building two men began to follow him." "You think that means your father is in danger?" Monk asked. "I do, Mr. Mayfair. He would have stopped in at the very least had he returned and Reginald Denton was always a calm caring man. If he was distraught over something I am sure it was serious." "Just what do you want us to do?" Renny's tone held little sympathy. "I don't know, Mr. Renwick. Perhaps there is nothing to do. Perhaps he is already..." Another sob made her shudder. She dabbed at her eyes again with the handkerchief. "Do you have charts of where he was going?" A modulated voice suddenly asked from the library entrance and Monk jolted. The four's heads swiveled to see Doc Savage framed in the doorway, as if he'd merely materialized there like a bronze ghost. "Just once I wish he'd use the front door," Monk said under his breath to Ham. "He just scared a year off my life!" "Only a year?" Ham wielded his sarcasm as well as his sword cane and gave the homely chemist a disgusted look to go with it. "Pity." "You heard, Doc?" Renny asked. "Yes, most of it." Doc entered the room and stopped before the inlaid table, his flake-gold eyes sympathetic and stirring. He had changed into a new shirt and appeared little affected by the night's close call with death.

The Polar Terror

36

"Mr. Savage, you are all I have heard and more." Jane Doe stood and smiled, as if the bronze man's very presence had calmed her, provided her with a measure of strength. The bronze man appeared unaffected by her loveliness and his face remained a metallic mask. "The charts?" Her eyes narrowed a hair but otherwise nothing showed whether the bronze man's coolness towards her beauty made any difference to her. "Not that I am aware of. I should think he might have them with him." Doc nodded. "Such an expedition to uncharted regions is a dangerous venture. He might have left duplicates or papers indicating his whereabouts. Perhaps tomorrow you will accompany my men to your father's apartment and make certain that was not the case." She nodded. "I should like that, especially if Mr. Mayfair and his marvelous pig come along." Monk blushed and a smirk pulled his lips wide. Ham groaned, the color draining from his face. "Do you have a photograph of your father?" Doc asked, before the inevitable war erupted between his two aides. "Why, yes, I do." She opened her purse and fumbled within. Bringing out a creased sepia-toned photograph showing two men, she passed it to Doc. The bronze man's peculiar trilling drifted through the room as his flake-gold eyes studied the picture. "What is it, Doc?" Renny stood, face drawing into even gloomier lines. "The second man in this photograph..." His gaze lifted to the young woman. "That is Reginald Denton, my father's partner and the man I was telling your associates about earlier." "You know him, Doc?" Ham came over and glanced at the photo. "I am afraid I do. He is about forty pounds heavier in this photograph, but that is the man who came to see me earlier tonight." The woman's face took on a startled expression. "Then you have talked to him? He has told you where my father is? If he was all right?" The flake-gold of Doc's eyes became restless then sympathetic. His tone came calm and comforting, though anyone knowing him closely would have also detected a certain discomfort in it. "I am afraid the news is not good, Miss Doe. He was murdered here earlier tonight, before he could tell me anything." The young woman's eyes widened and her face blanched. She staggered back and collapsed into the chair, gripping both arms for support. "He...he was like an uncle to me, Mr. Savage..." It was all she could say for long moments. Tears ran down her face and her fingers bleached as they dug into the leather. Monk felt emotion clamp his throat and went over to her, taking her hand and patting it. Ham appeared irritated but unwilling to unleash any sarcastic comments given the gravity of the moment. "Perhaps it would be best if you weren't alone for the night." Doc said after a few moments of strained silence. "Do you think I may be in danger, too, Mr. Savage?" The bronze man didn't answer. She peered up at him, brow knitting. "I asked, do you think I might be in danger?" "Monk, take her to one of our suites and make sure she is comfortable," he

A Doc Savage Adventure

37

answered instead, and Monk nodded, helping her out of the chair. She gazed at Doc Savage with a hint of irritation at his seeming rudeness, but remained silent. After Monk escorted Jane Doe from the room, Ham made a disgusted grunt and shook his head. "That's like putting the dog in charge of the filet mignon." Renny let out a rumbling laugh. "Like letting you do it would have been any safer?" "Whoever is behind this mystery has Long Tom," said Doc before Ham could reply. "Holy cow! Nothing better happen to that scrawny little twerp." Concern lit on the engineer's long face. The bronze man's eyes stirred, but his face remained inscrutable. "He wrote a name on the sidewalk before they got him. It may mean something." What was it, Doc?" Ham gripped his sword cane tighter and his face grew serious. "Not all of it was there but I would venture he was spelling the name Pizzicato." "That name--" Ham started. Doc nodded. "There is a detective named Pizzicato." "That's it!" Ham snapped his fingers. "Clementine Pizzicato, if I recall correctly." "I have had our agency keep tabs on him for a while now. He maintains an office on the seventh floor of the Craymore building." Renny slapped a hand on the desk. "From what I heard about him he caters to the lowest common denominator. Tracks mostly cheating husbands and celebrities for the rags. His reputation isn't stellar by any stretch. He gets called the gadget man because he's been known to bug phones to get information." The bronze man lowered himself into a chair and steepled his fingers. "He has a reputation for blackmail. He may have gotten himself involved in something bigger this time, or perhaps has some knowledge of the case. It might be a good idea to check on him tomorrow morning." "We'll go with you, Doc. If he knows something about our pal I want to be the first to shake it out of him." Renny smashed a huge fist into his palm. Doc shook his head. "You and Ham accompany Monk and Miss Doe to her father's apartment. She may need protection and whatever we are up against isn't some run-of-the-mill crooked gumshoe." Renny looked disappointed, but nodded. The phone on the desk rang and the engineer snatched it up, the receiver disappearing in his huge hand. A moment later he set it back in the cradle, face growing gloomier. "That was the cab company, Doc. I asked them to send the cabbie up here who had given our frozen man a ride earlier, in case he knew anything." "He on his way?" asked Ham. "Nope, and he won't be, either. The police just found him in his cab, frozen solid!"

The Polar Terror

38

Chapter 7 FROZEN BRAINS

The hack was parked outside of Blair House on Park Avenue and evidently the cabbie had been awaiting a fare when he met with his untimely demise. The fare proved to be one Glenda Gildersleeve, wife of Horace Gildersleeve, the Ice Cream King and something about that fact caused Ham to snicker. In fact, he'd been doing it for most of the trip. As they walked towards the Checker, which was surround by a cadre of New York's finest, Renny flashed Ham a corrosive look that said this was neither the appropriate time nor place to display a morbid sense of humor. The bronze man walked between Ham and Renny, his flake-gold eyes alert and somber. A few spectators from the hotel stood outside the expensive deco entrance, rubbing their hands together like squirrels who'd discovered another animal dug up their nuts. Their faces were blanched almost alabaster. One man, obviously the hotel owner, likely was pondering the monetary damage a frozen corpse would do to the exorbitant rates he squeezed out of his high-classed patronage once the story hits the sheets. "C'mon, c'mon, nothin' to see here, folks," a uniformed officer shouted at the gawkers. He waved them back, though frankly not a one appeared eager to get too close to the cab. Doc made for the bull, displaying his honorary commission in the New York Police Force. The officer saluted, then shook his head. "Ain't never seen nothin' like it, I haven't. Damnedest thing. Be a long time before I get the image of that fella's corpse outta my head, it will." The bronze man nodded. "On the way over I spoke to the commissioner on the radio. He informed me a Mrs. Gildersleeve discovered the body?" "That's right, she did." The flatfoot let out a nervous laugh. "Hear tell she let out a screech like a nun who just found out God ain't a catholic." "She notice anyone around the cab?" Doc's tone remained steady as his gaze traveled to the hack. "Not a sole. Seems she was late comin' down from her room, she was. Good thing, too, or ice cream might not be the only thing her husband had to keep from melting." Ham chuckled. It was more a titter, though likely no one would have made him admit it, and Renny planted an elbow in his chest. That settled the matter. "Anyone touch the body?" the bronze man asked. The cop shifted feet, looked at his shoes, then back to Doc Savage. "First bull who got here made that mistake, he did. Ended up with a free trip to the hospital for his

A Doc Savage Adventure

39

trouble. Queerest thing, he burnt his hand on the corpse. Said the damn thing was smokin' like nobody's business, too." "Why'd he touch it, then?" Ham asked, frowning. The cop twisted his mouth into disgusted expression. "Because he was a damn fool, that's why. You know how some kids just keep stickin' pins in electrical sockets though they know it gives 'em a shock every time? This guy was that type. Bet he didn't learn his lesson, either." Doc's eyes grew thoughtful. The slight burning sensation still remained in his own fingertips and he had barely come in contact with whatever made the chilled bodies. He thanked the officer and moved to the cab, peering inside. The sight that greeted him was one to stand the hair on end. The door hung open and the corpse that sat in the driver's seat had a look of utter terror welded onto its features that made even Doc want to recoil. The man canted back at an angle, obviously in an endeavor to escape the menace threatening him. One hand was raised, as if to fend off an attack. The mouth gaped and the eyes were as wide with the reflection of a man's own death as humanly possible. The bronze's man gaze swept over the cab interior, noting nothing else out of place, then he peered back at the officer. "My aide mentioned the man had come into possession of a rather large gem. Any idea what became of it?" The flatfoot shrugged. "Beats me. No one wanted to go lookin' through his pockets after that fella got burnt." Doc's fingers probed in his vest, bringing out a small hammer that resembled a reflex tester with a metal head. Leaning into the cab, he tapped the shirt pocket of the dead man, which shattered and fell away. It proved empty and next he went to the trousers, tapping the left pocket. A buffalo nickel, Liberty dime and assorted keys fell onto the seat. The right pocket contained nothing. He found no sign of the sapphire. "Maybe it is in a back pocket." Ham's handsome face grew puzzled. "You know anyone who would enjoy sittin' on an egg that big all night?" Renny's voice carried a healthy measure of sarcasm and Ham's cheeks crimsoned. "Yes, but I suppose that is besides the point." Doc moved away from the cab and the officer scratched his head. "You figure whoever killed him did it for the rock?" The bronze man didn't answer but he knew the strange being who caused the frozen death had a deeper motive in mind. While likely the killer removed the gem, it was not for as mundane a reason as petty theft. "Does this man have a family?" Doc's gaze settled on the cop and the flatfoot let out a long sigh. "Three kids and a wife, the dispatcher told me. One of the kid's got a bum eye, he has. That bird's egg might have made a big difference. He was workin' extra shifts to make ends meet, too, the Depression and all..." Doc nodded, a slight tightening to his metallic face registering. Pulling a card from his pocket, he handed it to the police officer. "Give this card to his wife. Tell her to take the child to the hospital listed and the boy will be treated free of charge and given whatever he needs." "Who-ee, that's mighty kind of you, Mr. Savage. Mighty kind. Guess what the papers say about you is true, it is." The officer's eyes bugged as he looked at the card,

The Polar Terror

40

which gave the name and address of a hospital and provided the bearer with unlimited medical attention free of charge. Doc neglected to inform the man he would be the attending surgeon for the boy's eye operation. He turned to his men, feeling a bit uncomfortable under the officer's praise, then headed back for the car, Ham and Renny in tow. "Renny, question Mrs. Gildersleeve and see if there is any little detail she might have forgotten. It isn't likely but we cannot overlook any bets." "Sure thing, Doc." Renny veered off and headed back in the direction of the hotel. "Ham, you might establish a fund in that cab driver's name for his family. Make sure reporters can't trace it back to us. I'll draught a check when you are done." Ham nodded. "Will do." As he climbed behind the wheel the thought struck the bronze man that in the aftermath of fantastic crime sometimes the peripheral victims suffered the most. They never invited the villains who used their fantastic and deadly weapons against Doc and his crew to alter their lives and leave behind the grief and heartache. Perhaps that was the biggest failure on his part. While the newspapers focused on the successes and built him up to be something larger than life, the ones touched by crime suffered in relative obscurity and he wondered if they saw him as a superman, a Galahad. At times like this he doubted it. Although he realized he could not prevent or cure all human ills, many times sacrifices were made he would not have chosen. He could not blame himself for all the deaths, but if his means could bring some comfort to the survivors' lives, then at least that was something. The cabbie's death made him want to dwell, at least for a time, on the negatives of what he did, though he would not allow such rumination for long. He would draw from his training and work the chinks out of his bronze armor the way he had on so many occasions before, taking slight comfort in the fact that the Mayan legacy of gold willed to him by his father, the marvelous gleaming hoard that funded his seemingly endless quest for justice and right, would perhaps provide a small advantage of some sort to one or all of that murdered man's children. One never knew who might turn out to be the next doctor or president or Florence Nightingale. Or even the next superman... The name on the frosted glass door panel said "C. Pizzicato: Investigator", but according to those husbands he caught cheating or celebrities whose pictures he snapped for some of the less reputable sheets it should have read "Blackmailer". For the man within possessed the rather dubious talent of extracting money from those he caught in unfortunate--for their reputations, at any rate--positions. Gentlemen of the Old West would have termed him a hornswoggler or honeyfuggler, while men in the East might have labeled him an opportunist, along with a plethora of more colorful metaphors capable of scorching the ears off even the most salty-tongued sailor. C. Pizzicato preferred to simply call it compromise. Money paid meant lives went on as always and that was worth the price tag in his estimation. Why tip the apple cart? Why kick the woodpile? Especially when peace could be bought and paid for. He saw no reason, at least until tonight. Tonight things hadn't gone the way he'd

A Doc Savage Adventure

41

planned and that meant somebody's apple cart might be heading for a crash, let alone a tipping. Perhaps he wasn't cut out to be a big time boss, or at least a second in command, in something so big, despite what anyone knowing him might have called delusions of grandeur. Perhaps he should have just stuck to small-time swindles and things he better understood. Far too much about this operation perplexed him, and, truth be told, he had no desire to understand many of the particulars. Especially concerning the Blue One. He got the distinct feeling if he understood what was going on in that land beneath the snow he wouldn't care for it one bit. But a fortune in sapphires bought a lot of courage and for the moment he would dummy up and issue orders. He saw no turning back now anyway. He should have known the Blue One was bad news the moment he'd been introduced to him, one week ago. But if that "being", for that's about the only label that fit at present, was bad news, the man whose attention they'd attracted tonight was an entire paper full of grief. C. Pizzicato sat behind a chipped oak desk within the office, both chins propped on his clasped fingers. "C" had been the recipient of the unfortunate name of Clementine, which his coal-mining father had seen fit to saddle him with in a moment of drunken humor only a few short weeks before the no-good met his Maker in a cave in. His mother, a woman who was commonly referred to in western terms as a "soiled dove" hadn't seen fit to change it. She had raised him the best she could, though through the dubious trappings of her profession the young Clementine had learned the ways of bleeding blood from a stone and the crafty manipulations that his mother called existing, but which he called free enterprise. His mother, God bless her brimstone heart, also had a knack with a derringer and a particularly fiery temper that exploded with little provocation. C. Pizzicato had inherited that, too. Although he detested the name Clementine, fate had seen fit to brand him with another cognomen even more loathable. Most folks, upon meeting him, got the impression of an affable oversized desert squirrel. Somewhere along the line, someone-now deceased, thanks to Mr. Colt--had pegged him with the nickname "Prairie Dog Pizzicato" and though he hated it even more than his given name the tag had stuck. Prairie Dog Pizzicato looked the part of a rodent, if a jovial one. Gleaming white teeth protruded slightly beneath a small turned-up nose and little dark eyes buried in pits of pouchy flesh glittered with evil lights. He weighed at least fifty pounds too much. His hair, which lay combed and plastered to his head with pomade, was wheaten in color and thinning. His pinguid hands had unkempt nails that only added to the impression. Amongst his other more lethal traits, Clementine Pizzicato also was blessed with the sin of laziness. That's why he had become a blackmailer. Extracting money in that fashion was a hell of a lot easier than working for it in these Depression-tightened times. He supposed he would have been that way even in prosperous periods, though. Something about making a quick buck was downright attractive. His dark eyes glittered as they lifted to the three other men in the room. He'd been listening to their prattle for nearly a half-hour, trying to figure out a way to keep tonight's losses from multiplying. Deep in his thoughts, he'd managed to shut them out but a sharp voice jerked him from his reverie. "You would've got that professor outside Doe's apartment in the first place we wouldn't have Savage on our back!" The words came from the pink-suited gangster

The Polar Terror

42

pacing a hole in a threadbare carpet already filled with them. Jake "Snapper" Prozini eyed the object of his jibe, who stood in a corner, robed head bowed a moment then lifting. The strange being took a step forward, his hand drifting up, a vile bluish spider of a thing, and Snapper Prozini's face lit with a nervous expression. "Hey, cut that out!" His voice jumped a notch in shrillness and he shuffled a step backwards. "Stop it, both of you!" A knot of anger twisted in Pizzicato's belly as he focused on the two, weary of the constant blaming of one another for attracting Doc Savage's attention earlier. "He's on our trail and that's what takes precedence at the moment. We have insurance in case he gets too close." The fourth man in the room, the little gangster called Nate, looked up from the couch where he sat slapping cards onto a table with rickets. The couch was popping stuffing. Nate appeared more interested in his game of solitaire than in the proceedings. Nate took orders and said little; Pizzicato admired that, especially since Snapper had an annoying tendency to question every decision. It was likely only a matter of time before he ticked off the Blue One enough to be permanently put on ice. But, for the moment, Pizzicato needed a gang, someone to do the leg work and the pink-suited gangster, who frequented the same nightclub as Pizzicato, came with the needed connections. "I don't see why we're keepin' that mushroom alive." Snapper eyed Pizzicato. "Savage will go to the ends of the earth to get him back. That bronze fella's poison, I'm tellin' you. Bullets bounced right off him!" A fearful light glimmered in Snapper's eyes. He slid his jaw back and forth until a hollow pop sounded. "No man is bulletproof." Pizzicato shook his head. "It must have been a trick of some sort." "This man Savage is dangerous..." The voice came from within the cowl of the robed figure, low and sepulchral, and C. Pizzicato suppressed the urge to shiver. "I faced him on the street and he avoided my touch. He is incredibly strong and swift." The corpulent investigator nodded, a frown creasing his small lips. "I still say he ain't bulletproof." "Holdin' onto his man will only bring him down on us." Snapper clicked his jaw again. "We need him for the moment, till Savage is dead or I have what I want out of him. We might be able to arrange a trade." "You got a screw loose if you think that." Snapper let out a hearty pfft of a sound. "You can't blackmail the bronze guy the way you do some cheating husband or small-fry bull. He won't trade for that equipment, neither, and you know it." Pizzicato did have his doubts, but the idea had not been his. It had come from a higher source. Someday soon that source was in for surprise. "I have already made some arrangements in case he does not. In that eventually, Savage will get his man back special delivery--in a number of small boxes." "What if that bronze guy finds us before that? I heard guys that go up against him got a peculiar habit of vanishing off the face of the earth. Some even appeared later and didn't know their pals no longer. They even had legit jobs. It was damn strange, I tell you." "I will be aware of every move Savage makes..." Pizzicato's small eyes seemed to almost disappear in pits of fat, as he squinted.

A Doc Savage Adventure

43

"How's that?" Snapper gave the investigator a dubious raise of the eyebrow. "That, my friend, is none of your business." The detective waved a stubby hand. "Besides, he has no idea who I am." "The pale one wrote your name on the sidewalk..." came the sepulchral voice of the robed figure. "What?" A jolt of alarm went through Pizzicato's entire body and his small eyes widened. "What do you mean he wrote my name on the sidewalk? How the hell did he do that?" The robed figure shook his cowled head. "I do not know. But when the bronze one pointed a box at the sidewalk the word appeared in blue." Pizzicato felt anger ball in his gut and flood his veins. He glared at Snapper, knowing through some mistake the prissy gangster had allowed Long Tom Roberts time to write with some kind of substance that showed up under black light. He'd been working with the concept himself with little success up to this point. For Prairie Dog Pizzicato had one hobby he showed no hint of laziness at--gadgets. He loved them in any shape and form and from what he heard Savage was a walking storehouse full of them. He'd imagined a few times getting hold of some of the bronze man's toys, or at least stealing the concepts. He was no slouch with them himself, though his slothy side dictated it was easier to rely on the work of others than one's own ingenuity. Still, he'd developed a number of "bugs" and devices to get around alarm systems installed in some of the richer celebrities’ houses. "I thought he was conked." Snapper shrugged. "How was I to know he was writing on the sidewalk? At least I found that cabbie for you and the Blue One here put him on the spot. Got that egg back, too." The pink-suited gangster averted his gaze from Pizzicato's damning stare. The thought flashed again through the chubby investigator's mind that the prissy hood was going to run out of luck one day soon. Pizzicato looked forward to that moment. For now he'd have to let off steam somewhere else. Eyeing the rapidfirer on the desk before him--a marvelous piece of invention, he begrudgingly was forced to admit-he grabbed the weapon and heaved out of his chair, which required no little effort. His arms trembled with rage as he ambled to the door on the left wall and clasped the glass knob, squeezing it and casting a look back at Snapper, who jerked his gaze away again. The little gangster, Nate, looked up, then went right back to his cards. Pizzicato opened the door, shutting it behind him after he entered. The room was empty except for a large window on the north wall facing the back alley and a chair placed squarely in the middle of the floor. A man sat in the chair, his pale face a canvas of livid bruises and welts, his lips puffy and caked with blood. His head came up as the corpulent investigator entered. "What did you use to leave that message for your boss?" Pizzicato stepped closer to the man in the chair. Long Tom Roberts eyed the dick and presented him with a scowl. "Go chase yourself down a hole." His voice came with a healthy dose of vinegar. Rage overpowered Pizzicato's inherent laziness. Normally he would have let Snapper or Nate rough up the prisoner but he couldn't control himself and he had to admit something about it felt downright exhilarating. His fat hand snapped out, clacking the pale electrical wizard across the face with the butt of the rapidfirer.

The Polar Terror

44

Long Tom's head snapped sideways but he didn't make a sound and that disappointed Pizzicato. He enjoyed the sound of pain--if it belonged to others--but he deduced none of Savage's men would show any give. Anyone who worked for the bronze man had to be a tough nut, even this pale runt of a fellow. Funny, he didn't look like much. Pizzicato bet he could break him in half if the need arose. "Why don't you just kill me, now?" The electrical wizard spat a stream of saliva mixed with blood. Pizzicato uttered an evil laugh. "Insurance, partly. I aim to trade you for something your boss owns, too. Will make the trip a hell of a lot easier from what the Blue One tells me." "Doc'll never trade for anything. You're barking up the wrong tree." Pizzicato eyed the electrical wizard, trying to figure out if that were a crack about his looks and nickname. He clacked Long Tom in the teeth just in case. "Then he'll get you back in pieces, Roberts." Long Tom glared. "You don't know Doc and his outfit very well. We're all prepared to die to keep the likes of you from hurting innocent people." The heavyset man's laugh came harsh and condescending. "How noble of you all. You and your band haven't kept in step with the world, Roberts." "How do you figure that?" Pizzicato leaned in, face inches from Long Tom's. "It's simple. Times are changing. The Depression has turned decent men into scavengers, forced to do whatever it takes to get by. You think Roosevelt's gonna do anything about that? Not goddamn likely, way I see it. It would take a war to get us out of this mess and I don't see one coming. Things will just get worse and the whole U.S. of A. will be filled with the likes of me and Snapper's kind. There'll be no place for knights in shining armor, Roberts. Your Savage is a dinosaur. But you know what? I'll be a rich man by then. I'll be a king and rule over a country of front men and gangsters. Capone, Dillinger and them boys will be nothin' compared to me." It was Long Tom's turn to let out a scoffing laugh. "You don't strike me as ambitious enough to rule anything. And I'm bettin' your boss might have a lot to say about this king maker business." "Even a lazy man can be motivated by greed, Roberts. And don't you worry any about the boss. That's just temporary." "Is it?" The investigator straightened. "Why, of course, just the way Savage and the rest of you do-gooders are." "You're crazy..." Long Tom shook his head. "Am I? We'll see about that, Roberts. In the meantime, you're gonna tell me what kind of alarms Savage uses in his warehouse. I figured out most, but I don't want to miss any, do I?" Long Tom grinned and Pizzicato thought the expression was totally inappropriate given the circumstances. Perhaps he'd smacked the scrawny little runt too hard. Then the anger he'd felt a moment before rushed back and his face flushed with crimson. For Long Tom had begun singing: "Oh, me darlin', oh, me darlin'..." Pizzicato plucked off a shoe and promptly banged Long Tom over the head with

A Doc Savage Adventure

45

it. The move stopped the electrical wizard from singing but didn't cease his own blood from boiling. He went back into the office and settled behind his desk, tossing the rapidfirer onto the blotter. Snapper peered at him as if about to ask why the hell his face had turned the color of a baboon's ass but seemed to think better of it when Pizzicato flashed him an enraged glare. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and brought out a glittering blue object the size a bird's egg, the sapphire Snapper had retrieved from the frozen cabbie earlier tonight. He bounced it in his hand then clasped it in his pudgy fingers. If not for the incredible wealth the Blue One promised him existed, he might have reconsidered going up against the bronze knight. For despite his speech to Roberts, he wasn't entirely certain Savage's type wouldn't come out on top when the dust settled and that was a sorry notion, indeed. "We have to move out." Pizzicato looked up. "Savage read my name; he will put it together fast. He'll come here looking for me." "I got a place," said Snapper. "Lots of the boys hang out there. Not small-timers, neither. Hotel Spartan only caters to higher type hoods. I can get us a room there and no one will give us a second look." Pizzicato nodded. "Good. Get a laundry truck and wrap Roberts in something so it isn't obvious what we're carrying in. We don't need any further mistakes." "I'd best be getting paid well for this." Snapper shook his head. "I still don't like the idea of going up against the bronze guy." "You will be well-compensated," said the robed figure. "I just better be." With that, Snapper signaled Nate, who scooped up his cards and tucked them into a suit coat pocket, then followed the pink-suited gangster from the office. After they left, Pizzicato eyed the robed figure and a shiver worked its way down his spine. That fella gave him a good case of the heebie-jeebies, standing around like the Grim Reaper had come calling. What he could do to a man gave him almost as much pause as facing Savage. A thought struck him. He wondered why the Blue One hadn't stayed around to kill Savage, instead of retreating. He'd nearly had him there in the street, but he'd backed off. Perhaps the Blue One feared certain things after all. Perhaps he feared a man he couldn't kill immediately with that icy touch of his. That might serve Pizzicato in some capacity at some later date and he made note of it. Of course, that was if the Blue One got out of hand. At the moment, he wanted something in his own land and as far as Pizzicato was concerned the man could have it. It would not interfere with his owns plans and all those sapphires were a hell of a compensation for putting up with a little fear. Especially if they were all the size of the one in his hand. For the Blue One's goal, and his own, to succeed, they needed a piece of Savage's equipment and that was going to be no cakewalk. It would have been much better with Savage dead, but all attempts tonight had failed in that respect and he saw no guarantee future efforts would succeed. It was indeed fortunate he'd made other plans for getting into the bronze man's warehouse, though for the moment he was stuck following orders, just the way Snapper had to follow his. But after he got those sapphires in hand things were sure as hell going to be different.

The Polar Terror

46

Chapter 8 THE ANNOYING MR. HANNERAN

Morning brought a symphony of gray to the brick and steel canyons of New York City but Monk Mayfair would have sworn the sun was shining bright as brass every time Miss Jane Doe flashed her charming smile his way. The sight made Ham sick. The buffoon was practically waltzing on air, having spent the night "guarding"--and he used the term loosely--the young lady. What did women see in that homely ape, anyway? Jove! The fellow was a walking fashion accident, Mother Nature's practical joke on humanity, and a long list of expletives he might have applied to the chemist had Miss Doe not been accompanying them. He simply did not understand it. Nine times out of ten that hairy mistake got the girl. Well, perhaps seven times out of ten, but that was seven times too many. Ham tightened his grip on his sword cane, the urge to thwack the baboon in the back of the head and knock that foolish pie-eating grin off his face nearly overwhelming. He suppressed the desire, but not without a struggle. "It certainly looks a bit silly for a grown man to be walking around with that, that, that spindly accident of the pig family, does it not?" was all Ham could think of saying as Monk, Renny, the young woman and himself stepped from the elevator onto the fourth floor of Jefferson Doe's apartment building. The corridor, richly decorated in tasteful ice blues, appeared deserted. A shaft of steel-colored light arced through the window at the end of the hall. Drizzle spattered the pane, adding to the dreariness of the day and the gloominess of Ham's mood. "I think Mr. Mayfair's pig is rather charming." Jane Doe cast Monk another of her melting smiles. "It shows Mr. Mayfair's sensitive side." "Oh, brother..." Renny rolled his eyes. He leaned over and whispered in Ham's ear: "She's sure got his number! Beyond me how that pig ploy gets 'em every time." Ham groaned inside. Maybe that was it. Perhaps he needed a pet. Posh! How would it look for a man of his breeding and suave bearing to be caught in the company of an animal? Not bloody likely... Monk's grin swallowed his face. He swung Habeas by an over-sized ear. The porker seemed to enjoy the motion and uttered a satisfied grunt. "I really don't see what Mr. Savage hopes to discover here." Jane Doe located a key in purse as they approached her father's apartment. "I have been staying here the entire time my father was away. I always do. He does not like strangers in his home while he is gone and I think it makes him feel as though he is making up for the times he isn't around." The storm clouds in her eyes grew darker with the words. "There, there, Miss Doe." Monk's voice grew comforting. "I'm sure he cares about

A Doc Savage Adventure

47

you. Those scientific types just don't know how to show it sometimes." Renny leaned close to Ham again, whispering, "If he put any more sugar in that all his teeth would fall out." "A revolting display, absolutely revolting." Ham made a tsking sound. He still wanted to swat Monk with his cane. The girl was falling for the ape's lines hook, line and sinker. In a louder voice laced with spite Ham added: "Monk's a world famous chemist, did he mention that, Miss Doe?" Monk cast Ham an annoyed glare. "How did you manage to get away from your wife so early in the morning, shyster?" Ham's face colored. "Dolt!" was all he managed to get out. Monk shook his head and tsked. "Poor woman, all alone with those thirteen halfwitted children, too. Shame what fatherhood's come to these days." Ham was on the verge of letting Monk have it with the cane when the young woman jiggled the key in the lock, then stepped back, a frown creasing her lips. "I don't understand it. The key won't work. I just used it yesterday." "Allow me, Miss Doe." The dapper lawyer used the most gallant tone he could affect. Monk let out a laugh. "With the shyster's luck at gettin' into things lately we could be here all day." Ham shoved in front of the chemist, managing to grind a heel into Monk's foot in the process. "Hey, you did that on purpose!" Monk's piping voice echoed down the hallway. "Pipe down!" Renny's bellow was competition for the twin horns on the Queen Mary. "You'll wake everyone in the damn building." "You ain't exactly a lullaby," grumbled Monk. Ham twisted the key in the lock, creases forming in his brow. The key refused to turn. "Something seems to be stuck in the other side." He looked back at Monk. "Let me try, shyster." Monk jiggled the key and tried the handle, but the door wouldn't budge. The key snapped off in his big fingers. "Oops." "It's quite all right, Mr. Mayfair," said Jane in a reassuring voice. "I have another. But I can't imagine what could be wrong." "Holy cow, we're just wasting time." Renny stepped up to the door, eyed it and his fist shot out. A gallon of bone and gristle slammed into the oak panel with a loud crack! The wood split and his fist went through. "Subtle," said Ham. "And you told me to keep it down," added Monk. Renny shrugged, reaching down and fiddling with the bolt. Came a clack and the doorknob turned. "Something was jammed in the lock." They entered, Monk leading, hand resting on the rapidfirer at his side beneath his loud checkered coat. His small eyes glittered, alert for any possible threat. He relaxed as soon as they entered. The place appeared empty. Renny knelt and picked up a screwdriver from the floor. A puzzled expression filtered onto his features. "Now we know what was stopping your key from working." Jane Doe's face lit with surprise. "I don't understand. Why would that be there unless--"

The Polar Terror

48

"Unless someone was here looking to kidnap you," completed Ham. "Speaking of subtle." Monk shook his head. "It is the only reason that makes sense, Neanderthal. Doc wouldn't have sent us all here with her if he did not suspect some sort of danger." "Or wanted us out of harm's way with the gollywockus that's turning people into snowmen..." "You have a point..." admitted Ham, then kicked himself for accidentally agreeing with the homely chemist. Renny eased the door shut and drew his machine pistol. "Let's not take any chances. Maybe whoever it was is still around." "With the noise we made comin' in?" asked monk. "If anyone was still here I bet he's halfway to Missouri by now." Renny cocked an eyebrow. "How? You think he just jumped out the fourth floor window?" Ham scoffed. "Stranger things have happened to us." But the dapper lawyer tended to agree with the hairy chemist, though this time he was careful not to admit it. "Check the place out, Habeas." Monk set the pig on the floor. He smiled at Jane Doe, "Habeas, he's a bloodhound pig. If anyone's here he'll sniff him out." The young woman's eyes brightened. "How remarkable, Mr. Mayfair." "Call me Monk, please." Monk shifted feet, cheeks reddening. Ham winced. "That damn pig can't smell anything past the scent of all my cologne you dumped on him. I told you we should have had him for breakfast. I would have, too, if chewing him wouldn't have been too hard on my crowns." "You're gonna need more crowns if you touch a hair on that pig, shyster." "Says who?" "Knock if off, you guys!" Renny slammed a fist into a palm. "Your bickering will get us all killed someday." Habeas jammed his snout to the expensive oriental carpet and began sniffing around the room. Decorated with tasteful dark furniture, heavy blue draperies and a floor model, dial-style radio, the front room was spacious and elegant. Alcoves resided on the street wall to either side of a rolltop desk, each with French windows. A crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling. Monk jabbed a finger at the radio. "Hey, I bet you could hear the World Series real good on that. Cardinals and Tigers are playing game three today. Those Dean boys are sure somethin'!" Ham let out a scoffing sound. "The Cardinals will never beat the Tigers, you buffoon. You obviously know as much about baseball as you do about running boards." "I'm tellin' you it's because of ladies' dresses, shyster." Ham turned up his nose. "Style, idiot." "Don't start that again or I'll knock you both into next week," Renny grumbled. Habeas suddenly returned from somewhere with a box of chocolate truffles. Ham let out a snicker. "Gimme that, Habeas. You're s'posed to be looking for burglars, not lunch." "Why don't we make him lunch?" Ham made the remark as nasty as he could, but it suddenly struck him he was showing off for Jane Doe and going about it in the wrong manner. His wit wielded a sarcastic edge, and he supposed a good part of it came from

A Doc Savage Adventure

49

his frustration with Monk's child-like insults and pranks getting the better of him, not to mention the ape's success with the fair sex. Truth be told, either would have sacrificed his life for the other, though anyone watching them would have sworn the exact opposite was true. Many a witness had insisted murder was imminent, but, though Ham would never admit it aloud, the hairy lug was his best friend and if anything happened to him he'd be lost. Their childish banter was just a way of blowing off steam, a head shrinker would had told them and probably been right. This business of righting wrongs and constant danger made a man's nerves as tight as an over-tuned violin string and horseplay was merely their way of handling it. Someone tried to kill them at least once a week, often times more, and without that pressure valve being twisted every so often a fellow might well become a candidate for Bellevue. Without Monk as a foil, even though often their exchanges descended into plain silliness, Ham knew the constant strain of their adventures would take a heavy toll. A shiver went through him as he thought about the number of men he'd seen killed throughout the course of their career, though their war on crime had only officially begun a bit over a year ago with the death of Doc's father. It really started with the war, the bond they all shared, as well as the horror of lives wasted. Death all about them, their constant feud had been a way of dealing with the carnage then, and was still. Men turned into smoke, eaten by dinosaurs, driven insane by screaming blue meteors and poisoned by vampire bats. That sort of thing could play hell with a man's mind if he stopped to ponder it long enough. The arguments with Monk kept his thoughts from dwelling on such matters. He felt certain the same was true for Mayfair. Of the other men, Renny had his peculiar habit of taking out door panels with his fists and seemed to be made of strong mental stuff besides that; Long Tom's temperament showed the strain, but he spent most of his time tinkering with that damn bug killer thing he could never get to work; and Johnny occupied himself with memorizing the dictionary and digging bones out of the ground. Each of Doc's men was profoundly affected by the murder and pain of innocent people and each knew their own death was practically assured before they reached old age. So while each dealt with the strain in his own quirky way, Monk and he were just tuned to the same frequency. They spent more time aiding Doc, ignoring their given professions more often than not, and needed a bigger outlet. He could only imagine how Doc managed to deal with it. Monk finally managed to get the box of chocolates away from the pig and not with out considerable disagreement, an argument that Habeas damn near won. As it was, the pig made away with two truffles. "He's gonna be sick," Monk muttered and apologized to Jane Doe for the porker's manners. "It'll make the bacon all the sweeter," said Ham, forgetting his earlier revelation about winning the girl the wrong way. "Dummy up and start searchin' the place for charts and things." Monk eyed the dapper lawyer with a scowl. "What if whoever was here got 'em?" Ham twirled his sword cane and brushed a speck of lint from his suit coat. "I would recall if my father left duplicates," said Jane Doe. "I wish I could be of more help but I think we are here for nothing."

The Polar Terror

50

Monk scratched his head. "Well, somebody came here thinking there might be something, so maybe we'll get lucky." "Or shot," remarked Ham. They began searching the place. The suite consisted of four rooms, living room, kitchen and two bedrooms, one belonging to Jane Doe's father and a guest chamber in which she slept when watching the apartment. Monk stayed close to the young woman, who encouraged it. The homely chemist wandered into Jefferson Doe's bedroom, his gaze alert and scanning the four-poster bed, expensive walnut bookcase and bureaus. Habeas took up a spot on a chair near a window; the pig looked a little green. "He's got a sensitive stomach," said Monk, then a thought crossed his mind. "Your father don't have no pictures of you two sitting out on his dresser or anywhere?" The young woman's face became somber. "No, he was never around long enough to take many and he was not a sentimental man. I suppose it was because he spent most of his time digging up the past. He always told me it wasn't much use to get attached to anything because we only had it for a short time anyway and it wound up beneath the earth." Monk let out a grunt. "If those civilizations he digs up had thought that way he might be out of a job." "Quite right, Mr. Mayfair--Monk." Her face brightened and a fragile smile came to her lips. "I do have a picture of us together, one from when I was a small girl, but it was at some ceremony for an award he was receiving for his work. It looked good for him to have his daughter beside him, I guess. Made him appear more human to his colleagues." Monk frowned, a sense of compassion welling for the young woman. "If your father treated you that way why you want to find him so bad?" He knew the question sounded a bit callous but he had never been one for subtlety. She gave it a moment of thought, sighing. "I suppose it's because I am not like him. In fact, I made it my life's goal to be as different as possible. Whatever he has done or not done, he is still my father and I care what happens to him. I have to know if he's all right." Monk nodded. "Makes sense, I guess. I never really stopped to think about it that way." Monk began rummaging through bureau drawers, hoping to find anything that would lead to the man's whereabouts. He felt sorry for the young woman and if they had a chance to locate her father he would leave no stone unturned in the effort. He made a mental note to make sure Ham didn't see he was going soft. The search turned up nothing of value until Monk chanced to open the closet. "What's in here--erp..." A gun jammed into his low forehead. Its barrel looked a hundred feet long in his opinion. Of course, it wasn't but the results would prove the same if the man holding the weapon decided to pull the trigger. "Back out--slowly!" ordered the man and Monk complied, lifting both hands and stepping backwards in increments. "Don't s'pose we can talk about this?" Monk asked, afraid to make a wrong move

A Doc Savage Adventure

51

and find out whether he was really headed for Hades the way Ham kept insisting he was. "Who the devil are you?" Irritation laced the man's gravely voice. The fella was big, nearly Renny's size, and packed with the bulgy muscles of a professional strong man. His pants were a hideous shade of turquoise and at least three inches too short. His shirt had big puddles under the arms and smelled like it. A shock of sandy hair covered his sloping head and the way his nose was flattened and jammed to the left he had been involved in a fight or two. His gray eyes twinkled with murder, at least that's what it looked like to Monk and with a gun crammed into his brow he wasn't about to be talked out of that opinion. "And jest what are you doin' in my girlfriend's digs?" "Girlfriend?" Monk's small eyes twinkled with confusion. "Let him go, you big lug!" Jane Doe had suddenly noticed Monk backing out of the closet doorway and the man who came from within. She locked her arms together and scowled. "Who's the Sandow?" Monk asked. "Why, I'm her boyfriend, monkey face." The monkey face remark annoyed Monk more than it should have, likely because his disposition wasn't the best with a cannon stuck to his forehead. "He is not!" insisted Jane Doe. Her scowl deepened. "Aw, come on now, honeybun, you know I love you." The man grinned and the expression, considering the situation, looked ludicrous. "You put that gun away right this minute." The storms in her eyes intensified and the man lowered his weapon. At that point Renny and Ham charged into the room, rapidfirers drawn. "Holy cow, guess whoever broke in here didn't leave after all!" Both aimed their guns at the man and Monk snatched the weapon, a .45, from the fellow's grip and stuffed it in a pocket. "Just what call you got stickin' that peashooter in my face, you big goon?" Monk asked, more than a little irritated and entertaining half a notion to throttle the guy. He didn't care much for the thought of the big loser insisting he was Jane Doe's boyfriend, either. "I heard you guys making all that racket in the hall." The man glared at Monk. "I figured I better hide." "You jam that screwdriver in the door?" Monk's eyes narrowed. "Yes, I sure did. Figured that would give me enough time to find myself a hiding place." "Why didn't you just jump out a window?" Monk made his voice as innocent as possible, but sounded disappointed anyway. "I don't like you, monkey face." Ham let out a laugh and holstered his rapidfirer. The man looked Ham over, apparently not coming to a favorable impression, if the disgusted look on his tough features were any indication. "I don't like you either, Nancy boy." Ham shut up and glared. Under other circumstances Monk might have found that funny. "Who are you and why the devil are you here, anyways?" asked the homely chemist. "Name's Hanneran, Henry Hammerin' Hanneran, on account I used to be a boxer.

The Polar Terror

52

Pretty good one, too. Could have been champion." "And the reason you're here?" Monk prodded, not caring in the least about the man's career choices. "I came here to protect Miss Jane. Like I said, I'm her boyfriend." "It'll be a cold day in the land of double toothpicks before that happens," said Jane. Monk looked at the girl and the smile came back to his face. "Hey, you hairy oaf, you quit lookin' at my gal that way!" Henry Hanneran put on what Monk took to be his most threatening face, which was considerably just that. The urge to take a swing at the oaf and whittle him down to size nearly overcame him. "You can still leave by that window..." suggested the homely chemist. "Why, I oughta pound you, monkey face." "Just how do you know, Miss Doe, anyway?" asked Renny before the two decided to murder each other. "Why, I met her at the club when she was a chorus girl." "Chorus girl?" Monk's eyebrow lifted and he peered at the young woman. She hung her head, face reddening, a look of shame on her features. Henry Hanneran stuck out his chest. "Yeah, 'cept I didn't care none for all those fellas watchin' her dance, so I kept telling her to quit and marry me or I'd have to pound them." "Holy cow, this is getting screwier by the minute." Renny holstered his gun. "Something about this fella's story stinks as bad as Monk's pig." Ham nodded. "Just what did you want to protect her from, Mr. Hanneran?" The ex-pugilist scratched his head, then rubbed his crooked nose. "I saw some types hangin' around the apartment and figured she needed my help." "I don't want your help, you overgrown lout." Jane put a healthy dose of venom in her voice. "I told you to get lost days ago." "Aw, come on, now, honeypot. You know you don't mean it. I love you, sweetheart. I wanna marry you and make lots of babies." "I'd rather marry Mr. Mayfair's pig," Jane stated with an absence of enthusiasm. Monk eyed the big man. "Just what were you doin' hangin' around her apartment in order to notice those types, anyway?" "Why, I came to ask for Jane's hand in marriage. She needs someone to watch over her with her father gone so much. I'm her man." Renny let out a snort. "She doesn't seem to agree." Henry Hanneran glared at the big engineer. "I like you the same as the other two." "If this were a popularity contest I'd act offended. For now, your story sounds full of holes and I think you better come along with us till we can sort it all out." "I hope you got an army to make me..." Henry balled his fist and Monk got ready to take a swing at the fellow. Jane stepped forward and slid an arm through Monk's before that happened. "Please take me back to your headquarters. The company in here has become unbearable." A smug smile took Monk's lips and Henry Hanneran looked on the verge of popping a vein in his lumpy forehead. "Then I'm goin', too!" "I thought you just said--" started Ham

A Doc Savage Adventure

53

"Never mind what I said. If Jane's goin', I'm goin'! Just try and stop me." He went. Some argument occurred as to who would sit next to Jane Doe in the back seat on the ride over. The dispute was settled when Monk sat on one side and Henry on the other, the young lady between. Monk's opinion of the girl had only heightened with the information she had been a chorus girl and he caught himself staring at her obvious attributes more than a few times, much to the irritation of Henry Hanneran, who cast him murderous looks. More argument ensued when Habeas the pig apparently came to the same opinion of the fellow as Monk and bit him on the ankle. The final result found the pig riding up front with Ham, which met with a considerable amount of grousing from the dapper lawyer. The ex-pugilist muttered disapproval at every street Renny selected on the trip back. Monk decided he was made of bone, bulging muscle and complaints. It was a minor miracle they all arrived at the eighty-sixth floor headquarters in one piece.

The Polar Terror

54

Chapter 9 SURPRISE ATTACK

Doc Savage seemed to glide through the early-morning drizzle as he circled the building housing the office of Clementine Pizzicato. The establishment was located in a run-down section of the city and from the looks of the building no one had bothered with its upkeep. Weeds and crab grass grew unbridled in scraggly patches along the ribbon of a lawn circling the place and an abundance of thick brush made determining whether the place was being watched difficult. After parking his roadster a few blocks down, he stuck close to the buildings while he reconnoitered. Although he wore a quiet brown suit his bronze form was as conspicuous as fleas on a hairless dog. With the increasing reputation the newspapers insisted on giving him, moving about in anonymity was getting nearly impossible. Even if he hadn't become world famous his size, deep bronze skin coloring and commanding presence would have attracted attention. Fortunately the hour was early and few pedestrians were about this section; most of them avoided it, at least if they had any notion of keeping the tires on their cars and their wallets. His flake-gold eyes scoured the area before he drifted around to the back. He had no way of knowing how long that being in the robe had watched him before the attempts on his life the previous night, but he assumed as the better part of caution the thing had witnessed the glowing letters bearing Pizzicato's name. If the being were somehow connected with the disreputable gumshoe, the bronze man might well be walking into a trap. That possibility made him decide not to approach the dick by walking straight into his office and trying to question him. With any luck, Doc could get into an adjacent room and implement one of Long Tom's listening devices. And if the investigator did have the electrical wizard on the premises, a direct approach might also endanger his aide's life. The brush surrounding the building seemed to absorb him as he came around the back and gazed up seven stories, distinguishing which windows belonged to Pizzicato's office. As a matter of precaution, he had received reports on the investigator the first thing this morning, including office layout, from operatives--men whom had graduated from a "college" in upstate New York. The college was an institution where criminals, the ones who survived, were sent to be operated on either by Doc himself or one of the specially trained surgeons in the bronze man's employ. After intense research, Doc Savage had located a certain area of the brain controlling aggressive and compulsive impulses and developed a delicate procedure that "short-circuited" those patterns of behavior. The procedure also wiped out their memories, much like an amnesiac loses all recall of his past but not the basic functions of language and ingrained skills. Through intensive retraining and cognitive reinforcement, along with a treatment of chemical

A Doc Savage Adventure

55

therapy designed to reduce any residual aggressive brain function, they were taught useful skills and provided with jobs that allowed them to become productive members of society. Doc employed a large number of the graduates himself and considering he owned controlling shares in many other enterprises he'd rescued from financial ruin, employment was a simple matter even in these desperate times. The institution remained a secret from the outside world, for reasons Doc Savage often found contradicted his own ideals. As a doctor, accountable to an oath, he sometimes wrestled with guilt over taking a man's past--though that compunction was far outweighed by the idea that man would only kill again, or return to a life of crime if allowed to go free. Of course, a criminal was subject to the laws of the land and entitled to a fair trial. While he had little right to set himself up as judge, jury and punisher, he'd watched guilty men set free by a less-than-adequate justice system too many times not to leave a sour taste in his mouth. Perhaps he was not infallible in his judgments, but neither were the courts. Like certain disease treatments, sometimes the cures did peripheral damage, but at least the patient lived. Likely the legal system would not see it that way and he had to take precautions. Should his operation be discovered he would himself be labeled a criminal, open to any number of charges--kidnapping, malpractice, rights violations--some of which would get him sent to the electric chair. He sometimes wondered whether he was a man mired in rationalization, justifying his work on brittle underpinnings. Was it better even for those the courts did not let slip between their fingers to be put to death or left to rot away in cells when they could become law-abiding useful citizens? He considered himself a just and fair man, capable of administering punishment and altering lives with a sure hand, though he often debated whether Hippocratic wasn't much closer to hypocritic where his methods were concerned. Perhaps one day he would come to terms with it better. For now there was no alternative in his mind. Besides the building's layout, the operatives had provided him with a sheet on the investigator that proved somewhere south of complimentary. Pizzicato occupied most of his time devising ways to catch folks in compromising positions and using it to his advantage. He toyed with gadgets, listening devices mostly, and might have displayed considerable skill and invention if not for a compulsive streak of avarice. Doc had become aware of these facts some months previous, though the extent of the man's activities in the updated report surprised him some. Pizzicato had a number of pending suits besmirching his character and method of operation, but the fellow appeared to be somewhat slippery when it came to actually having something pinned on him. Doc might have considered sending the man to college before now, but until some charge stuck or the man had actually crossed paths with him he had judged it not particularly demanding of his attention. But Pizzicato, by nature of having his name linked to Long Tom's disappearance, had provided the bronze man with the excuse needed to look into his activities. Doc's gaze roved over the wall's surface. Made of brick, it had sizable space between the blocks and in a number of places the mortar was chipped or had crumbled. With a powerful spring, the bronze man lifted off the ground and propelled himself upward. Sinews leaped out on the back of his hands as his fingertips found the spaces between the bricks and held fast, despite a degree of slickness from the drizzle. The effort little taxed his great strength. Like a human fly, he began moving upward,

The Polar Terror

56

shoes finding cracks between brick, providing him with extra leverage. Hand over hand he scaled upwards seven stories to the window, according to blueprints, belonging to a side room. The thought struck him if anyone on the street observed him entering this way it would have appeared silly or an egotistical bit of grandstanding. Of course, in this neighborhood, someone might let out a shout that would bring any criminals who might be lying in wait. If they opened fire in his present position, he doubted he could scramble through a window in time and even his bulletproof undergarments wouldn't save him. If he fell from this height his tremendous strength would not do him much good, either. The thought made him wish momentarily he'd chosen to sneak in the front way, but any misgivings quickly dissolved as his foot found the top lip of the window frame below the one he wanted. Bracing his foot against the wood, which was rotting and gave slightly but not enough for him to lose his footing, he drew himself up to the seventh floor window. As he peered inside, he noted the room was empty except for a chair set in the middle of the floor. He wondered if all the precaution was just foolishness. If the robed attacker had seen Pizzicato's name on the sidewalk the investigator may well have abandoned his headquarters. The muscles in his forearms flexed, leaping into relief like bundles of wire as he pulled himself onto the ledge and pushed up the window. Mild surprise took him at the fact it wasn't locked, but few would expect anyone to enter through a seventh floor window. He eased into the room, swinging a leg up and over the sill then getting his body through. The window, oversized, accommodated his big frame easily. Flake-gold eyes sweeping over the interior, he listened intently for any sounds from the outer room and did not stir for a number of moments. Not a sound reached his ears and judged the place to be empty. Moving to the lone chair, he noted it had been moved about recently, likely by whoever sat in it rocking it back and forth. The evidence of such motion showed plain in the dust covering the worn floorboards. The scuffing of shoes led to the door. Bronze fingers probed beneath his coat, bringing out a small compact-sized kit. Flipping it open, he took a small brush from a compartment and began dusting the chair with a powdery substance of his own development. Fingerprints stood out on the back of the chair, an assortment of them. He had taken the precaution of memorizing Pizzicato's prints, which were on file thanks to one of his operatives visiting the investigator under false pretenses and lifting the impressions off a water glass. The bronze giant recognized a number of the prints as the investigator's. A second set belonged to Long Tom. Doc retained all his aides' prints in his memory. That proved that the electrical wizard had been here, likely tied, and the evidence looked damning for the disreputable gumshoe. If the fact that Long Tom was no longer in the room disappointed Doc it failed to register on his face. He had steeled his emotions until he discovered definite proof as to the fate of his man. Worry would do little good at this point. Moving away from the chair, Doc went to the small closet across the room. He opened the door, standing to the side in case anyone lurking within decided to shoot before he had the chance to get out of the way. He had faith in the chain mail undergarments but at such close range even those might not do the job sufficiently. The caution was unnecessary because the closet was empty. Scrutinizing the

A Doc Savage Adventure

57

interior, he noticed a small wire running along the floor and beneath the door into the room. The wire traveled along the wall and under the door into the outer office. The bronze man decided Pizzicato had likely stored some sort of listening equipment in the closet and had hooked it up in this room. For what purpose would have been supposition, but Doc could imagine the crooked investigator sending clients into the room to confer, then eavesdropping on their conversations. Perhaps he even employed a wax recorder to use their statements against them later. The bronze man straightened, edging towards the door leading into the outer office. Doc Savage did not make many errors during the course of his investigations, but he made one now. He had relied on his phenomenal hearing to tell him the outer room was unoccupied. The moment he opened the door he discovered such was not the case. He was caught flatfooted and if he had been granted the time he would have acted disgusted with himself. Time was a luxury he did not have, for the moment the door swung wide and his big frame filled the doorway, two men with tommy guns and startled faces lifted their weapons and jerked the triggers. Two things saved the bronze man's life in those fractions of a second before he moved. Both men--in a flash of realization he determined they had been waiting for him but expecting him to come in the front way--hit the triggers before aiming. Likely both were jumpy about their quarry and taken off guard when the door suddenly came open. A spray of slugs chewed up the floorboards and stitched a path towards the bronze man. If not for the second thing, Doc's chain mail underwear, the first would have made little difference. The bulletproof clothing proved sufficient to repel two slugs that crashed into his left thigh. If the material had failed, he would have gone down and a stream of lead would have ended his career. He was whirling backwards even as the bullets hit his leg. The impact threw him slightly off balance, but he got the door slammed shut just as slugs tore up the frame, sending splinters spiraling into the air. More bullets punched through the door panel. Curses punctuated the silence as the stream of lead ceased. "Get 'im!" one of the men yelled. "We don't kill that bronze devil our heads will be on a stick!" Footsteps pounded for the door. The bronze man was trapped. Any second the door would fly open and a hail of lead would finish him. He might gain a moment before they realized he wore bulletproof clothing but it wouldn't be enough. He doubted he could get a gas grenade out of his vest and have it be effective in time to stop a bullet from finding his head, which was unprotected since he hadn't replaced the skullcap after the pervious night's encounter with the robed figure. The door burst open and machine gun muzzles poked through, loosing a stream of flame and lead. Doc Savage, who had maneuvered himself in front of the open window, hurled himself backwards as the door came open, the impact of a slug against his chest adding to the momentum. Arching his back and throwing his arms out before his chest, he sailed through the opening. Bullets tore out chunks of window frame. The upper pane exploded

The Polar Terror

58

in a shower of glittering glass. "Jesus--he jumped outta the window!" one of the men shouted as the gunfire stopped. "He's dead now for sure." Anyone who knew Doc Savage and his men might have told the gangster dead was a relative term where this band of adventurers were concerned. Doc felt suspended momentarily in air, seven stories above the street. Then, momentum bringing him heels over head in a tumble, he snapped his legs around and dropped. Grasping fingers snatched at the lip of the sixth-floor window frame. The rotted wood didn't hold but it was enough to break his fall and allow his feet to collide with the glass and shatter it, cross frame and all. He went feet-first through the window. Shards of glass tore at his clothing but his body cleared the frame so none lacerated his face. He landed on the floor of a bedroom and a shriek tore through the air. A woman sitting on a bed jerked covers up to her chin and a man built like a pot-bellied stove charged out of the bathroom clad only in his skivvies. "What the devil is the meaning of this?" The man's voice came enraged and more than a little embarrassed. Doc doubted the woman in the man's bed was his wife. The bronze man held a finger to his lips, flashed to the bedroom door then out into the room beyond, which was sparsely furnished with a worn couch and a beaten desk. The frosted-glass door panel sported the legend: Doctor Davis H. Harold, Psychologist, who was apparently not above giving certain clients special therapy. Doc stepped out into a dingy hallway with peeling floral wallpaper and a low-watt bare bulb. Pausing, his breath barely accelerated, he heard a crashing of footsteps from a stairwell a few yards down. He made for the door, knowing the men would be making a hasty exist and not expecting the man of bronze to be descending upon them since they believed he had plunged to his death. He grabbed the brass handle and hurled the door open. The lead man, just reaching the bottom of the sixth floor stairs, jolted to a halt. A shriek tore from his lips and his eyes widened as far as they possibly could without dropping out of his head. He couldn't have appeared more frightened if Old Nick himself had just invited him through the gates of Hell. Doc took advantage of the man's shock. The gangster held the machine gun before him, for an instant too terrified to fire. Doc snatched the muzzle; with a sharp jerk and the shriek of metal bent the barrel to nearly a ninety-degree angle. The gangster, startled from his spell, reflexively hit the trigger. The tommy gun seemed to explode in a burst of flame and smoke. A second screech cascaded through the stairwell as gun backfired and made a mess of the thug's arm and side. Blood spattered the wall and bronze man's coat. The hood collapsed into a thrashing heap at the bottom of the stairs. A glance told Doc Savage the man would live if he got medical attention soon; for that he was thankful. The second gangster, a half-dozen steps up, shock welded to his face, had dropped his gun when his companion let out the first shriek; it had come clattering down the steps to lay at the base of the stairs. In an instant of cowardice, he apparently decided he had no chance at retrieving the weapon and showed no desire to help his companion or face the bronze man hand to hand. Whirling, he scrambled most of the way up the flight by the

A Doc Savage Adventure

59

time Doc incapacitated the first killer. The bronze man's hand whipped to his belt, plucking loose a small collapsible grappling hook he always carried. A thin line dangled from hook and he swung the thing in a crisp arc then sent the hook flying upwards. The grapple snagged one of the retreating fellow's legs, the cord enwrapping the ankle. Doc yanked. The man jerked off his feet, arms windmilling. He slammed to the landing, chin thwacking a board, and came sliding down on his belly, halting on the fourth step from the top. Doc reeled him down the rest of the way and not altogether gently. He admitted a prickle of irritation at being nearly killed got the better of his composure. The man was out cold for at least a half-hour. Sirens wailed beyond the building. Evidently the psychologist or someone in the building had called the police and reported the disturbance. Even Doc, with his commission, would have some explaining to do about the men in the stairway and it was likely to take a couple hours. Normally he would not have lingered but he wanted to question one of the men in case either could provide a lead to Long Tom. Stripping their belts, he tied their hands behind their backs and dragged them out into the hallway. He peered at the wounded gangster, who was mewing but conscious. The man had been lucky; the wounds appeared superficial and his hands had suffered some burns but he was in no danger of bleeding to death before the police got him to a hospital. The bronze man's flake-gold eyes whirled within their depths, hypnotic. The thug quieted, licked his lips. "What you gonna do with me?" He voice was strained, jittery. "Who hired you?" The bronze man's voice came compelling, powerful. "Go to hell!" Doc manipulated a certain spot on the man's shoulder and the thug squealed. "Where's Long Tom Roberts?" "I swear, I dunno. I was just hired to get you. I didn't even see the guy. I got an envelope through my mail slot telling me where to wait and not to make any noise. The envelope said if we failed that frozen death thing the papers was talking about this morning would get us." "How were you to be paid? You must have had some contact?" The bronze man's eyes bored into the man. "Already was. In my pocket." The thug ducked his chin at his coat. Doc's fingers fished within the pocket, bringing out an object the size of a robin's egg. The gem was crystalline and blue and appeared to be one of the biggest sapphires the bronze man had ever seen. A brief trilling drifted into the hallway and the gangster's face took on a puzzled look. The sound stopped and Doc's gaze returned to the gangster. "You were paid in sapphire?" "Hell, yes! Don't think me and my pal would come up against you for chicken feed, do you? Letter said there'd be more where that came from later if we did our job right." "Is that all you know?"

The Polar Terror

60

"I swear, that's it." The sirens drew closer and Doc judged they were likely pulling up outside the building. The bronze man tapped the thug on the temple with a bronze fist, sending him into unconsciousness and pocketed to the sapphire.

A Doc Savage Adventure

61

Chapter 10 RUMBLE

"I'm telling you it's style, you slat-brained circus reject!" Ham's face turned livid and he banged his sword cane on the reception room carpet for emphasis. Monk grinned, pleased he was getting Ham's goat and even more delighted the repartee appeared to be driving Henry Hanneran crazy. The big sandy-haired man paced the floor, hands clasped behind his back, bleaching as he twisted them into knots. Monk continued to add to the fellow's displeasure by casting the lovely Jane Doe a entrancing smile every so often. The homely chemist swore steam would burst out of Hanneran's over-sized ears any moment. "And I say it's so ladies don't get their dresses dirty, shyster. When you gonna listen?" Monk shifted in the chair and scratched Habeas's big ear. The pig sat on his haunches beside the chair, eyeing the ex-pugilist as if he were considering another ankle bite. Renny sat behind the big desk, drumming his fingers on the blotter. Jane Doe resided in a big leather chair close to a window, endeavoring to read a copy of The Thin Man she'd picked up in one of the lobby shops, but not having an easy time of it with the ex-pugilist's constant pacing and grousing. She'd made a concerted effort to avoid the big man since they'd returned and hadn't looked Monk in the eye since the chorus girl revelation. Ham stood near the library door. "Will you two cut it out!" Henry yelled, with a grimace. "You've been at it for the last two hours. Don't you ever do anything but argue?" "Don't you ever do anything but complain?" Monk shot back. Hanneran cast Monk a corrosive look. "Where is this mighty Doc Savage, anyway? We've been here all afternoon and I haven't seen hide nor hair of him. Man of bronze, bah! He's over-rated." The remark annoyed Monk, but he held his temper, though it took a great deal of restraint. He'd been aching to tear into the fellow since getting the gun jammed against his forehead and it wouldn't take much provocation. "And you're overbearing," said the chemist. Renny glanced at the big man. "If Doc ain't here, he's got a good reason." "'Cause he's yellow, no doubt." Hanneran grinned, as if pleased with his pronouncement. Anger boiled in Monk's veins. "Look who's talkin' yellow--we found you hidin' in a closet and you had a gun." "I don't need no gun to cut you down to size, monkey face!" Henry balled his fist. "There'd be nothing left of him..." put in Ham.

The Polar Terror

62

"Anytime you think you got the nerve, big and ugly." Monk stood. "Why, I oughta pound you..." Henry's eyes narrowed and a scowl turned his lips. Jane set her book on her lap, eyes widening. Concern showed on her features. That concern, it was plain, was for Monk and the sight of it made Henry's knuckles go white and foam gather at the corners of his mouth. The boxer sprang forward. Ham slipped a foot to a certain spot on the floor and Henry suddenly slammed into something invisible and bounded backwards, landing on his rear. Ham maneuvered his foot a second time, lifting the bulletproof shield and snickering. Monk let out a guffaw and even Renny bellowed a booming chuckle. Henry Hanneran did not find it in the least bit funny. Leaping to his feet, face red, he lunged at the homely chemist, who was caught off guard. The ex-pugilist swung a blocky fist that caught Monk beneath the chin in a stunning uppercut. Monk's face took on a look of confusion and his legs seemed to want to go in two different directions. The hairy chemist's voice dropped to a bull roar, the way it always did when he got into scraps. On instinct, he swung at the bigger man, but Henry, getting into a boxing stance, parried and sent a sharp jab into Monk's face. He followed it up with a left cross that landed flush on the chemist's chin with a resounding clack! Ringing pain sang through Monk's jaw and a green waterfall cascaded before his vision. This time his legs did go out from under him. Eyes rolling, he dropped straight down, slumping against the big chair. "Mabel...?" he muttered, senses spinning. He got the waterfall out of his eyes and shook his head. He struggled to gain his feet, but his limbs refused to comply. "Hey, you can't do that to my pal!" Ham tossed his cane on the table and charged forward. The dapper lawyer was no slouch when it came to the manly art. He slipped into a boxer's stance and snapped a crisp jab. Henry sneered, avoiding it by shuffling right. He looped a left hook that glanced off the top of Ham's head as the lawyer ducked. The blow sent him stumbling sideways a handful of feet. Ham recovered quickly and righted himself, shuffling in and cracking an uppercut to Henry's square jaw. The blow connected with a sound like rams colliding. Henry only grinned. "Jove!" Ham grabbed his hand, shaking it and wincing with pain. He was lucky he hadn't broken his knuckles. The big man jaw's appeared made of granite. Ham danced back just as another blow sailed towards him. The fellow was fast for one so large and the lawyer couldn't avoid the punch completely. It thudded into his shoulder and half his arm went numb. In fact, he couldn't lift it for a moment and that was all the time Henry Hanneran needed to thump a hammering blow to the top of the lawyer's noggin. Ham collapsed, shaking his head and groaning. Monk watched the proceedings through blurry vision, still fighting occasional bursts of the green waterfall. Renny sprang out from behind the desk, letting out a roar. The engineer and Henry Hanneran were nearly the same size. Henry stepped in and threw a right. Renny dodged the blow and sent a gallon-sized fist straight down the pike. The blow crashed into Henry Hanneran's jaw with a report loud enough to rattle the walls. The sandy-haired man blinked. He staggered a step backwards and shook his

A Doc Savage Adventure

63

head. Renny stepped in to finish the job, but the ex-pugilist let out a bellow and swung from the floor. Renny, thinking the man was stunned, was caught flatfooted. The blow nearly lifted the big engineer off the floor. He stumbled back and Henry Hanneran followed up with two pistoning blows that dropped Renny where he stood. "Holy cow..." muttered the engineer, eyes glazing. "Stop it, you stupid oaf!" Jane Doe had sprung from her chair and tossed her book aside. She ran up to Henry Hanneran and kicked him in the shin, then pounded on his chest with balled fists. Her lips curled into an angry scowl. "But, honeypie, I'm just showing you I can protect you better than these goons. They're just a bunch of reputations." The storms in the young woman's eyes whirled. "I don't need your protection. I told you to get lost weeks ago and I meant it." "Aw, darlin', you're just scared." "Scared of being stuck with the likes of you. You had no right breaking into my father's apartment and if it weren't for Mr. Savage's men wanting to keep an eye on you I would have had you thrown in jail." Henry tried to smile but the expression looked strained. "You'll feel different when you calm down and see how much you need me. I'm quite a catch." She ground a heel into the man's instep in reply. Monk groaned and the young woman spun on a toe and went to him, kneeling and slipping her hand behind his head, then glaring back at Henry Hanneran. Habeas, bristling, eyed the ex-pugilist as if he had decided to take another bite out of an ankle. "Are you all right, Monk?" Jane gave him a warm smile that eased the embarrassment he felt at being taken to the cleaners so easily. The boxer's face turned red again. "Aw, c'mon, he ain't hurt. I took it easy on him." Henry didn't sound as if he were telling the truth. Monk wagered the only way the man could have hit him harder was with a brick. Jane Doe glared at Henry. "Mr. Mayfair has kindly offered to take me to dinner and I've accepted." "I have?" said Monk, not quite in possession of all his faculties, as Jane helped him up into the chair. "Oh, yeah, I have. I know a little cafe down the street that has the best Delmonico steak--" "I would like that very much, Monk." Another smile. Monk's legs went weak for a whole new reason. Henry Hanneran's face deepened from red to purple. "But, but, but--" He didn't seemed capable of getting anything further out. "I hope you fall in a hole by the time I get back," stated Jane unkindly and slipped her arm through Monk's as the hairy chemist gained shaky legs. Ham and Renny recovered enough to make it to their feet and there came a tense moment where it appeared the bell was going to clang for the second round, but Jane towed Monk through the reception room door, averting the pending fisticuffs. The ex-pugilist stood staring after them a moment then let out a bellow and started for the door. "Hey, where do you think you're goin'?" boomed Renny, taking a step towards

The Polar Terror

64

him. The boxer spun and shook a fist. "I'm goin' for a walk. I need to clear my head before I turn that monkey-faced zoo reject into a winter coat! You got any ideas about stoppin' me you just try it!" With that he was through the door. Renny started after him. "Let him go," came a voice from the library doorway. The big engineer stopped, turning. Ham's gaze swung in that direction. Doc Savage stood in the doorway, flake-gold eyes thoughtful. "You see what he did?" Renny shook his head. "That ugly lug mopped the floor with all three of us! I think he's up to somethin." Doc nodded. "I would have stepped in if Miss Doe had not stopped him. Take the secret elevator to the lobby and see where he goes. Don't let him spot you." Renny nodded, the gloomy expression returning to his face. "Sure thing, Doc." He disappeared out into the hallway. Doc made his way to the big desk. "Who is he?" His gaze rested on Ham, who still seemed a little stunned. Ham explained how they'd encountered the big pugilist and decided to take him with them. "You found nothing helpful at Doe's apartment?" Ham shook his head. "Nothing to indicate exactly where in the Arctic he went or why someone should suddenly show up and start freezing men to death." "Yet Hanneran was already inside the apartment?" Ham nodded. "Says he's Jane Doe's boyfriend. She says he isn't. You have a talk with Pizzicato?" "He was not in his office." Doc neglected to explain the rest of the scenario. He'd spent most of the day trying to track down the man but it appeared the investigator had vanished off the face of the earth. Doc got on the telephone, calling various agencies and inquiring about Henry Hanneran. It took up the better part of an hour. "Anything?" Ham asked, leaning back in a chair and nursing his sore jaw. "On the surface, Mr. Hanneran appears to be just what he says he is. He had a career as boxer, but apparently spent more time in the nightclubs than the gym. Seems he was known for being difficult and no one wanted to manage him." "And below the surface?" "That is yet to be determined." "What does he do for money?" Doc's eyes turned thoughtful. "He does not seem to work, but spends a good deal of money on chorus girls. I should know more soon. In the meantime, I think it would be a good idea to keep tabs on him if he does not return, though I suspect he will. He has some reason for sticking close to Miss Doe." "Besides the boyfriend story, you mean?" Doc nodded. The phone rang. The bronze man picked up the instrument and listened intently then replaced the receiver. His trilling came into being; the sound held a somber note. "What is it, Doc?"

A Doc Savage Adventure

65

"That was Clementine Pizzicato." "You're kidding." Surprise lit the dapper lawyer's face. "What did he say?" The bronze man's tone was grim. "He said if we do not back off the case he will send us Long Tom in a number of frozen pieces."

The Polar Terror

66

Chapter 11 PLANS

The Hotel Spartan was a haven for crooks. Small-fry hoods and brutal gorilla-type gangsters kept clear of the place while the racketeers frequented the nightclubs. The hostelry catered to a breed of crook generally clean with the police, at least for the present, and the lesser chieftains of the underworld, such as Jake Snapper Prozini. Gangland guests came, awaiting their next jig, then left without notice. When they returned, their work was assumed finished until something else came along. It was not usually a long wait. Located on the East Side, the throaty rumble of the elevated echoed in from the street. The sound penetrated the window of room 413. Snapper Prozini paced the room, which was small and adorned with a few chairs and a couch at least ten years old that contained more holes than fabric. The walls, dingy and dirty, showed a jaundiced coating, the result of low-grade tobacco smoke, and telltale brownish specks of spilled blood. A lacquer of grime lay thick on the window and a door, closed, led to the bedroom. A rickety card table sat near a chair, on which Nate had spread out seven rows of cards. The little gangster appeared occupied with deciding which move to make next. Two other men, one with a scar running from the corner of his mouth to his left ear and another stocky suited ruffian, stood off to the side. Suspicious bulges shown beneath their coats. The men belonged to Snapper's gang. By the window stood the strange robed figure, peering out at the glittering lights of the city. He appeared fascinated by the display, as if he were peering into a world totally alien to him. In the corner, hunching over a peculiar box-like rectangle on a small table, sat Prairie Dog Pizzicato. A set of earphones on his head, he gazed intently at a row of lights atop the box. One of the lights glowed blue, while another sparkled green. He cocked his head, listening, nodding every so often. A series of expressions crossed his face, annoyance, mostly. Beside the box was a phone. "What the hell's he doin' anyway?" Snapper glanced at Nate, who looked up and shrugged, then went back to his game. Jake slid his jaw back and forth with a pop and resumed pacing until Pizzicato tossed down the earphones and stood. The squirrel-featured man's face twisted with a peculiar look. "What's wrong? What was that you were listenin' to, anyway?" Snapper peered at the pinguid investigator. "I'm gonna need a few of your men for a job." The gumshoe's voice came flat and business-like.

A Doc Savage Adventure

67

Snapper arched an eyebrow. "You want 'em to put the bag on someone else?" Pizzicato nodded. "The situation has to be handled delicately. One of Savage's men will be with her so it won't be a piece of cake." "You want us to snatch a dame?" "Not just a dame, Doe's daughter." "Why?" "You ask too many questions." Pizzicato's tone changed to threatening. He was damned tired of that pink-suited dandy's long nose. "Hell's bells, you want me to put the snatch on a dame and go up against Savage and his band and you don't tell me half of what's involved! How do you expect me to work that way?" Irritation flashed across Snapper's face and his hard eyes narrowed to a squint. "I tell you as much as you need to know. You'll be well paid." "So was them guys you hired to take care of that bronze fella earlier today and lookit what they got for their trouble." "That's why I'm trying a different tactic. Savage will call off his campaign unless he wants his man back in smoking pieces." "What happened to your idea about trading him for that equipment?" Snapper raised a questioning eyebrow. Pizzicato stifled the urge to knock the expression off the dapper gangster's face. Before this was over, Long Tom Roberts might not be the only Popsicle. "I got orders to the contrary. The boss don't think the bronze guy makes deals for something like that even when his men are threatened." The pinguid gumshoe put the lie across as gospel without even a blink. In fact, he had been the one to decide on trying to blackmail the bronze man off the case, though the boss had agreed, at least on that point. "And you think he'll just back off by threatening one?" A flash of skepticism crossed his eyes. If it came down to it he doubted anything would stop that bronze fellow from proceeding with the case, and if they murdered his aide Savage would go to the ends of the earth to punish the men responsible. That thought alone had prevented him filling Long Tom Roberts full of lead last night by "accident". The boss had a screw loose, in his opinion, playing around with a man like Savage. Focusing on the pink-suited gangster, he let his annoyance show. "You just follow orders." Snapper let out a disgusted sound. "What about that fella?" He jerked a thumb at the robed being in the window. "He ain't goddamn moved in the last half-hour. Like he never seen the night before or somethin'. He gives me the heebie-jeebies. What's to say he won't turn on all of us?" The thought had occurred to Pizzicato as well, and he had to admit the possibility existed. But the Blue One wanted something in his homeland, though he had adapted amazingly quick to the wicked ways of modern world. Maybe too quick. While he appeared to have little use for the wealth contained in those sapphires, he had much for modern weaponry. Strange that one in possession of such power over life and death had no idea about guns and gang warfare. Those things attracted the Blue One and he didn't seem to care how much money it took to obtain them. What he wanted them for, Pizzicato did not care. If a thousand people had to die for him to get those jewels, untold

The Polar Terror

68

troves of them, he didn't give a damn. He'd waited years to be a name in the underworld, a name bigger than Capone, Dillinger and the like, and this one time he refused to let his inbred laziness get in the way of opportunity. "He ain't bulletproof," Pizzicato said at last, not entirely certain. Snapper slid his jaw back and forth, popping it again. That was a damned annoying habit, the gumshoe thought. "I don't care. He scares the hell out of me and I ain't afraid to admit it." "No more than Savage does, I trust?" Pizzicato frowned. "I can't figure why that bronze guy even works with those men of his. Roberts might be useful, but he's got the disposition of a rattlesnake and two of the others can't stop arguing long enough to get out of their own way." "How you know that?" Pizzicato clamped his mouth shut. He'd been thinking aloud and the less Snapper knew about how he gained information the better. "You sure this place is safe?" "Hell's bells, I could keep an army in here and the police wouldn't touch us." "It isn't the police I am worried about." "Savage finds us here he's in for a tough time of it." Pizzicato studied the pink-suited man. The hood appeared to believe his boast. "Let's hope we don't have to put that to the test. What about that guy in the lobby? I don't like the way he was lookin' at us carrying in that 'laundry'." "Marsland?" Snapper scratched his chin. "He's jake. A loner, high-classed guy. He won't give us no trouble. He's hell on wheels, though. Must have a guardian devil watchin' over him." Pizzicato nodded. "We'll all need one before this is over." "How we gonna get that equipment now?" "I told you I made plans in case." "What plans?" The man's nosiness annoyed him but he supposed it wouldn't hurt to tell him now. He was going to have to put the operation into effect and perhaps it was a good idea to let the thug get used to the idea. Pizzicato walked back to the table holding the lighted box. Only the blue bulb glowed at the moment. He grabbed a rolled up tube and brought it over to Snapper, spreading it out on the opposite side of the card table from Nate, who glanced up, then went back to his game. "What the devil's that?" Snapper studied the plans, eyes wide. The layout outlined a huge building interior with various markings in different color inks. The plans showed the building hung half out over the Hudson River. "The Hidalgo Trading Company." Pizzicato looked at the gangster and the man shrugged. "So?" "Savage keep's his machines in there. See?" Pizzicato jabbed a sausage finger at a place labeled "dirigible" in blue. A number of other things were X'd with the same color, others sporting the words plane, autogyro, submarine. Snapper let out a whistle. "If that's where Savage keeps his toys the place must be wired up with more alarms than Fort Knox." "It makes Fort Knox look like a petting zoo. I've made a careful study of it and

A Doc Savage Adventure

69

even I have no idea how many things he's got rigged up. I know he's got some kind of electro-mechanical sensors here and here--" Pizzicato pointed to spots around the big doorway and on the places hanging out over the river. "There's some kind of camera that I assume leads to televisor in Savage's headquarters. I'd sure like to get a look at that." An almost reverent light glittered in the investigator's little eyes. "Bet Roberts developed it, too. I'll have to try to get the secret out of him before he dies. I haven't had much luck with televisions." "How you know he's got that in there?" Snapper eyed Pizzicato with a flicker of suspicion. "Savage got a delivery of machine parts for one of his planes a few days back. I managed to find out this company commonly delivers parts to the warehouse under a false name. Savage owns more than half the delivery company under some organization called the Hathway Organization, which supposedly distributes grants to students unable to afford medical training. Seems he has regular shipments. Goes through a lot of equipment. I merely substituted a man for the delivery fella and he got the lay of the place best he could. Renwick was supervising the drop off so it wasn't easy, but he noticed the cameras aimed at various places." "So?" Snapper looked puzzled. "I still don't savvy." "So, he managed to snap a picture of the area with a hidden camera I built into his lapel pin. Quality isn't as good as I hope but it will do." "I still don't get it." "I'll have your men clamp the picture in front of the camera that watches the equipment we want. Savage will never know when it's gone." "What about all them other alarms?" "There's a capacity alarm here--" He pointed to a spot near the door. "--and here." He moved his fat finger at another place, X'd in red. "I've been watching the place a while. Sort of a hobby of mine. I was hoping to steal a few of Savage's inventions. When tripped, the alarms set off an electric sign on a building a few blocks away. I think I have a little device that will neutralize that." "I dunno bout this." Snapper shook his head, worry dancing in his eyes. "Seems like walkin' into Roosevelt's vault would be easier." "Most likely it would." "How we gonna get in? Can't just blow that door." "The door is corrugated but reinforced steel. The walls are brick, reinforced with concrete and steel beams." Snapper frowned. "Anything that would get us in that way would make enough noise to bring the cavalry down on our heads." "Precisely." Pizzicato nodded, chins jiggling. "That's why we're going under it." "Under it?" "You'll notice part of the building hangs out over the Hudson River. That's the chink in its armor, I believe. It's built that way so Savage can taxi planes out for river take-offs and for submarine lunches. The dirigible and autogyro are on the raised sections and leave through enormous doors that open to allow passage. We will need diving equipment and underwater torches. My theory is there are bars that raise automatically preventing anyone from just swimming in and more capacity alarms beneath the water. They'll have to be housed in some sort of casing along with some of the wiring for raising

The Polar Terror

70

the bars." "None of my men'll wanna go in the drink and find out." "Then hire ones who will. Pilots, too. If we make even a single mistake we'll end up vanishing like those others Savage gets hold of." "Or frozen by that one." Snapper nudged his head towards the robed figure, who now turned in their direction. Pizzicato couldn't see the Blue One's face beneath the cowl, but assumed the being was looking at them. "Don't concern yourself with him." Pizzicato waved a hand. "Anyone shows up unexpected he'll come in handy." "I still don't like it. Savage might have a thousand other alarms or traps in that place. One of 'em is sure to get us. He ain't called a bronze genius by the papers for nothin' and men going against him got a funny way of coming out on the short end. This is way over my head, Pizzicato. Yours, too. I'm thinkin' maybe we should pull out before it's too late." The investigator had to admit a streak of yellow in his nature had troubled him with the same thought, but he pushed the notion from his mind as avarice took over and the prospect of acquiring enormous power and wealth staggered his mind. "You're in this too deep, Prozini. You pull out now you'll never walk out that door breathing. And just think about those sapphires you're going to get." Snapper nodded, either greed or concern for his well-being asserting itself. "I still don't like it," he grumbled. "We've wasted enough time. Get those men after that girl. Make sure they can't be traced back here." Snapper nodded with reluctance and clicked his jaw. Pizzicato rolled up the plans and set them back on the table beside his lit box. His eyes centered on the doorway to the bedroom then he went to it and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The room was furnished with an old chipped bureau and bare mattress on a sagging bedspring. Long Tom Roberts was tied to a chair. The investigator ambled over to him, stared him in the eye. The electrical wizard's look was defiant and Pizzicato could almost understand why Savage would have this man working for him. He was loyal, which was more than he could say about Prozini or the rest of his ilk. While he understood that loyalty, it disgusted him. Loyal men ended up dead; in war or in love, the result was the same. Integrity bought a fellow nothing in this world. Only greed and self-preservation mattered. It was winner take all, survival of the sneakiest. Pizzicato's world had no place for men such as this. "I told your boss to back off, Roberts." "He won't." Long Tom's gold tooth caught a glimmer of light from the bare bulb hanging in the center of the room and flashed. Pizzicato shrugged. "He will if he cares about your welfare. In the meantime, you had best reconsider about telling me what I want to know." Long Tom grinned. "You got more a chance of going to Doc's wedding than that." "What the hell's that mean?" Maybe the confinement and beatings were getting to Roberts, Pizzicato thought. "Doesn't matter. I won't tell you a damn thing." Pizzicato hauled back and smacked Long Tom across the face. He had to admit the beatings had little effect but they gave him a hell of a lot of satisfaction taking out his

A Doc Savage Adventure

71

frustration on the runt. Long Tom's head rattled but he didn't make a sound. "I want to know what kind of alarms Savage has in that warehouse. You got twenty-four hours to tell me or I'll have my blue friend turn you into an ice cone." Long Tom remained silent, lips tightening in contempt. Pizzicato considered hitting him again but gave up the idea. He doubted the electrical wizard would tell him a thing and he wondered if he shouldn't try to case Savage's warehouse longer. A hundred things could go wrong without knowing the complete lay of the place, but the Blue One was getting restless. He wanted to return north and achieve his goal and likely his patience wouldn't hold up a lot longer. He was not concerned particularly with how he accomplished it, though Pizzicato had convinced him for the time being this was the best course. A delay might weaken that position and blow everything. No, events would go ahead as planned. He could keep track of Savage and if the bronze man made a move it would most likely be known and countered. And if anything went wrong, Pizzicato would make certain the boss and Prozini were left to take the fall.

The Polar Terror

72

Chapter 12 GIRL ABDUCTED

Donovan's Cafe was located only a few blocks from Doc Savage's headquarters. Walking arm in arm with the lovely Jane Doe, Monk Mayfair felt as if he floated most of the way down Fifth Avenue. Reaching the eatery--it was small and not especially crowded at the moment, they entered and selected a booth against the left wall that allowed Monk to observe anyone entering the front door. "Is there a powder room, Monk?" Jane asked and Monk pointed to the back. She gave him a coy smile. "I shall be right back. Don't go anywhere." "A herd of wild lawyers couldn't drag me away." His voice seemed even higher than normal and he was glad Ham wasn't here to make fun of the fact. Jane headed towards the back as Monk slid into the booth. She was a pip, that one. A fellow could easily get attached to her and that made him a trifle nervous. One of these days his--or Ham's--antics with the ladies were going to wind up with one of them acquiring that wife and thirteen children they were always kidding each other about. Monk shivered. He didn't do that often but the thought of a house and picket fence gave him a turn. A waitress wandered over, a hard-looking redhead who had one penciled eyebrow cocked and an accusing look in her eye. She tapped a stub of a pencil on an order pad and didn't say anything at first. Monk mentally kicked himself for bringing Jane to the restaurant. He had forgotten about Colleen. "Well, well, Andrew..." Colleen's voice sounded like a car horn that went arooga, but the gal did have her uniform stacked in all the right places. "And just who might the new doxy be?" "Errr…" Monk fumbled for words, at a loss for a good lie. "It ain't what you think, Colleen." "Oh, and what might it be, I'll be askin'?" Colleen's scrubbed face took on a doubting look. Monk knew from experience her temper could match her fiery hair color and she was a little on the possessive side. Her freckled nose crinkled. "She's a gal who's in trouble, Colleen." "And ain't they all…" She didn't sound as if she believed him. He made a mental note to send Ham down here to take the gal off his hands. "You know how Doc attracts them," Monk pleaded. "I'm just helpin' him out for the moment." "Me, I be tinkin' you're givin' me a load of blarney, Andrew." At that point Jane Doe returned from the powder room and Monk wasn't sure

A Doc Savage Adventure

73

whether to be relieved. The young woman slid into the booth across from him. "Forgive me for taking so long, Monk. A gal's gotta look her best, even in danger." Her smile could have melted one of those frozen corpses, Monk thought, and by the murderous glitter in Colleen's eyes it didn't have nearly the same affect on her as it did on him. "'Monk', is it now?" The sarcasm in Colleen's voice was thick as grime on an East End window. "Maybe I'll just have coffee." Monk's voice came sheepish. He had lost his appetite for the steak and squirmed in his seat. "The same for me, and a cheese sandwich." Jane eyed the waitress, then Monk, obviously suspicious. "And maybe you'll be havin' dessert later, I'll be tinkin'?" Colleen flipped her order pad shut and cast Monk a snide expression. "I'm bettin' tis not her real hair color, either!" She spun on a toe and stalked away. Monk's cheeks colored. "Er, sorry about that." Jane Doe chuckled. "She seems to be in a bit of a pique." "Maybe you better make sure to check your sandwich before eatin' it at that." "You're a wolf, my dear Mr. Mayfair." Jane Doe caught his gaze and held it and Monk felt suddenly like a cat who'd just entered a room full of bulldogs. "Um..." "You and Mr. Brooks both." "Yeah, that Ham, you gotta watch out for him. That wife of his is real jealous and those kids all got their brains from their father. They need constant attention and yet he still don't leave the dames alone." Jane Doe laughed. "Come, now, Monk, Mr. Brooks is a bachelor." "He is?" Monk's cheeks colored some more. "Of course, he is. And he is a wolf. Just like you." "Errrr." Monk squirmed. From the counter, Colleen shot him menacing glares and from the table Jane Doe cast him...well, he wasn't quite sure what the expression was but it didn't look as if she were angry at him. "Don't worry, Monk. I don't mind. I think you pretend to be a wolf." "I do?" He scratched a hairy forearm. "You do. But you are a sheep." "I am?" "Most definitely. You and Mr. Brooks are both sheep." Monk hoped that didn't mean they were both ready to be made into lamb chops. If Colleen had anything to say about it that might become a reality. "I'm afraid to ask, but how you figure that?" "Because you are afraid of women." "I think you got me confused with Doc." She gave an easy laugh. Colleen strode over and plunked their coffees in front of them, being none too careful about slopping the scalding liquid over the sides. She tossed down the plate with the cheese sandwich, turned up her nose and walked off. "No, Mr. Savage just does not understand women. He is afraid of them only because he does not know how they function. He can't figure them out." "He had kind of a crazy upbringing."

The Polar Terror

74

"I am sure he did. Perhaps he should have been around women more." "You sure know a lot about people you just met." He hoped it didn't sound defensive. The fact was, she got to him in a big way and he didn't like the things he was starting to feel. "As I have said, my father was rarely home. I filled my time with reading, even newspapers. I have learned much about Mr. Savage's adventures. I read he recently returned from Tibet." "Yeah, let me tell you about yaks sometime." Monk rolled his eyes, hoping to change the direction of the conversation. He swore his bottom still felt sore from that adventure. "Mr. Savage may learn about women someday...if he lives long enough." Was there an edge to her voice. Monk wasn't sure. "What do you mean?" "Your work is very dangerous." "That might be an understatement." "Any one of you could be killed at any moment." "Cheerful thought..." Monk's brow creased. "What I mean to say is you and Mr. Brooks live that life because you are afraid of settling down. That is why you are afraid of women. You are worried one will--how should I say it?--domesticate you, turn you into a husband." Monk thought that might be closer to the truth than he wanted to think about. "Naw, we just love adventure. We got it in our veins." "Like poison?" She gave him a serious look. He wondered what she was getting at. "Never really thought about it that way. More like a drug, maybe. Once you been through what me and Ham have it's hard to give up the excitement." "Where did you and Mr. Brooks meet?" She took a sip of her coffee and made a face. Monk wondered what Colleen had done to it. "In France, during the war. We fought together side by side. All of Doc's men did." "And Mr. Savage, too?" "Yeah, Doc was younger than us, but he was a natural leader. Everyone just sort of knew it and we ain't regretted making him the chief a day since. We all tried to go about our professions after the Krauts gave in but an ordinary life wasn't for us." "An ordinary life with a wife and kids..." She checked her cheese sandwich before taking a bite and seemed to decide it was all right. Monk shrugged, feigning innocence. "I still don't think I'm scared of women." He wondered if he said it with more protest than he'd intended. "What would you do if you truly caught one, then? Surely you and Mr. Brooks run that risk. In fact, our waitress seems more than a little willing to fill the position." "Who, Colleen? She's a sweet gal...well, sometimes." "You're avoiding the question, Monk." He was and he knew it. Truth be told, he suddenly felt downright awkward and that wasn't something he was used to feeling with women. "Never caught one, so I don't know." He hoped the lie wasn't too obvious. She gave another easy laugh. He liked the way she laughed. It had a pleasantly angelic quality to it. "I get the impression you've caught quite a number of them. You just

A Doc Savage Adventure

75

never let them catch you." "Maybe you're right." It wasn't like him admitting that, but something about Jane Doe made him want to say things he'd never dared say to a woman before. He wondered if one of his screws hadn't come loose. She placed her hand over his and smiled a warm smile." "I like you, Monk Mayfair. I truly do." Something electric went through him and his face turned as red as an Arizona sunset. "Um, what about you?" "What about me?" The storms that had temporarily subsided in her eyes began to churn again. "I heard something about a chorus girl." The storms intensified. She bowed her head, and her finger traced the rim of her mug. A moment of awkward silence reigned and he had the idea he'd just put his pigeontoed foot in his mouth. "I shouldn't have asked..." He patted her hand. "No, it is quite all right." She looked up at him and tears shimmered in her eyes. He prayed she didn't cry. He'd have no idea what to do with her, then. "I have done some things in my life I am not proud of, Monk." He almost laughed. "It ain't like being a chorus gal is a minus with me." "It is with me. My father left me alone too much and I guess I resented it. Whenever I did go with him it was to show his colleagues how good a father he was, so I figured if I could do something that embarrassed him and showed his friends different he would have to change. So I started doing some things it was not proper for a cultured woman to do. I danced in a few clubs because he hated it. But it didn't change things. It didn't change him. It probably just made things worse." "Then why did you keep doing it?" She looked a bit surprised. "How do you know I did?" Monk shrugged. "That lug Henry Hanneran said he met you while you were one. I didn't get the impression he has been following you around for years." She nodded, relaxing. "You are right. You see, I gave it up for awhile, but I needed money. It was the only thing I knew how to do." Monk scratched his nubbin of a head. "Didn't your father leave you money? You were staying at his place. Didn't look like the Depression hurt him any." "My father is quite wealthy in ways and I can stay at his place only because I watch it for him. But he cut off my allowance the moment he learned of what I was doing." Monk nodded. "And Henry Hanneran?" She gritted her teeth. "He is a pest. He kept coming into the club and latched onto me. He followed me around even after I quit again a few months ago. He's got ideas about marrying me." "I think he might have other ideas, too." Monk's voice came reassuring. He felt sorry for Jane Doe. He'd never had any real attachments himself, other than his association with his pals and Doc, and maybe that made it harder for him to settle down now. Maybe it wasn't just fear of women, but fear of having an anchor in his life. Maybe he understood women and security even less than Doc. "Why, what do you mean, Monk?" The storms in her eyes subsided some.

The Polar Terror

76

"I just wondered why he suddenly decided to break into your father's place and keep tabs on you. Awful big coincidence him showing up after you came to us for help." "I never thought of it that way but maybe you're right. Do you suppose he means to harm me or has something to do with my father's disappearance?" Monk patted her hand again. "Now don't you worry about that. I'll protect you from him." He hoped she didn't think about the drubbing the ex-pugilist had given him, Ham and Renny earlier. "I think I'd like that, Monk." She batted her eyelashes and finished her cheese sandwich. He grinned. "I think we'd better be getting back to the others. It's starting to get dark and no telling when that gollywockus with the cold hand of death will show up again." Jane shivered and Monk stood, offering her a hand and helping her out of the booth. He left money on the table and an extra big tip for Colleen, hoping it would keep her from being so ornery the next time he came in. The night was misty again, cool droplets spattering his face as they walked out of the cafe. He suppressed the urge to shiver. The chill made him think of that cold-handed killer. He was about to force the image from his mind when the house fell on him. Well, he corrected himself, it wasn't a house but it sure hit like one. Men emerged from the darkness and he wasn't quite sure how many, only that one had sprung forward while he was deep in thought and clacked him on the chin with a blackjack. Ringing pain vibrated through his teeth and jaw and he wobbled a moment, then his head cleared. He cursed himself for making a mistake. In their line of business that could be fatal and he should have remained more alert. Jane Doe let out a sharp screech but a man started for her and she clamped her mouth shut. She kicked him in the shin and he began hopping around on one leg. Monk lost track of her as men piled onto him. His fists pumped, each blow landing with bone-crunching authority, and a roar burst from his lips. Only one thing gave him more pleasure than annoying Ham--a good scrap. The pain from the smack on the chin vanished in the fever of the fight. He winged looping punches, knocking men from him. They swung blackjacks and fists and squalled as his fists collided with jaws and body parts. A man rushed in, launching a vicious uppercut, but Monk saw it coming and jerked his chin left. The blow whizzed by his face and kept going, throwing the thug off balance. The hairy chemist grabbed the fellow by the throat and that hood let out a choked bleat. He hurled him around and sent him sailing into another man, who stumbled backwards and slammed into a building wall, shuddering and slumping to the ground, dazed. More men piled onto him and his arms pistoned furious blows. He got hold of one thug and twisted the man's finger out of joint then popped another in the temple. The man promptly sat down and looked stunned. "Somebody brain 'im!" a man screamed, while another made an attempt to do just that. Monk side-stepped, sending a crisp jab that connected with the man's jaw. The jaw took on an unnatural shape. The man shrieked louder than any women Monk had

A Doc Savage Adventure

77

ever heard. He didn't get any time to laugh about it because another thug snapped a blackjack at Monk's temple. He managed to avoid the swing, but the blow took him on the shoulder and sent a throbbing pain down his arm. The fight continued for only a short time, the sound of bones breaking, squalls of injured crooks and Monk's roar filling the street. In the distance, police sirens wailed. "Monk, look out!" he heard Jane scream suddenly, terror in her voice. It was the last thing he heard, because something collided with the back of his head, hard, and the green waterfall was back and the sidewalk was rushing up to meet him.

The Polar Terror

78

Chapter 13 MORE CORPSICLES

The green waterfall finally disappeared from before his eyes, but Monk Mayfair's skull felt like a herd of wild bulls had stampeded over it. He should have considered himself lucky he wasn't dead--and he wondered just why he wasn't--but with the throbbing in the back of his head that might have been an improvement. Sitting up suddenly, he gazed around the reception room, wondering how he'd gotten there. He was in an over-stuffed chair and Ham Brooks was peering at him with a slightly anxious expression that turned to one of disdain the moment Monk focused on him. "I knew the Devil would look like you," the hairy chemist muttered, unable to put much effort into the jibe. The dapper lawyer sneered. "Hades must have been full--they sent you back." Monk groaned, gingerly probing the back of his head. "Feels like someone hit me with a hammer." Ham made a disgusted sound. "Obviously they did not hit you hard enough." "What's that s'posed to mean?" Monk cocked an eyebrow and even that movement hurt. "You still haven't got an ounce of sense." "Ladies dresses, shyster," was all Monk could think of retorting. As his vision cleared further, he noticed someone else was in the room, staring at him, and that stare didn't hold a hint of kindness or sympathy. Henry Hanneran sat perched on a chair arm, casting Monk a glare that might have turned the chemist into one of those frozen men going around. "What's eatin' you?" Monk wasn't in much of a mood for the ex-pugilist. "If it weren't for you Jane wouldn't be missing or dead right now!" "Oh." Monk clamped his mouth shut, the memory of the fight outside the restaurant flooding back. The very fact Jane wasn't with them should have told him she'd been kidnapped, but he was still groggy. Concern cleared his head. He attempted to leap out of the chair, figuring on going back to the restaurant to look for her, but his senses spun and he sat right back down again. "Ease up, fellow," said Ham, exhibiting either a protective streak where the homely Monk was concerned or a contrary one where Henry Hanneran was. Monk assumed it was most likely the latter because there was a hint of snideness attached to it. "Monk did the best he could." Henry Hanneran's face turned red. "The hell he did! He was too busy sleepin' on the sidewalk by the time I got there. If there hadn't been twenty cops around I would have

A Doc Savage Adventure

79

woken him up just to put him to sleep again--with this!" Henry exhibited a blocky fist and shook it in a violent circle. "Anytime you feel lucky, Hanneran." Monk grumbled. He secretly hoped Henry didn't chose that minute because he wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight. "How is it you just happened to come along at that time anyway?" Ham raised an eyebrow. Henry looked taken aback. "I was worried about Jane being alone with this monkey-faced excuse for a human being and went to look for her. I knew he couldn't protect her." "How'd I get up here, anyway?" Monk sat up straighter. His head whirled then settled into a low throbbing. One of these days, if he kept getting hit in the head, his brains were going to get scrambled. Ham tapped his sword cane against the carpet. "Renny brought you up. He came along right after Hanneran." "Say," Henry glared at Ham. "I been meanin' the ask you about that. That bigfisted fella was right behind me. I gotta feelin' he was followin' me." Ham shrugged. "You do anything you should be worried about?" Henry cast Ham a wolf-about-to-swallow-a-chicken look. "I don't like you." "We've established that." Sarcasm laced Ham's voice. "Where is that big palooka? I got questions for him. And where is this Doc Savage? I ain't seen no sign of him since I been here. I bet he's just a little pip-squeak afraid to show himself around me." "You'd lose that bet," said Monk, getting more irritated with Hanneran by the minute, which was saying something, considering the way felt about he pugilist already. Ham frowned. "He's busy in the lab with Renny, not that it is any of your concern." "Mighty man of bronze--puh!" Hanneran spat on the carpet. "He's over-rated. You all are. You're a bunch of Keystone cops. While you're all sitting here on your backsides poor Jane is out there in the hands of those men. Why, they might have turned her into one of those frozen men--er, women--by now. Are you just gonna sit and let it happen? I want this Doc Savage to find her. That's what he's supposed to be good at, isn't it? I haven't seen you guys do anything except mess up and try to move in on my girl." "Are you finished?" Monk now perched on the edge of his seat. "You're making my head ache worse with all your complainin'." Henry's face set in rigid lines of determination. "I want to meet this Doc Savage right now. I want him out there finding Jane before it's too late. If he's not out of that lab in two minutes I'm going in after him." Henry Hanneran folded his arms in a dare-menot-to gesture. "I got half a mind to let you do that..." "You got half a mind period," Ham put in. Monk groaned. Listening to the ex-pugilist was straining his last nerve and the dapper lawyer wasn't helping, but he found himself overwhelmed with concern for Jane Doe. After talking to her at the restaurant, he discovered the young woman had become more to him than just another skirt to chase. He decided if he were going to let a woman catch him, she might be the one. The thought gave him a start but his belly was in a knot over her fate and a healthy amount of guilt racked him at the fact Henry Hanneran was

The Polar Terror

80

right: he hadn't done his job protecting her. It wasn't one of his better nights. First the ugly boxer had taken him to the cleaners, then criminals abducted the young despite his best efforts to stop it. If anything happened to her... He refused to think about it. He might have gotten worked up himself over Doc's seeming lack of motivation at finding the girl, but he had worked with the bronze man long enough to know if there were anything to be done Doc would have done it by now. Doc had a way of figuring everything out way before anyone else even knew anything was wrong and Monk, though impulsive and headstrong at times, trusted his leader's judgment. He was just about to tell Henry Hanneran that when the library door opened... Doc Savage had just spent the last ten minutes--after making sure Monk's head injuries weren't serious enough to require medical attention--examining the robin's eggsized sapphire he'd taken off the gangster at Pizzicato's office building. A small trilling tremoloed its way up and down the scale after he finished. Renny sat at a table, making phone calls at Doc's instruction. If he were concerned over the fate of Jane Doe, it did not show on his features but inside he worried over the young woman's dilemma. A note of disgust with himself played in his mind for not foreseeing her being taken by the gang, though he could think of no reason for the abduction. Nor did he know what quirk of happenstance had kept Monk from becoming a frozen corpse or being killed by a bullet when the gang attacked. Perhaps the police had scared off the thugs before they could finish the job, but this gang seemed particularly bold. For the moment, any questions in that regard would remain unanswered. He made himself scarce after examining Monk, getting out before Henry Hanneran wandered back in after apparently lingering at the cafe to help with the search for Jane Doe. Doc had gone to the restaurant a short time later himself and questioned a waitress named Colleen as to whether she'd seen the fight and could tell him anything about the men who had taken Miss Doe. The freckled-faced woman had seen nothing, but insisted it was most likely Jane Doe's fault all the same. She also told the bronze man when he spoke with "Andrew" again to tell him she'd be only too happy to nurse him back to health if he could learn not to take up with "dangerous doxies." Doc would neglect to repeat the message. Renny slammed down the phone, his gloomy face twisting with frustration. "Holy cow, Doc, I got our operatives keeping their eyes peeled for any signs of that robed hobgoblin and the gang, but they might as well have vanished into thin air." "I doubt they will stay in hiding for long. Whatever goal they have in mind they don't seem to be wasting any time putting their plans into motion." "What do you make of it, Doc? Why did they snatch Jane Doe and why did they want to stop Reginald Denton from coming to us?" Doc seemed not to hear the question. It was his habit not to voice theories until he could back them up with facts and at the moment he had to admit he had little inkling as to the gang's motives or methods. "Where did Hanneran go when he left here?" the bronze man asked instead. Renny shrugged. "The lunk stopped by a nightclub. I saw him use the telephone then he came out and went for a stroll. He headed for the cafe where Monk took Jane Doe." "He was not involved in the scuffle?"

A Doc Savage Adventure

81

"No. I figure he was jealous of Monk alone with his girl." "Perhaps." Doc's flake-gold eyes stirred, restless. "And perhaps it is time to meet Mr. Hanneran." Renny let out a booming grumble. "He won't like you..." Doc almost smiled. "I will try not to let that alter my opinion of him." The bronze man stood and put the sapphire in a small metal box with a dial combination. "Monitor the phones a while longer. Something may present itself." Renny nodded. "Will do, Doc." The bronze man strode through the library and opened the door leading to the reception room. He saw Monk sitting on the edge of his chair, looking as if he were going to commit some particularly violent act on the sandy-haired man's person. "Monk..." Doc's tone came firm and low and Monk glanced up, then shrugged and sat back in his chair. "So this is the famous man of bronze?" Hanneran's gaze swept up Doc's frame and down again, and an unappreciative expression turned his lips. "You ain't nothin' too special. What are you doin' to find Jane?" Doc moved to the big desk and lowered himself into the chair behind it. He steepled his fingers, flake-gold eyes intense. "We do not have much to go on." "You're supposed to be a wizard, a superman or something. All I've seen is a bunch of newspaper hooey. First monkey face lets them snatch her, then you waltz in like you got nothing better to do than wait for Christmas." "We are doing all we can, Mr. Hanneran. I suggest you try to relax." "Relax?" Henry Hanneran's voice jumped three notches in shrillness. "How do you expect me to relax while you bunch of, of misfits are doing nothing?" "You are welcome to try finding her yourself or go to the police." Doc's voice remained calm. The bronze man did not take an aversion to most men, but he decided that if he stayed around Henry Hanneran for too long he might develop a healthy dislike for the ex-pugilist. Henry Hanneran clamped his mouth shut and glared. Apparently he didn't care for the suggestion. His eyes narrowed and his puffy brow creased. "I don't like you." It seemed the most damning thing he was capable of saying. Monk chuckled. "Welcome to the club, Doc." If Henry Hanneran intended saying anything further, it never left his mouth. Renny appeared in the library doorway and stepped into the reception room, face gloomier than normal. "Holy cow, Doc, we got another frozen corpse. That gang sure didn't wait long before striking again." Doc stood, his features appearing more metallic and somber than a moment before. "Where?" "Gerling Diving Company." "Diving company?" Monk came to his feet, wavering, then steadying. "What would they want there?" "We might find out..." Doc said. Ham snapped up his sword cane and Renny started for the door. Monk did too, but Doc stopped him. "Monk, you remain here with Mr. Hanneran. We don't want to place him in danger and you haven't completely recovered from earlier."

The Polar Terror

82

"Aw, Doc…" Monk sounded disappointed. "I ain't stayin' here with that monkey-faced mistake!" Henry Hanneran thwacked a fist into his palm. "Not with my gal in trouble. I'm going with you and nothing you can do is going to keep me out of it." Doc's face remained emotionless but he preferred to leave Hanneran behind for any number of reasons. The man was hot-headed and unpredictable; that was the last thing they needed at the moment. The problem took care of itself. Ham had maneuvered to a spot directly behind the ex-pugilist and silently unsheathed his sword cane. He pretended to trip, jabbing the tip of the cane into Henry Hanneran's backside. "Hey!" Hanneran yelped. "You did that on--" A blank look crossed his face and his eyes rolled up. He fell on his face, right beside Monk. "You might have caught him," said Doc, disapproval in his tone. Monk spread his hands. "I was still dizzy..." "Jove, he seems to have fallen asleep on his feet." Ham grinned. "With a little help from that knockout drug on the tip of your cane," said Renny. "He fell on his face." Monk smiled. "He's gonna feel that when he wakes up." Renny grinned. "I doubt it," Monk said. The Gerling Diving Company was located on a small side street. The wooden sign above the establishment hung at a peculiar angle and some of the letters had worn off the wood. After Doc brought the roadster to a stop outside the concern, he headed for the nearest officer. Police had cordoned off the place and lights flashed through the drizzly night, glittering off the wet pavement. Radios buzzed. "Damnedest thing I ever seen," said the officer when Doc reached him. "He's frozen like a Thanksgiving Day turkey five days before the feast." "What did they take?" Doc's flake-gold eyes were somber. The flashing police lights shivered across his metallic features, giving them an eerie quality that might have turned even the most hardened criminal into a sniveling wreck. The copper shrugged and adjusted his hat. "Just a couple diving suits and helmets, air tanks and underwater torches. Proprietor--he's the frozen guy--was stocking some cold weather clothing and equipment...some of that was missing, too." Doc thanked the man and entered the little store, followed by Ham and Renny. "Jove!" A look of shock welded onto Ham's handsome face as his gaze centered on the little man frozen behind the counter. Wisps of smoke curled from the fellow's body and in the gloomy shop lighting it was an entirely unnerving sight. "Was working late," offered another officer, nudging his head towards the dead man. "Nothing like freezing out the competition," muttered Ham and Renny cast him a dirty look. The little shop was crowded with diving equipment--underwater gauges and tanks, helmets and suits--and select winter items such as snowshoes and parkas, ski poles and skis, lined gloves. A layer of dust covered the boards, which creaked as Doc walked

A Doc Savage Adventure

83

across them to the body. He examined the corpse, flake-gold eyes scrutinizing every detail. He saw nothing different about this corpse from the first two, and decided that most likely the man had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The sight discouraged him, made him want to doubt how much good he was doing protecting innocent lives, but he quickly pushed the thoughts aside. They would do little good at this juncture and might even interfere with his job. A buzz sounded and he glanced at his wrist radio. He twisted the peg and adjusted the frequency, knowing it had to be Monk. "Yes, Monk?" "Doc, operative ten called. He's the watchman at the Bogart Munitions Factory. He says some guys just broke in. One of them was wearing a pink suit. Fella sounded pretty scared. Was calling from a back office and didn't dare move." Doc's trilling sounded briefly. "The pink-suited fellow is a small-time hood named Jake Prozini." "How you find that out?" "It was not difficult. He is known and a simple check earlier brought to light the information. He is involved in this thing in some capacity." "Blazes, Doc! I'll be right down there." "No." Doc's tone came firm, leaving no room for argument, even for Monk. "Stay there with Hanneran. I don't know what his angle is yet, but his story has some holes." "Aw, Doc." Monk's voice was plaintive but he accepted the directive. Doc Savage switched off the radio and quit the store. He seemed almost to glide out into the night, a bronze wraith. Renny and Ham had overheard the conversation and followed him to the roadster. The streets were relatively clear, but it took them ten minutes to reach the Bogart Munitions Factory, which was located near the outskirts of the city. The asphalt was shiny with drizzle, oil and grime. Streetlights cast a ghostly glow that blended with the shadows. Droplets of water beaded on the windshield and the wipers slapped them away. The headlights cut a glowing path before them and Doc killed the glims before reaching the factory. Bringing the car to a stop, he turned off the engine and scanned the street. Something was wrong. The place looked deserted. No sign of movement, no cars parked ready for an escape, though an alley ran along the south side of the building that might be hiding getaway vehicles. The warehouse itself was a huge affair of dirty brick and grime-coated windows. "Look's like we're too late, Doc…" Ham peered out the side window. "That's impossible." Renny struggled to keep his voice down, which was about like trying to blow a foghorn discreetly. "It didn't take us more than ten-fifteen minutes to get here and they couldn't have cleared out that fast." "It does not seem likely" Doc's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Whatever reason those thugs had to invade the warehouse, they likely couldn't have accomplished it so quickly unless..." "They knew they didn't have much time." Ham completed. Renny's brow crinkled. "Say, Doc, didn't you and Long Tom do the security for this building? Why didn't the alarms go off before the watchman called?" Doc did not answer. He grabbed a small box from the floor and a pair of strangelooking goggles from the glove compartment. He slipped from the car without making a

The Polar Terror

84

sound; Ham and Renny didn't realize he was gone for a moment. They eased out next, making more noise than Doc, but quiet nonetheless. Doc located the side door of the factory. It hung open. He paused just inside, kneeling, his gaze running along the frame. An oblong container that resembled a pillbox with multiple compartments was secured to the frame a quarter way up. A small blinking red light glowed on its face. It took the bronze man only a moment to determine the mechanism somehow neutralized the electro-mechanical alarm attached to this door, an alarm Long Tom designed. The bronze man decided Clementine Pizzicato had graduated from listening devices and saw how the rogue investigator had gained his reputation as a gadget man. Straightening, he slipped inside, eyes alert for the slightest threat or sign of the robed figure who had given him so much trouble on their first encounter. The interior of the warehouse was pitch black, imbued with an almost spectral silence. Doc adjusted the strange goggles over his eyes. The lenses were roughly the size of condensed milk cans. As he flicked a lever on the side of the box, everything seemed to jump out in startling black and white relief. The projector cast light of the infra red variety. Combined with the goggles, the beam allowed Doc sufficient night vision to maneuver with ease. Going forward, he located the small office from where the night watchman informed Monk he'd been calling. The bronze man caught himself just before he made his trilling sound. The watchman would never call anyone again. In the marbled light, his frozen corpse presented a horrifying sight that set even Doc's nerves on edge. Little wisps of smoke curled from the older man's uniform. Doc felt a twinge of guilt and remorse. He had provided the fellow with this job; the man was one of his early graduates. Doc moved out of the office, catching sight of Renny and Ham slipping through the doorway. He made his way out into the warehouse proper, a huge room lined with canyons of crates filled with rifles and various varieties of firearms, grenades and ammunition. A stuttering roar suddenly thundered through the vast room as a machine gun belched flame, smoke and lead. Whoever triggered the weapon mostly likely could not see the bronze man clearly but had somehow spotted movement. Doc Savage had to admit his advantage with the infra red projector had made him slightly cocky about standing out in the open. He paid for that error as the attacker got a lucky shot. A bullet smashed into the projector and the light blinked out, plunging Doc into darkness. Another bullet drilled his left side, turned away by the bulletproof undergarments, but it stung and he dove sideways, getting himself behind a crate. "Ventilate 'im', Jeeters!" a voice shouted. Whoever Jeeters was, he started firing a sweeping arc of lead. Doc saw flame blast from the tommy gun forty feet to his left. Behind him, the bull-fiddle roar of supermachine pistols burst into life as Ham and Renny fired at the attacker, outlined by his own gunplay. The thought struck the bronze man it was an idiotic idea firing a machine gun in a room full of munitions. A chance bullet would set off something. It did. A stray slug punched through a crate filled with something explosive. The sound

A Doc Savage Adventure

85

of it going off was horrendous and nearly punctured the bronze man's eardrums. As it was, he lost the use of his hearing temporarily. A series of minor explosions followed the first and a great surging genie of flame and smoke swelled into the air a couple dozen feet away. A rush of air slammed into him, accompanied by a burst of heat, though he had hunkered down and thrown his arms above his head the second the conflagration began. It knocked him off his feet and made his head spin, but he quickly shook if off. The man who had fired screeched and bolted for the opposite end of the factory. Doc leaped up, sweeping towards Ham and Renny, crashing into them and hurling them out in the direction they had come. The cool night air felt immensely refreshing. "Holy cow, Doc!" boomed Renny. "What did that lunkhead think he was doing firing bullets in there? Our mercy shells wouldn't have set nothing off but lead sure as hell would." Doc, a measure of his hearing coming back, whipped into the car. Within the building, orange flames fluttered behind the grime-coated windows. More explosions came and the ground shook beneath them. They had precious little time before everything blew. Renny and Ham piled into the back seat. Ham had somehow managed to retain his grip on his sword cane. An automobile roared to life at the opposite end of the factory. It hurled from the alley and screeched out into the night. "They must have had an escape route planned!" shouted Renny, whose hearing had also suffered. "They're gettin' away." Doc punched the starter button and stamped the accelerator. The roadster rocketed from the curb and, tires screeching, careened for the end of the street. Behind them, the warehouse erupted into a pyre of flame and cascading black smoke. A huge explosion sounded, blowing out the windows. Glass spiraled into the night. Huge beams groaned and began to collapse with horrendous shrieks. Bricks burst into the street and chunks of masonry rained. The entire building exhaled a great scalding breath and crumbled. Clouds of sparks shot into the night sky like angry fireflies. Doc cut the distance between the roadster and the fleeing gangsters' car in half. The going became treacherous as the lead car swerved around corners. Tires skidded on the wet pavement, but the bronze man controlled the wheel with steady skill. A number of times he was amazed the gangster driving the sedan managed not to flip his vehicle. The wheels hit sidewalks and came off the ground, slamming back down again as the car continued careening forward. A number of mailboxes and garbage cans met with doom. It was only by some miracle no one chanced to be out strolling, otherwise they would surely have been run down. Fish-tailing around another corner, the car ahead hit an open street and stepped up its speed. Doc followed suit. The bronze man jabbed a dash button and a projectile shot from the grill. A plume of smoke billowed out ahead of the first car and the driver swerved, plunging into the pall without heed. The trick did nothing to slow the gangster's reckless flight. Doc's own car shot through the smoke, coming out the other side. The escaping gangsters careened out onto more open highway. The road was straight, with fields on either side.

The Polar Terror

86

Doc could have stopped the chase without much trouble. His vehicle was equipped with a machine gun that slid out the front, just above the headlights, but, at their present speed, had he sprayed lead at the escaping gangsters' tires the car would flip and likely the men would be killed. He wanted to avoid that if he could, not only for ethical reasons, but because dead men would not lead him to Long Tom. The driver settled the dilemma for him. He tried for more speed but the combination of drizzle-coated pavement and a stump bulging out of the asphalt threw the car into an uncontrollable swerve. The auto careened left, then right. The driver then made a mistake and stamped on the brakes, locking the wheels. Rubbery smoke poured from the tires, two of which blew out, sending the thing skidding right. Its speed somewhat reduced by this time, the car plowed into a ditch, left side jumping off the ground. It teetered in the air a moment, then slammed down, listing at a thirty-degree angle. A tire spun in the air. Doc brought his car to stop behind the first, flake-gold eyes searching for any sign of movement. He saw none and slipped out of the car, angling forward so he didn't present an easy target in case the men inside were conscious. When no shots came, he padded up to the car and peered inside, discovering both men slumped against the opposite side. The top gangster had a gash in his forehead, but it appeared nothing serious. With a wrenching of metal, Doc pried open the door. Climbing onto the sedan and bracing his legs on each side of the opening, he hauled the first man out into the street. Unconscious, the man would live and appeared relatively uninjured, which was lucky considering the violence with which his car hit the ditch. The second man wasn't so lucky. Doc hauled him out, discovering he was dead, his skull crushed. A gruesome smear of hair and blood on the dash showed where it had hit. Leaving the dead man on the grass, Doc dragged the first fellow back to his own vehicle and tossed him in the back, then climbed behind the wheel. He would inform the police of the dead man on the way back to headquarters. "Doc, you notice anything odd about that warehouse?" asked Renny, scratching his head. He had, but let Renny voice his thought. "How so?" "Just that they cleared out so fast, like they knew we were comin'. And then they left those two birds to finish us off." Doc Savage nodded. "The thought occurred to me." The bronze man used the dash radio and set it for Monk's frequency. The homely chemist's piping voice came over the receiver. "Yeah, Doc?" "Hanneran wake up yet?" "Did he! Was mad as a hornet, too." "He is there with you?" "Is now. Stinking up the place to high Heaven." "What does that mean?" "Just that after he woke up he went down to buy some cigars." "He overhear you talking to me earlier?" A pause came from Monk's end. The chemist's voice lowered. "Come to think of it, he might have. That was right about the time he woke up. Just after. Mean anything,

A Doc Savage Adventure

87

Doc?" "It might. Keep an eye on him." The bronze man cut the radio and set the car on the road back to his headquarters.

The Polar Terror

88

Chapter 14 DEVILED HAM

Everton "Bugs" Villella awoke to find himself propped in an easy chair in some sort of huge library. The easy chair was large and comfortable and seemed to swallow him. He could not imagine how he had come to be here. The last thing he recalled was trying to outrun that bronze do-gooder and had taken too big a chance with speed on the slick hardtop. The car had hit a stump in the road and swerved out of control and when he struggled to right it, he only succeeded in flipping the damn thing over. That was the last of his knowledge, for everything had gone black. From the pounding in the front of his head, he assumed he had conked his nob on something and was probably lucky to be still among the living. But how had he gotten here? And where was here? His senses spun as he attempted to move his head to peer about his surroundings. Renewed throbbing felt like someone was trying to pound his way out of his skull with a sledgehammer. Giving himself a moment to recover, he let his senses settle, then gingerly looked about. Bookcases stuffed with huge tomes lined the room. A desk stood far to his left and he noticed a case containing some sort of monster, a great leathery thing from some bygone age, one of them flying dinosaurs he had heard about in the few grades of school he'd bothered attending before knocking off his first bank and joining up with Snapper's gang. He noticed a mounted African lion and various display cases holding war medals. Where the hell was he, a museum? The room was poorly lit from some indistinct source and suddenly he felt a legion of ants crawling down his spine. He would not have been in this room unless... Unless Savage had captured him. That would be a problem, indeed. For Snapper had warned him and Jeeters what fate would befall them should they let the bronze guy escape--the frozen death! He did not want to die. He was terrified of it, though he certainly didn't mind watching others perish. In fact, he rather enjoyed that. Always had. He remembered liking to watch things suffer, even as a young boy. As long as it wasn't him. That's what made him such a respected member of Snapper's gang, his ruthlessness. He was a virtuoso at icing others while always saving his own skin. Virtuoso. He liked that word. He wondered where he'd picked it up. The thought of the bronze man holding him prisoner returned, galvanizing him into action. He endeavored to leap out of the chair and bolt for the door. Nothing happened. He couldn't move. His limbs seemed to be made of lead! A nascent panic crawled up from the dark regions of his mind, the regions that

A Doc Savage Adventure

89

informed him he had always been basically a coward at heart and now wasn't going to be a time that was likely to suddenly change. His dark eyes widened and he strained to lift his arms from the chair. They wouldn't budge. The panic grew. He attempted to kick out with his legs. They remained immobile and his head spun. He became conscious of a fuzzy feeling gripping his brain, and things about him went a little loopy. He decided perhaps he hadn't entirely woken as of yet, that the blow to his noggin had left him only half-conscious. He struggled to lift his arms again. No success. Beads of sweat sprang out on his forehead and a slithery sensation worked its way through him. What if the crash had been worse than he thought? What if the blow to the head had left him like one of them vegetables? Everton's heart began to slam against his ribs. For a moment he didn't know which was worse, being caught by the bronze galoop or never being able to walk again. He decided it was the latter. Wait. Had the lights gotten dimmer? Maybe he was losing his eyesight, too! He peered around, moving his head left, then right. Yes, they most certainly had. In fact, the room was growing darker by the second, only it wasn't just the lights going down. Another color was shimmering up to take the place of the brightness, a vile reddish shade that seemed to flow across the walls like blood pouring from the ceiling. A realization struck to him. He could move his head. If he had been paralyzed in the crash would that be possible? Perhaps. Maybe he was dead below the neck. He tested the theory by trying to twist his torso left and right. To his surprise, and no little relief, he managed to do it. His whole upper body was capable of moving. Only his arms and legs remained fast. That wouldn't be possible if he were paralyzed. Would it? He was no doctor, but he was pretty certain he'd heard that somewhere, from one of the boys who'd taken a slug in his spine. The sight had revolted him and he recalled putting his .45 against that fella's temple and putting the deadwood out of his misery. The room darkened further and the panic swelled. His nerves were crawling now and his head felt fuzzier. A shadowy shape drifted across the wall, a great winged thing that made him fear for an instant the prehistoric beast had come to life and escaped its case. Did those things eat men? He wouldn't have been too damn surprised if they did. He fought with renewed fury to move his limbs but they remained as useless as four chunks of stone. At any moment he swore his heart was going to burst through his chest. Sweat poured freely down his face, dripping into his eyes and stinging, trickling off his chin. He licked his lips, then chewed the lower one. More shapes fluttered across the walls and closed door. Dark, loathsome things, vague, yet startlingly monstrous. They seemed to claw for him, some slipping sideways onto other walls while still more flowed across the floor and vanished somewhere close to his feet. A scream worked itself up from the depths of his mind, but jammed in his throat.

The Polar Terror

90

His mouth came open and an awk sound filtered out, but that was it. Clamping his jaw shut, he stared in horror at the dark shapes. They vanished. As suddenly as they had come into being they faded and wavering reddish light danced across the walls and floor. Was something burning? He sniffed, catching the scent of some sulfurous and putrid odor. Wisps of smoke began to tumble across the floor, rising from corners of the room. The library darkened further and crimson light played within the smoke like bloody rubies. A cascade of whispers rose up, slithering from everywhere, nowhere. They rose and fell, harsh and accusing, the words gibberish, though every so often he caught his name. Any sense of panic he'd felt rising became full blown. He was caught in some sort of nightmare, except he felt positive he was not dreaming. And no blow on the head was causing this delusion. "What the hell--?" he yelled, getting his voice to work. "That's right..." came a voice. His heart stopped. At least he swore it did. He stared about, searching for the source of the voice, but saw nothing. Then his heart pounded again. His pulse throbbed, roaring in his temples and ears. The voice had come high and piping, an unnatural thing that reminded him of some nightmarish version of Sister Alicia, a nun at the Catholic school his mother had forced him to attend, who had taken all too much pleasure in beating him silly every time he neglected a lesson. No one would ever find her body. "What'd you say?" His voice shook, and he was afraid of the answer. "Hell." The voice came again, rising in pitch. "Hell?" He licked his lips. "Hell. Tartarus, the pits; you get the picture." The voice laughed. It was not a pretty laugh. In fact, it was a laugh that sent blades of ice down his spine. "You didn't actually think you had a chance at the other place, did you?" The voice uttered a glassy chuckle. "Who the devil are you?" Bugs demanded, getting a bit of his courage back. "No, no, not him! He wouldn't come in person for such a minor entry as you." His brow creased with deep lines. More sweat trickled from beneath his arms. "Then who are you?" A sudden burst of sulfurous light shot from the floor. Plumes of dirty yellow smoke wafted among the crimson fog and tiny flames shimmered along the floor in front of his feet. He felt like screaming again and nearly did when the smoke drifted away and a pig sat before him. A pig? What the hell was this? he asked himself. The damn pig seemed to be looking at him like he was dinner or something. Its beady little black eyes glittered with glints of red and sulfur light. "You're a pig?" It struck him as stupid, stating the obvious, but the suddenness of the porker appearing and the unreal surroundings just made him all the more terrified. "Why, no," said the pig in a shrill voice. "I am a demon, of course."

A Doc Savage Adventure

91

It struck him that might just be the truth because it was the ugliest specimen of a pig he'd ever seen. Long and gangly of leg, it had huge ears that belonged on a basset hound. The pig had little horns sticking out of its forehead. "You're a pig, you can't be talkin'." The statement struck him a hell of a lot more serious than it should have. "You're answerin' me, ain't you?" He nodded, despite himself. "What you want, pig?" "Why, your soul, of course." "My soul?" "Of course." "Why?" Another stupid question. He wished he hadn't asked it. "You are a crook, are you not? We have an open door policy." "For crooks?" He cocked an eyebrow. "For crooks." "Where am I?" "I thought we'd established that already." The pig looked disgusted. "Oh." "Oh, is right. You have led a life of crime and now it's time to atone. I am your demon guide to the underworld." "I don't want to go to the underworld." "It is not a bargaining matter." "Holy Mother of Mary--" He felt his belly twist around his backbone. This wasn't good. Because everything in his mind was screeching that he had not survived the crash after the chase with Savage and this was his fate. He was going to the Pits, the place of the Devil and suddenly he wished he'd paid more attention in Catholic school. The pig grunted. "Tsk, tsk, we'll have none of that language down here." Everton eyed the pig again, a sliver of doubt sticking in his mind. "How do I know you're not just a pig?" The pig laughed. It was an unkind laugh that called him a fool to deny the evidence right in front of his face. "They always want demonstration. You'd think the prospect of spending eternity roasting would be enough!" With that the pig began to rise into the air. He lifted straight up, his ears twitching and his front legs making slight swimming movements. A snort came from the pig, who drifted right, then turned and drifted left. Everton Villella watched the spectacle with renewed fright. Hell or not, pigs didn't fly. He was in hot water--or something else--now. The pig hovered in the air before him, staring with its glinting little eyes. "You know, pal, I usually don't do this but I like you." "You do?" He didn't know why that made him feel a little relieved. "Yeah, I do. So maybe if you help me out I could see to it you get the special detail down here." "The special detail?" A dim hope rose within him. It had to beat being chained to a pit for all eternity. "Yep. Someone's got to watch over the other crooks who come down here. We got a special place for 'em. You'd be the boss, see?" That didn't sound so bad. "I would be the boss?"

The Polar Terror

92

"Yep, sure would. And plenty of dames, too. Of course, there's always the fiery pits..." The pig laughed its hellish laugh again. "I don't want that." "Who does?" The pig had turned sarcastic. "What about Pizzicato? I don't want that frozen death." "Nothing frozen down here, pal. You seem to forget, you can only die once." "Oh." "Oh, is right. And your pal Pizzicato will be joinin' us soon enough." "What do I have to do to get this special detail?" "I need to know some things, just to keep them straight in my book and make my job easier when I go for your pal, Pizzicato." "What do you need to know?" Something about this didn't sound quite right but his head was too fuzzy to figure out what and it didn't make much sense to argue with a pig. Besides that, his streak of cowardice had taken over and anything he could do to get out of going to the pits was worth it, no matter who he had to squeal on. He liked the idea of bein' a boss instead of a flunky, too. "Where is Pizzicato?" "You don't know that?" "Oh, I could find out, but if I have to take the time to do that I might not get you that spot on the special detail. There's a lot of competition down here, you know." "Hotel Spartan." "Ah, good, good. That's very good. What was he after at that factory?" "Rifles." "Why? "'Cause the Blue One don't have no rifles where he comes from." "Who is the Blue One?" It occurred to him the pig should know that but he didn't want to question the fact and risk losing his spot on the special detail. "He's that guy who freezes people. Gives me the heebie-jeebies." "How does he freeze people?" "I dunno that." "Where does he come from?" "I dunno that, either." "Why were you left at the factory?" "Pizzicato promised me an extra egg if I could knock off that Savage guy." "Where's Jane Doe?" "Dunno." "Where's Long Tom Roberts?" "Hotel Spartan, in the back room." "What number?" "413." "Thanks, pal." The pig began laughing. "Huh?" Everton's eyes narrowed. Then the lights came up and he could see thin wires leading from the pig to a spot on the ceiling. In the reception room Monk bellowed a laugh and put down the microphone he'd

A Doc Savage Adventure

93

been using to make Habeas Corpus do his hell and damnation routine. "Blazes, Doc, Habeas sure came through!" The bronze man nodded and Ham Brooks let out a disgusted sound. "That fellow never would have fallen for that stupidity if he hadn't been full of Doc's truth serum and the drug that made his arms and legs useless." "You can call it what you want but it worked like a charm. We know where the gang's holed up now." "I don't believe this!" Henry Hanneran came out of his chair where he'd been watching the proceedings with disdain. The bronze man had instructed him to remain quiet during the performance to not risk blowing the trick, but he made up for it now. "You guys are just incredible! Jane's life is in danger and you all sit here relying on a pig and some hocus pocus idiocy. Why couldn't she have hooked up with some real detectives instead of you misfits? What loony bin let you guys out, anyway? You all act like a bunch of kids in grade school. It's a wonder you don't get everyone around you killed. And you--" He jabbed a finger at Doc Savage. "--they just pick you as a leader for your looks? I haven't seen you do a damn thing since I got here that hasn't resulted in either someone else getting frozen to death or captured. You're like a bump on a pickle-useless!" "I am sorry you disapprove of our methods, Mr. Hanneran." Doc said it calmly but a needle of annoyance pricked him. "Disapprove? That would be an understatement. How the hell do you get them lugs like the one in there so afraid of you fellas, anyhow? It's a wonder they don't start laughing every time they see you coming" "Someday you'll eat those words, pal," suggested Renny, who stood by the library door. "And I suppose you think you'll be the one to make me?" Henry Hanneran balled his fists. Renny appeared on the verge of taking another try at the ex-pugilist, but Doc stopped him with a slight shake of his head. "We don't want any violence, Renny," he said, voice low, but commanding." Renny nodded, looking disappointed. "Where are you going now?" Henry asked, as the bronze man moved to the library door. The door opened of its own accord as he stepped close. The opening was no bit of magic. The bronze man, as well as his aides, carried a small piece of radioactive substance molded into their shoes that activated the sensor within the wall, causing the door to open automatically. Doc Savage ignored Henry Hanneran and proceeded into the library. "Hey, I asked you a question! That's a damned annoying habit you have." The lumbering boxer followed Doc in the room. Monk switched off the apparatus he'd been using to monitor the thug's answers and produce the myriad special effects that made Habeas the pig from hell and joined Ham and Renny in the library with Hanneran and Doc. Monk went to the pig and unhitched the harness, lowering the porker to the floor. Renny walked to the projectors set up behind the man and switched them off. Those had produced the strange shadowy shapes. A wax recorder that imprinted sounds on a cylinder activated by remote had produced the eerie whispers. The regular lights had been

The Polar Terror

94

lowered by Monk while special red bulbs, a number of them fitted with orange and silver reflective foil that rotated before the lamps, furnished the wavering hell-glare. Harmless smoke and phosphorus "firecrackers" produced the other effects. Monk removed the speaker, from which his voice had issued, from Habeas's collar and stuffed it in a pocket. "Good boy, Habeas." He eyed Ham and patted the porker. The pig actually seemed proud of itself. Doc Savage went to the man sitting in the chair and looked him over, making sure the truth serum hadn't produced any lasting effects. The stuff was risky and half the time did not work. Truth serum that instantly made a criminal tell all was a work of fiction; it could actually prove quite dangerous if administered in too high a dose. The drug he'd injected into the man's limbs was something that deadened localized nerves and would wear off with no lasting effects. The gangster peered at him, licking his lips and scowling. "I ain't goin' to hell?" Ham snorted. "Not tonight, anyway, but I'm certain they have a spot open for you." The man's scowl got meaner. "I ain't dead?" "You are not dead." Doc Savage's flake-gold eyes stirred. "You have an extensive criminal record. You are responsible for a number of murders and robberies." "Prove it, Savage." The thug's confidence seemed to have returned. His face hardened. "I do not have to." "What the hell's that mean?" Doc didn't answer him. The man would be going to the crime college. In a short time, a couple of white-coated men in an ambulance would call for him and that would be the last seen of the man until he was ready to reenter society. The bronze man reached behind the man's neck and manipulated certain nerves. The thug's head slumped forward. The bronze man had applied pressure that sent the man into unconsciousness that would last until the attendants came for him. "What now, Doc?" Monk swung Habeas by an ear. "We go to the Hotel Spartan and find Long Tom." "I'm goin' with you this time! And don't think you can stick me with that cane again, you prissy clothes horse." Henry gave Ham a look that promised violence. "I would not think of it." The dapper lawyer smiled. "In fact, we may need your help in rescuing Miss Doe." "Now, that's more like it." Henry's chest swelled and he folded his arms. "If I left it up to you boys I'd never see her again." "You will need bulletproof clothing like the rest of us, however. We cannot guarantee your safety if you do not wear them." Henry seemed to think it over. "All right. I can see your point there." "Good, now if you will please step into the laboratory with me we shall get you fitted." Ham made a sweeping gesture with his hand, something any gentlemen would do. Henry walked past him into the laboratory and Ham grinned. The dapper lawyer jabbed a button on the wall and a blue flame barrier sizzled across the doorway, trapping the ex-pugilist inside. Henry Hanneran spun at the crackling sound and let out a bellow. "Hey--you tricked me!"

A Doc Savage Adventure

95

"Amazing, isn't it?" Ham smirked. "For someone so critical of our methods you certainly seem to fall for them easily enough." Henry's face turned red. They left him in the laboratory yelling his lungs out and headed to the secret basement garage.

The Polar Terror

96

Chapter 15 ESCAPE

Prairie Dog Pizzicato slammed the headphones onto the table next to the box with the blue light and let out a disgusted sigh. He clicked off the microphone he'd been mumbling into, having engaged in a brief argument with his leader. He didn't care for recent developments in the least and he damn sure didn't care for the orders he'd just received. "What is it?" Snapper Prozini eyed the rodent-face man. "Savage is on his way here." "What?" Snapper's voice jumped to a shrill pitch and even the robed figure turned from his spot at the window. The near-dozen men in the room got worried expressions on their faces and Nate stopped playing solitaire. "Your man Villella failed to kill him at the factory and got himself captured." "Bugs wouldn't talk." A good deal of doubt hung in Snapper's voice. "He sang like canary when Savage pulled some trick on him. Making the threat against his man didn't turn that bronze guy off. I'll have to see to it he pays for that." A vicious look crossed Pizzicato's face and anger rushed through his veins, a bloodlust sizzling with it. He would enjoy killing Roberts. First he would put a bullet in that scrawny fellow's head, then let the Blue One have him. "We gotta scram." Snapper made his nervous pop with his jaw. "I don't want to be anywhere near the place when that bronze guy shows up. He can't be killed, I tell you. He ain't human." "Nonsense!" Pizzicato, however, was starting to wonder that himself, though he refused to let it show on his face. He didn't want to give Snapper any excuse for backing out, now. He needed him at that moment, though soon that would not be a problem. "He's a man and lead will fix his wagon like any other man." "I ain't so sure about that." Snapper shook his head and, by the looks on their faces, it appeared most of his men were going to agree with him. He let out a string of curses. "You take orders from me or I'll have our friend in the robe leave you in a condition that will make Savage a lot less worrisome for you." He said it with brutal certainly and Snapper Prozini's eyes widened, shifting from the investigator to the figure, then back to the investigator again. His voice turned meek. "What you want us to do?" "You and I will wait by that secret elevator shaft down the hall you told me was used by 'leggers who sometimes needed a fast escape. I checked it; the elevator leads to a tunnel that comes out on the street four blocks from here. The Blue One will wait with us."

A Doc Savage Adventure

97

The notion of an escape seemed to appeal to Snapper Prozini and his face relaxed a hair. "What about the rest of my men?" "They'll wait in here, directed by Nate. I took the trouble earlier of rigging the hall lights to a switch near the elevator shaft that will plunge this whole level into darkness, except this room. I'll throw it when Savage and his men get halfway down the hall. Your men will be ready with their guns and when the lights come up they'll catch Savage and his men flatfooted, or the Blue One will if they come our way." "Savage has nine lives. You sure he won't think of it?" "How can he? And if he somehow manages to escape death..." Pizzicato lowered his voice so only Snapper could hear him. "You, me and the Blue One will use the elevator." "The rest of my men?" Snapper raised an eyebrow. "They take their chances. You got plenty more waitin' on the sidelines." Snapper didn't seem to like the idea, but nodded. "What about him?" He ducked his head towards the closed door. "I'll take care of that little problem now." He drew a gun and started for the door. Snapper followed and Pizzicato rested a hand on the glass handle, a vicious light glinting in his eyes. He thought of his barked shin. Yes, indeed, he was going to enjoy killing that runt. Long Tom Roberts didn't care for the way the talk was going in the outer room. He caught only snatches of the conversation, but it was punctuated by shouts and words that might have stumped even Johnny Littlejohn; certainly they would not have appeared in any dictionary. Apparently Clementine Pizzicato was unhappy with the results of something and was making a decision that might not mean an increase in the longevity of one battered electrical wizard. He decided not to await the results of the conversation. Long Tom had been straining at the cords binding his hands behind the chair since his arrival at the hotel. He nearly got them off after they'd covered him with a laundry bag and threw him in the back of the truck, but missed getting free only by a few minutes. They'd discovered the slackness in the cords and retied them. Tighter. He could barely feel his fingers, since the damn bindings had cut off part of his circulation. That did have one advantage: it made it easier to strain against the ropes because he didn't feel the pain of them biting into his flesh quite so bad. He did feel trickles of wetness and knew he'd cut himself some, but at least the blood made the bonds slicker, easier to work free of. The electrical wizard paused and blew out a frustrated sigh as slivers of agony spiked up his forearms. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his face, beneath his arms. Irritation boiled in his veins and he let out a curse at the criminal ilk in general and the men in the next room in particular. If Pizzicato knew what was good for him, the squirrel-faced lardball would steer far clear of Long Tom--assuming he got out of this mess. He sucked a breath and held it, straining against the bonds again. Twisting his wrists back and forth, he tugged against the cords, fighting to slip a loop over his hand. They'd tied them with expert knots; he doubted they'd learned the skill as Boy Scouts. A brief lull in conversation came from the outer room, then Pizzicato's voice

The Polar Terror

98

snapped out again. Whatever was being discussed had been settled. Long Tom felt certain of that. He was also certain it meant bad news for him. He gave a tremendous last pull, the muscles on his neck leaping out and sweat spraying from his brow. Spasms of pain shot to his upper arm. He clutched another breath, yanked again. A hand came loose. He let out the breath. Wasting no time admiring his success, he managed to untangle the hand completely from the bonds and bring his arms around front. His wrists had lost some skin and dripped blood, but the abrasions were nothing serious--at least compared to being filled full of lead or turned into one of the those corpse ice cones he heard the men discussing. He kneaded the muscles in his biceps and forearms, getting the feeling back. His feet remained secured to the chair legs--Pizzicato had promptly ordered them bound after Long Tom took a chunk out of the heavy man's shin with the one shoe he was still wearing. All sound stopped from the outer room. That couldn't be good. He had little doubt they'd come for him in the next minute and knew he'd never be able to untie the knots in time to get free. The feeling was coming back into his fingertips and it wasn't the least bit comfortable but at least he could make them function. Gritting his teeth, he fumbled with his belt, which they hadn't bothered to remove. He was thankful for that. Grasping the top of the leather, he twisted it forward and snapped a seal that revealed a slitted compartment in the back of the belt. A thin line of metal shown, one side serrated. He yanked the metal strip free and leaned over. The thing, invented by Doc, was a miniature saw, either end having a smooth grip. The device was capable of chewing through metal bars if given enough time. Wedging the blade between the foot bonds, he worked it back and forth. The cords parted and the electrical wizard gained his feet. He kicked off his remaining shoe and hobbled to the window, just as the sound of footsteps coming closer echoed from the outer room. He threw up the window and peered out. They were on the fourth floor and the building was made of brick. He saw no balconies and jumping was out of the question. It was a corner room and he noticed a drain pipe running along the outer edge. He had no way of telling whether it was secure enough to hold him, but he was fairly light for a man. The second and more pressing problem was that it was six feet away, which meant he had no method of reaching it other than trying Doc's human fly act. The thought gave him pause and it occurred to him if he were incapable of pulling off the feat, he was going to make quite a splash outside the hotel. Doc made it look easy but the bronze man's abilities were little short of amazing and he was trained for that sort of thing. Long Tom had no such training nor confidence in his prowess. Still the alternative was no better and he did have courage. All Doc's men did. With a glance backward, he saw the door handle begin to turn. That decided it. He slipped a leg over the sill and dug his fingers into the deep groves between the bricks. With a deep breath, he pulled himself up onto the sill and jammed one foot into a crevice, then clung to the outside wall.

A Doc Savage Adventure

99

The wall was slick with moisture and rain had started falling in earnest. He forced himself not to think about what he was doing or look down, because if he did he was going to need a new pair of underwear. Inside the room, the door opened and he heard Pizzicato's voice burst out, but couldn't tell what the man said. He doubted it was anything complimentary. Long Tom began pulling himself along the wall. He was unable to maneuver sideways, so he went diagonally upward. If he fell, he wagered it would little matter if he added another story to the dive, and he couldn't work his hands free to go directly to the right. He held his breath. His heart pounded and the muscles in his forearms quavered. Blood, mixing with rain, leaked down his wrists. His fingers were still a little numb and twice he nearly lost his grip. He decided he was going to need the new underwear anyway. He was glad none of the men decided to look out the window at that point, because he made a damn good target. By the time Pizzicato chanced to look out, Long Tom had made it above the level of the window and it was a natural response for a man to look down instead of up. That fact alone probably saved him. When he reached the pipe, he had an entirely new respect for the man of bronze. Gripping the tubing, he clung to it, gasping. The pipe made a metallic shriek and for an infinite moment he thought it was going to pull away from the wall and send him plunging to the street. The thing held, but barely, and he wasted no time shimmying down to the alley. Once there, he hid in the shadows, regaining his composure, then hurried down the alley and around to another street. His socks soaked, his clothing drenched, he realized he must have looked a sight hailing a cab. He rode the hack back to headquarters, coddling a major case of annoyance towards Clementine Pizzicato but a swell of pride at not needing Doc to rescue him for once. "He's gone!" Clementine Pizzicato stated the obvious after he swung the door wide and spotted the empty chair. Snapper let out a strangled sound. "I told you them guys were magicians or something." "How the hell could he have escaped?" Pizzicato went to the window and peered out into the rainy night. He looked down, seeing no sign of his prisoner. "We better get down after him 'fore he gets far." Pizzicato eyed the gangster. "Are you crazy? Savage will be here any minute and you want to go chasin' after that runt?" "Would be easier than facing that bronze guy." Snapper had a point, but Pizzicato was getting damned tired of the whole thing. He wanted to get on with the operation and collect his rightful due. That meant purloining that equipment and journeying back to the Blue One's homeland. But that would be a whole lot simpler with Savage out of the way. He still didn't know the extent of the alarm system at the Hidalgo Trading Company and if Savage were dead he wouldn't have to worry about it. "Get your men in position." Pizzicato made his voice firm and threatening. He wished he felt more confidence than he showed Snapper Prozini, but Long Tom Robert's

The Polar Terror

100

seemingly mystical escape and Savage's uncanny knack for staying alive had begun to wear on his composure. He wondered if he shouldn't have listened closer to his inherent laziness and ignored the boss's orders he received over the headphones. Snapper thought he was calling the shots but in truth if not for those orders he might have considered abandoning the trap. As it was, if things didn't go the way they planned he would use that escape route a hell of a lot sooner than he was going to tell Snapper. Whether the pink-suited gangster made it out in one piece would be his own problem.

A Doc Savage Adventure

101

Chapter 16 HOTEL HELL

Rain pounded the asphalt by the time the roadster sped through the New York streets, heading for the Hotel Spartan. Headlights cut through the downpour in wavering shafts of sparkling amber. Water spewed from the tires as the automobile picked up speed. Renny at the wheel, Doc Savage rode the running board. The rain did not soak the bronze man, nor did its icy pelting cause even the slightest twitch in his immobile bronze mask. His skin carried a peculiar quality that shed water, as did his head, refitted with a skullcap that perfectly matched his own hair. He had changed into riding boots and brown jodhpurs, as well as an ivory shirt, all coated with a spray that repelled moisture. Lightning sizzled across charcoal clouds, for a moment outlining his features in stark relief. Tonight those features appeared grimly metallic, determined, welded with the barest trace of worry. Pizzicato had warned him off the case, threatening to murder his aide with the frozen death, but he had ignored the command and by now the mastermind behind the plot likely knew it. For the gang had surely discovered their failure at the factory when their fellow killer failed to return. More than that, Doc Savage suspected the gang was somehow checkmating his every move. That meant Long Tom's life was in greater danger now than at any time during his capture. They had no reason to keep him alive and if events held true to form they most likely knew he was coming. With that knowledge, Pizzicato would decide to dispose of the electrical wizard immediately. That the gang somehow knew his movements, occurred to the bronze man nearly instantly after the events at the rogue gumshoe's office. While another explanation was possible there, the subsequent kidnapping of Jane Doe and set-up at the factory confirmed the notion, though he had chosen not to voice those thoughts to his men until he was certain how the feat was being accomplished. For now he took it as a given Pizzicato and the strange robed being were well aware he was on his way. What would they do once they disposed of Long Tom? He saw two options: they would either run or set a trap. If he knew the criminal ego, the gadget-wielding investigator would attempt the latter. The trap however did not concern him as much as reaching Long Tom in time. For traps were something he was comfortable with in some perverted way; he prepared for them the best he could and risking his own life was simply a hazard of the game. The lives of his aides were another matter altogether. Something human behind the bronze armor told him he was not prepared to lose one of his men, now, the way he had lost his father and his chemistry tutor, Jerome Coffern. He concealed that fear from his men, kept his face an impassive mask, but the dread that Long Tom may have met death, that for once the mighty Doc Savage, the

The Polar Terror

102

superhuman juggernaut of justice portrayed in the papers, would be too late was straining every ounce of his inhuman ability to remain composed. Rain beat at the bronze man, cold as ice pellets, and he suppressed any urge to shiver. He would not let that bronze armor crack. Not now. Not until he was certain of his man's fate. At times such as this he half-wished he had Monk and Ham's ability to express their worries through their endless quarreling, which they now engaged in vigorously in the back seat. But he did not. He had only his training and not inconsiderable skills to rely upon. For the moment, that would have to do. The roadster slowed, skidding slightly as Renny brought it over to the side of the road and killed the lights and engine. For an instant, the rain thrummed on the roof and prattled on the street and he almost let that shiver free. Almost. But not quite. The doors came open and Monk, Ham and Renny leaped out. Rain pummeled their bodies and soaked their clothes but not one of them appeared to give it any consideration. Their faces reflected the concern Doc himself felt, fear for their captured comrade. Monk and Ham had gone grim and silent, calling a truce to their bickering until they established Long Tom's fate. On Doc Savage's orders, Renny had halted the car blocks from the hotel. Doc moved forward, his men following. He was careful to restrain his progress, to let them keep up, though it took nearly every ounce of his self-control to do so. He could have moved much faster on his own, practically blended himself into the rain and night. They reached the hotel, dull light from within the lobby glowing from sheets of rain. The bronze man held up a halting hand. "You three go in the front and be careful." "You think this is a trap, Doc?" Renny clenched his big fists. "It would not surprise me." The bronze man's voice came low and he could not keep the grimness from it totally. "You don't think they killed our pal already, do you, Doc?" Monk's voice bled with emotion. He was probably the most able of the five to express his feelings, and usually did so with gusto. Doc heard only fear in his tone now. The bronze man did not answer. He slipped away, vanishing, as if the night absorbed him. "I swear if anything happens to that scrawny little..." Monk muttered after Doc had gone. His homely face twisted with an expression that promised doom to anyone who had dared lay a finger on the electrical wizard. They went through the hotel doors, dripping wet, Renny leading the way. The hotel clerk, a hard-face man, scrunched his brow into a peculiar questioning expression and obviously decided right off they were somehow associated with the law. He twisted and tried to scramble to a back room. Monk charged the desk and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, hauling him back. The man let out a squawk. "Where you think you're goin' so fast, pal?" The homely chemist pressed his face close the man. The clerk started to shake. "Plannin' to call your friends on the fourth floor and let 'em know they had visitors?" "N-No, I swear I wasn't." The man was lying. His voice said it. His eyes said it.

A Doc Savage Adventure

103

And his face said it. With a hairy fist, Monk popped the clerk on the jaw and let him slump to the floor behind the desk. The three turned, only to stop as another man sauntered down from the steps. The fellow had a square jaw and dark hair and eyed them. "Mr. Brooks..." The man gave Ham a slight nod. "Mr. Marsland..." acknowledged Ham with a tilt of his head. "You wanna start trouble too, bud?" Monk started towards the man, but Ham grabbed his arm, hauling him back. "Hey, what's the big idea, shyster?" "Mr. Marsland is all right, Monk. He won't interfere." Renny shook his head. "How do you know that? I thought this place was full of crooks?" "I helped Mr. Marsland with a legal problem a while back at the request of a friend who frequents the Cobalt Club." The man uttered a short laugh and moved to a big chair in the lobby, lowering himself into it. Monk gave him a wary eye but decided that if Ham vouched for the fellow he'd have to accept it. Renny headed to the elevator. "I'll take this up. You birds use the stairs." Monk's brow furrowed. "What if they're waitin' up there for us? You'll make a hell of a target in that box." Renny seemed to consider it, his face growing more gloomy. "I'll give you guys five minutes before I head up. You can cover me if there's anyone waitin' when the door opens." Monk nodded and headed for the stairs, Ham behind him. He drew his rapidfirer from the holster beneath his wet coat. Ham clutched tighter to his sword cane. "You think they have Miss Doe here, too." A note of hope laced the chemist's voice. Ham shrugged. "Don't worry, if she's here, Doc'll get her out safe. Long Tom, too." "Who's worried?" "You really like that dame, don't you?" Ham's voice grew more serious. Monk felt heat flush into his cheeks and changed the subject. "I've ruined a perfectly good suit." With one hand, he wringed the water out of the sleeve of his loud plaid jacket as he climbed the stairs. "It was ruined when you purchased it from that sideshow barker, you missing link." Monk let out a snort. "You're so funny I think I cracked a rib." "Pity you didn't crack something a bit higher and save all those babies the scare they're going to receive when you poke that ugly appendage you call a face into their carriages." "You were funnier when you weren't worried, shyster." "You were prettier." Ham's voice didn't carry much conviction and Monk knew his friend was just as anxious about Long Tom as he. They worked their way up to the fourth floor, pausing at the third when they discovered the stairwell light for that level was off.

The Polar Terror

104

"You think the bulb just burned out?" asked Monk, a feeling of dread spiking his belly. "If you are referring to that empty space between your ears it was never on." "I mean the stairwell. Don't seem like it should be dark." Monk reached up, finding the socket hanging from the stairwell landing ceiling. "Yeow!" Ham started, nearly dropping his sword cane. "What is it?" "There's no bulb in the socket." Monk muttered, a note of embarrassment in his voice. "Why did you let out that howl?" Something in Ham's tone said the dapper lawyer already knew the answer but wanted to make Monk come out with it just the same. "Why don't you stick your own finger in the hole and find out?" Ham let out an indignant snort. "Get going, you hairy mistake of nature. We don't want Renny arriving first. If someone's waiting for us..." Monk hated to agree with the dapper lawyer but he started upward again, taking the steps gingerly in the dark. They reached the top floor and Monk pressed his hands against the door leading to that level, easing it open. "It's dark in the hall, too," he whispered. "I don't like this. I think Doc knew it was a trap. That's why he went off on his own." "Maybe he just didn't trust you not to ball things up." "Can't you ever be serious?" "You're askin' me?" Monk eased out into the hallway, feeling ants crawl down his back. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he clenched the rapidfirer tighter. "We better each take an end," Monk whispered. "You wait here near the stairs and cover Renny this way. I'll go to the other end." Monk made it halfway down the hallway when he heard the sounds of a muffled scuffle coming from behind a door, though he couldn't see which one. "Blazes!" he whispered. Then came the sound of door bursting open and running footsteps. A second later the lights burst on and Monk stopped, stunned at the sight before him. Doc Savage came to a halt at the back of the building and, shielding his eyes with an arched hand, he peered up four stories to the room the thug had indicated. He noticed two windows, one of which likely went to the adjoining room. The windows were dark and if he had been sure it was a trap before he felt doubly certain now. They were expecting him again, and he had to admit the fact got under his skin slightly. At times he expected himself to be nearly the superman the papers made him out to be, and that meant practically being clairvoyant. While he suspected from nearly the beginning the gang was somehow learning facts they should not have known, he wondered if he shouldn't have figured out the method precisely and prevented the danger to Long Tom, instead of risking not only the electrical wizard's life, but the lives of his other aides as well. But he was no psychic and while his facile mind had indexed the possibilities for any trap set by the gang, he still worried he might have missed something that would bring about the death of one or all of his men.

A Doc Savage Adventure

105

Pushing doubt aside lest it destroy his focus, he gripped a drain pipe that ran up the edge of the building and gave it a pull. He judged it would hold no more than a hundred and seventy pounds and he was a good deal heavier than that. Climbing the building side in that rain was dangerous business, but he saw little choice. He decided on the far window. If the gang were ready to spring their trap they most likely expected an assault from the front. While they appeared to fathom Doc's general moves, he doubted they had knowledge of specific maneuvers and that fact gave him some minor advantage. For Long Tom's sake, he hoped it was enough. The bronze man's fingers dug into the crevices between the bricks and he pulled himself up. The bricks were numbingly cold and the rain threatened to dislodge his grip. He jammed the edges of his boots into any small hold offered by the wall and bronze muscles strained beneath his clothing. Rain sniped at his face, stinging. Using every ounce of his strength and skill, he went upward, clinging to the wall like some giant bronze bat. Reaching the window sill, he gripped the edge, which was wet but solid and wide. He drew himself onto the sill, perched there, blending with the night. He eased the window up just enough to slip through and closed it behind him. Some noise of the rain coming in occurred, but it was brief and would only have been heard by someone in the room. He waited, listening intently to determine if indeed the room was occupied, but heard nothing. He chanced slipping a tiny flashlight from a vest pocket beneath his shirt. The light ran on a tiny spring generator and as he switched it on a pencil-thin beam stabbed out. He held the light at arm's length to his side to prevent any surprises. Anyone who chanced to be lurking in the room would shoot for the light first, giving him enough time to drop it and lunge for the source of the gunfire. No shot came and he swung the beam about the interior. Outlined by the beam, an empty chair sat in the center of the floor. He went to it, kneeling and examining the cords lying at the base of the legs. The light glinted on something metal and he noted the tiny saw that could only have come from Long Tom's belt. For one of the few times in his career, emotion showed on his face, a hint of a smile. Relief came with the expression. The bronze man stood and clicked off the light, returning it to his vest pocket. There was still the matter of the trap to deal with and now his attention focused on that. If the men expected him to come from the front they were likely waiting in the darkness of the outer room or hall. Possibly both. He glided to the door and gripped the knob, turning it in fractions. No light shown from the outer room and he knew his conclusion was accurate. Ears pricked, he heard the rapid breathing of a number of men. All would be armed, perhaps with machine guns like the men at Pizzicato's office. He drifted out into the room, his progress silent, ghostly. Using their quickened breathing as locators, he judged eight men, perhaps more. "You think this Savage is gonna show?" one asked in a harsh whisper. "Course, he's gonna show, you idiot." The bronze man recognized the voice of the little gangster, Nate. "I don't like this. Why can't we wait down near the secret elevator like Pizzicato and that hobgoblin?"

The Polar Terror

106

No reply came and the snippet of conversation told Doc a number of things, such as how the attack as set up and that Pizzicato and the robed being had alternate plans if things went wrong, leaving the men in the room as scapegoats. The silence told him more. Whoever had been left in charge didn't like that fact and suspected he was being set up. Doc's foot contacted with something. "Watch it, palsy!" came a voice beside him, closer than he expected. He'd been so intent on the conversation he had moved entirely too close to another man. It took him a moment to realize one of the gangsters was sitting on a chair, apparently with his feet stretched out. "What the hell are you complain' about?" asked another man. "You kicked me," came the man's voice again. "The hell I did!" The room went silent and Doc did not breath. A flash light came on. The light wielder got a piece of luck. When he switched on the light it caught the bronze man dead in its beam. The man behind the light let out a wail of terror and Doc's hand shot out in a blur of bronze. He snatched the flash from the man's grip and hurled it across the room. The light slammed into a wall and shattered, plunging the room back into darkness. "Get him!" yelled Nate. A second later all hell erupted. Men lunged for the spot where Doc had been. He heard the swish of gun butts swinging but none of them fired. The area was too confined, the room too dark. They would have only shot each other. The bronze man no longer stood where the beam had outlined him. Shifting sideways, he listened for the rustle of clothing, aimed a fist at the spot, and a loud crack! sounded as knuckles collided with a jaw. A man made a strangled sound and landed with a thud on the floor. The room was suddenly alive with swinging machine guns and kicking feet. Doc's fists flashed through the air, whistling past men sometimes, but more often than not landing with a satisfying impact. Men piled on him, swinging at where they thought his head would be. Some hit their comrades, which elicited sharp curses and yowls. One got lucky and hit the bronze man's skull cap with a dull clank. "Hell's bells, his head's made of metal!" A man shouted, voice incredulous. "Shut up, you idiot and brain 'im!" another yelled. A thug grabbed Doc's legs and tried biting through his breeches into his thigh. Doc hammered a blow to the top of the fellow's head, discouraging the endeavor. Blows bounced off his chest, some from fists others from gun butts. "Christ, this guy ain't human!" a man stammered, after a blow had no effect. Others tried kicking at him and he took a few painful blows to the shins. The bronze giant got hold of the perpetrator's fingers and pulled a couple out of joint. The man squalled, providing Doc with a location for his head. He promptly relieved the fellow of his misery. Doc struck two more times, each blow felling a man. For an instant, things went silent. Then the sound of the door opening and running footsteps. Doc whipped to the doorway, stopping as the lights in the corridor flashed on. The bronze man's gaze swept over the scene. At the stairway end, two men with

A Doc Savage Adventure

107

tommy guns stood in a corner, startled looks slapping their faces as they discovered Ham poised with a sword cane just a few feet away, in front of the stairwell door. They tried to get their guns up but the dapper lawyer had unsheathed his sword and made quick use of it. He jabbed the first man in the thigh. The thug's eyes rolled and he fell face-first to the floor with a resounding thud. The second man got his gun up and around but Ham swooped the sword in a crisp arc, thwacking it against the fellow's wrist. The man squawked and dropped the tommy gun. Ham pricked the gangster's arm; the thug sat down heavily against the wall and closed his eyes. At the opposite end, Doc saw the homely chemist suddenly caught in the glare of the bare bulb. Two steps away from him the little gangster called Nate jerked to a halt. He had been the one Doc heard run from the room. Beyond the gangster, Clementine Pizzicato stood with a .45 in one hand and a small equipment case in the other. Beside him the pink-suited gangster held a machine gun aimed at the floor. Both men seemed shocked by the sudden turn of events. They'd obviously not heard Monk approaching and had only thrown the lights when Nate bolted from the room. The two gangsters, however, were the least of Monk Mayfair's problems, for three feet in front of the homely chemist stood an amazing being. Garbed in glittering blue, a monstrous figure moved a step forward. Streamers of glimmering sapphire hung from the thing's sides, beneath the arms, undulating as it shifted. It was large, nearly as tall as Doc himself, broad of shoulder and wide of chest. Its head, utterly bald, held sharp features in blue relief. Bluish glowing veins rippled along one of the thing's arms and a sapphire hump rose from the creature's back. It appeared to have no eyes, merely depressions, the same for the mouth, which bulged. The hall light reflected off of it in sparkling jewels of lights that glittered across the floor and walls. Its hand drifted up. "For the love of little fishes," Monk muttered and started for the thing. "Monk, no!" The bronze man's voice snapped out with as much commanded as he'd ever employed. "Don't let it touch you." The hairy chemist jerked to a halt at the sound of Doc's voice, but the bronze man knew Monk could never avoid the thing's touch. Doc sprang from the doorway, flashing towards Monk, knowing he knew he had no chance to save him but acting anyway. The chemist reacted on instinct, leaping a step back; it would not be enough to get him out of the thing's reach. He suddenly grabbed the little gangster who stood next to him. Whisking him around, he hurled him at the amazing blue creature. The creature's hand landed squarely on the gangster's face, like a frozen blue spider leaping on its prey. The little hood shrieked but the wail lasted no more than a few seconds. Those few seconds, however, chilled all who stood in the hallway to the bone. Nate never moved again. His mouth gaped and his eyes widened in stark terror, freezing that way. Wisps of smoke curled from his body. Monk stared, a look of utter horror on his face. Doc reached the homely chemist and in nearly the same move hauled him backwards. The elevator door popped open and Renny started to step out, rapidfirer ready. "Holy cow!" he blurted as Doc whipped backwards with Monk into the cage.

The Polar Terror

108

"Let's get the hell out of here!" shouted Pizzicato and bolted for the corner. The strange rippling creature in blue hesitated then shuffled backwards. Renny, surprise on his face, aimed the rapidfirer at the creature and triggered a bull-fiddle stream of mercy bullets. Bullets hit the thing square across the back and flattened, appearing to have no effect on the thing's glassy hide. Snapper Prozini, jerking into motion, returned a burst of fire at the engineer, who popped back into the elevator just in time to avoid getting his head blown off. At the other end Ham dropped his sword cane and unlimbered his superfirer, whisking backwards to the stairs and getting behind the door as he triggered a stream of mercy bullets. The creature vanished around a bend in the hallway and Snapper Prozini blasted lead. One of the slugs shattered the light bulb, plunging the corridor into darkness again. The bronze man listened, heard retreating footsteps and whipped out into the hall. Keeping close to the wall, he edged to the corner, pausing. The whir of machinery reached his ears and he knew the gang had taken some sort of elevator. The bronze man plucked his flashlight from his vest and shined the beam over the walls, then a column. He went to the column, sensitive fingertips searching for any break in the plaster. He found it, then inches away a smoothed area where numerous fingers had pressed. He triggered the mechanism and the column opened, revealing a dark interior. Shining the beam inside, he discovered a large shaft leading downward four floors and beneath the building. The cage was at the bottom and showed no escape hatch on its top. Even if he slid down the cables he doubted he'd be able to get into the cage before the crooks were long gone. Pocketing the flashlight, he went back along the hall. It took him a number of minutes to locate another bulb in a room and replace the one blown out by the gangster. He spent more time tracing the secret elevator to an outlet blocks away but discovered no sign of Pizzicato and the strange blue being. He decided they must have had a car waiting. Returning to the fourth floor, Doc inspected the room the gang had been using for their headquarters. His aides had tied the unconscious thugs, using the gangsters' own belts. They would be shipped off to Doc's upstate institution. The room had been cleaned out, but he noticed scrapes where some sort of equipment had been set up on a corner table. He located one of the flashlights the men had been using, and they much resembled his own, though not as compact. "It appears Pizzicato has considerable skill with gadgets," Doc remarked to Renny, who nodded. "More than he has with killing us off." The engineer looked gloomier. "But where did they take Long Tom and Jane Doe? They ain't nowhere to be found." "I think we'll discover Long Tom waiting for us back at headquarters." The bronze man walked back out into the hallway. Monk and Ham stood near the frozen gangster, Nate, perplexed looks on their faces. Monk poked the gangster's chest, immediately letting out a bleat and pulling back his finger. "Blazes, it burned me." "Better get used to it. You'll get plenty more of that where you're going," the dapper lawyer said unkindly.

A Doc Savage Adventure

109

"They won't take me. Hell's already full." "Full?" Ham cocked an eyebrow. "Of lawyers" The homely chemist stuck his finger in his mouth. With a look of annoyance, he kicked the frozen gangster's leg. The leg snapped off and the hood fell over, breaking into a number of large pieces. Ham's face took on a startled look. "You broke it you bought it," he mumbled, but the sarcasm was tempered with a note of horror.

The Polar Terror

110

Chapter 17 CLUES

"You could have at least waited for us to rescue you!" Renny's booming voice betrayed relief and excitement at finding his fellow adventurer sitting in one of the chairs in the eighty-sixth floor reception room. Long Tom flashed a gold-toothed smile. "If I had waited for you guys to come along I would have had lead for brains." The puny electrical wizard had changed into dry clothing and located a new pair of shoes. A number of bruises and welts showed on his face but otherwise he was no worse for wear. "How'd you manage to get away on the fourth floor, anyway?" Monk's own voice carried a note of relief. He trailed Renny into the room, Ham and Doc coming in behind him. The door swung shut automatically. Long Tom glanced at the bronze man and shook his head. "Take my advice and don't ever try that human fly trick Doc makes look so easy." Ham chuckled, though his face showed a hint of strain. "At least you didn't become one of those frozen men. Jove, I cannot get the sight of how that fellow broke into pieces out of my mind." "The sight of you always cracks me up," said Monk, but he looked more than a bit relieved to be away from the frozen gangster himself. "Say, Doc, those men must have known we were coming again. They had that trap all set for us." Renny slammed a fist into his palm. "In fact, they seem to know a hell of lot about what we are doing. I think they expected us at the factory earlier tonight, too." Doc nodded and peered at Long Tom. "Know anything about that?" Long Tom shrugged. "They kept me in that back room the whole time. I know early on they wanted to trade me for something, but changed their minds because Pizzicato was ready to punch my ticket right before I escaped." "Any idea what?" The bronze man's eyes grew thoughtful. Another shrug. "No, but it must have been something big. I heard Hidalgo mentioned." "I thought this had to do with the North Pole, not Central America." Monk scratched his head. "Not the country, you bonehead, the warehouse." Ham gave the chemist a condescending sneer. Tiny winds seemed to stir the depths of Doc Savage's flake-gold eyes. "We have a number of vehicles capable of reaching the pole. We might monitor the warehouse through your new televisor hook up, Long Tom. If they decided not to trade, they may

A Doc Savage Adventure

111

have ideas about stealing it." Long shook his head. "They'd never get into that place, not with all the alarms we installed." "Pizzicato is rather adept with gadgets. We had best not overlook any bets. He nullified the alarms we set up at the munitions factory without much trouble." "What about how they know what we are up to, Doc?" Monk's brow crinkled. Doc's gaze focused on Long Tom again. "Did you notice the man in the laboratory?" "Notice him?" Long Tom shook his head. "He was hollering his dang fool head off when I got here and didn't stop for a half-hour after I showed up. I almost let him out so I could shut his trap." "That might be a poor idea," Ham said with a heavy coat of sarcasm. "Did you notice him anywhere near the laboratory phones?" Long Tom shook his head. "He was too busy complaining to be on the horn." "Those are concealed anyway, Doc," said Ham. "I made sure when I got the idea to leave him here in case we made that crook talk." "He might have been smart enough to find them." The bronze man went to the library, the door opening as he drew close. His men followed. Upon spotting them, Henry Hanneran's face twisted into a rabid expression. "Where the hell have you been?" His voice carried more than a touch of fury and his cheeks flushed with crimson. "How dare you leave me here trapped. There are laws against kidnapping in this state!" "There are laws against kidnapping in every state." Ham let condescension fill his tone. "But you, sir, have not been kidnapped. If I may remind you, you threatened my friend Mayfair with a firearm, followed Miss Doe against her wishes, not to mention charges of breaking and entering. I would be willing to wager you might have more than that to explain if we looked into your past deeply enough. Perhaps you would like to discuss this matter with the police?" Ham cocked an eyebrow The fury dropped from Henry Hanneran's face. His mouth clamped shut. "All right, maybe I was a little hot under the collar about being left here. But I am worried about Miss Doe." "We are, too, pal." Concern darkened Monk's face. In fact, he had waxed sorrowfully the entire trip back about the fate of the lovely Miss Doe. Unless the gang had stashed her somewhere, the chances of her survival were looking worse all the time. The bronze man's flake-gold eyes settled on the ex-pugilist. "Will you behave if we let you out of there?" Henry Hanneran bowed his head, then looked up, not taking long to think it over. "Yes, I will behave." Monk frowned. "He answered too fast, Doc." Henry Hanneran scowled at the homely chemist. Doc jabbed a button behind a wall panel and the blue barrier vanished. The expugilist came into the library, eyeing each as if considering pummeling them again, but apparently thinking better of it. "Why aren't you finding her?" His voice came with a hint more composure. "We are doing the most we can," said Doc. "I don't see you doing a damn thing!" Henry's eyes flashed and his momentary

The Polar Terror

112

sense of composure dissolved. "All I see is this gang has you buffaloed at every point. If your man hadn't lost her in the first place--" Hanneran eyed Monk, who for once didn't respond. The homely chemist's face darkened further with guilt and worry. "--she would still be alive." "What makes you think she is not alive?" Doc's eyes bored into the ex-pugilist's own. Henry Hanneran shifted feet and twisted his lips into guilty expressions. "Well, because if she were the gang would have kept her there at the hotel or made demands by now." "Did the possibility occur to you a gang such as this might have alternate hiding places?" Doc's voice remained steady, almost calming. "Uh, well, I guess..." Henry averted his gaze from Doc's compelling eyes. "Then why haven't they contacted you with demands, the way they did with your man here?" "They knew Long Tom meant something to us. Perhaps they feel differently about Miss Doe." "If that's true, why take her? And if they have killed her, why do that?" "The man who came to seek my help worked with Miss Doe's father and they murdered him." Monk's face brightened a fraction. He snapped his fingers. "I get it, Doc. You think that girl's father is involved in something and they kidnapped her to use against him or get something they want outta him. This whole thing has something to do with his expedition up North and maybe something he discovered there, something they want. That means she's still alive, right, Doc?" Monk looked hopeful "It is a theory." "A theory?" Henry's face got red again. "You can't give us more than that?" "It is not Doc's habit to draw conclusions before he knows all the facts," said Ham. "And when would that be? After everyone's been turned into one of those frozen stiffs?" Hanneran glared at Ham, at Monk, at the bronze man, blessing each in turn with his disapproval. "You're a pain in the backside," muttered Long Tom, the puny electrical wizard's face showing irritation. Henry Hanneran peered at the smaller man. "I don't like you." "It is an exclusive club," Ham said to Long Tom. "Escort Mr. Hanneran into the reception room for the time being." With that, the bronze man disappeared into the laboratory. Going to a wall panel, he plucked a stream of paper from a concealed machine that was much like the tickertape apparatus in the outer room. He checked the log, which consisted of phones calls made from the eightysixth floor headquarters for the last twenty-four hours. Sections were labeled A, B and C, C indicating the laboratory and showing whether any calls had been dialed out or filtered in. Doc was most interested in the out-going calls. He slid the paper back into the machine and closed the panel, his small trilling sound audible for an instant. Moving to a table, he gathered a rectangular metal case about the size and shape of a shoebox, and tucked it beneath an arm. The sudden sounds of a scuffle reached his ears as his passed through he library. Pausing in the reception room door as it slid open, he saw Long Tom sitting on the floor,

A Doc Savage Adventure

113

rubbing his head, and Henry Hanneran standing above him. The ex-pugilist sported a number of abrasions he hadn't shown a few moments earlier. A puzzled look gripped his face. Monk, Ham and Renny all looked like they were about to join the fray, so the bronze man hastily put a stop to it. "This is what you call behaving?" Doc said, going to the big desk and setting down the box. "He attacked me. I had to defend myself. Can't see how such a little runt packs such a wallop, though. He was tougher to beat than the rest of your bunch." Long Tom gained his feet, scowling. "He said Pizzicato's gadgets were better than mine or we wouldn't be in this mess." Long Tom's voice carried a dose of injured pride. He had helped Doc design many of the devices they employed. Doc went behind the desk and touched a lever on the side of the box. A red indicator lit and the bronze man's gaze lifted to various spots around the room, then settled back on the box. "What is that thing, Doc?" asked Monk. Doc remained silent. His bronze fingers played over a small dial on the top of the box and an orange light appeared when he reached a certain level. "Jane's out there in the hands of those men and he sits here playing with toys!" Henry Hanneran's voice came out in one disgusted exhalation. He threw up his hands and sank into a chair. "I give up. I just give up." "I'll open a window." Ham smirked. Doc slipped from behind the desk and vanished into the library again. He strode to the laboratory and slipped out through a hidden panel. Returning a half-hour later, he went to the televisor arrangement Long Tom and he had recently installed and flicked on the equipment. A round greenish screen lit up, a emerald star in its center expanding until the viewer was filled. A low hum emanated from the set and Doc surveyed the picture before him. The screen showed a greenish though clear view of the interior of his Hidalgo warehouse. His flake-gold eyes scrutinized the room, studying the angle that showed a small blimp floating at the far end, a small plane in the foreground and clock with luminescent hands on one wall. The clock's hands glowed, having recently been struck by light, but he expected that. The clock said 3:30 and nothing stirred in the warehouse. Clicking switches on a panel on the front of the set, he changed the angles to show various other views of the warehouse. The camera could snap at a number of angles and took photo's every minute with the aide of an infra red flash. The shots were then selfdeveloped in a process Doc had invented and transmitted back to the laboratory when Doc activated a certain switch. It allowed him a remote view of the place in case the gang was bold enough to attempt a break in. The bronze man called Long Tom into the room, to keep watch, while he went to the phone and checked in on his research into Henry Hanneran's past. By the time he was done, a slightly satisfied expression touched his lips. A number of things had been confirmed in his mind in the past hour, though it still left him with little lead to the gang's whereabouts or the mystery behind the frozen death. With Long Tom free, however, the gang would likely act fast. He hoped when they did the precautions he had taken would lead to trapping them.

The Polar Terror

114

Chapter 18 THE TRAIL NORTH

"What the hell are you doin', anyway?" Snapper Prozini peered at the Clementine Pizzicato. The investigator was seated next to him in the back of the long sedan, earphones jammed to his head and fingers manipulating the dials on the device resting within the equipment case he'd lugged from the hotel the previous night. No lights glowed on the top and a frustrated expression on his features turned to one of anger. He snatched the phones from his ears and tossed them in the case, then slammed the lid. "Savage figured it out somehow," he muttered, sliding the case onto the floor. Only Pizzicato and the pink-suited gangster occupied the rear seat. In the front sat the strange being, now devoid of the robe he'd been wearing, his blue form eerie and somehow more monstrous in the predawn gloom. The driver, a smallish man with an underbite, sat pressed as far to the opposite side as possible, his eyes darting, his fingers twisting into knots. He clearly carried a healthy dose of fear for the creature beside him. "Figured out what?" Snapper slid his jaw back and forth. The popping sounded incredibly loud in the confines of the car. "Never mind. Let's just say the sooner we pull this off and get on with it the better." "What about that girl?" Pizzicato frowned as he thought about Jane Doe. "We'll stop and pick her up when we retrieve our equipment from that field north of here. They're holding her there. Good thing I decided to separate the prisoners or Savage would have rescued both last night." The investigator gave the pink-suited man a peculiar look, then quickly wiped the expression from his face. "One of 'em rescued himself." Pizzicato wasn't totally uncertain that wasn't sarcasm in the hood's voice. "One of Savage's men has brains, at any rate." Snapper nodded. "Why don't we just dump her out over the Atlantic or kill her now and save the trouble? Kidnappin's a hot chair offense." Pizzicato gave the man a dumbfounded expression. "And murder ain't?" "Not if no one finds the body." It irritated Pizzicato that the gangster's words had a certain inarguable logic and he gave the man a perturbed stare. "Boss's orders. We might need to use her against her father. Now don't ask me no more questions you don't need to know." "What about them men getting in that place?" He ducked his chin towards the street. "I need to know that." Pizzicato frowned more deeply. He was on edge about that himself. A hundred

A Doc Savage Adventure

115

things could go wrong and after their failures with killing the bronze man and loss of Roberts, everything was riding on this one operation. If they failed all the boss's plans-and more to the point, his own--went down the drain. Or to the chair... He cast a glance out through the window. Grayish light filtered through the street as the sun came up behind ashen clouds. The rain had stopped but a gunmetal mist tumbled along the waterfront, seeming to cloister about the huge building three blocks distant. The gray mist gave the place an eerie forlorn appearance, like something from another world, a world where criminals disappeared from the face of the earth and men like Doc Savage always won. He wondered just how far from the truth that might be. After seeing the bronze man in operation last night, he wagered not bloody far. Rearing out of the fog, the building appeared old and smoke-stained, its red-brick exterior weathered and chipped. Half the building extended out on a pier above the water and the battered sign bore the legend: Hidalgo Trading Company. It gave him the impression of some sort of great rust-colored demon, and if things went as planned he and the seven men packed into the car parked behind them would walk directly into that demon's mouth in approximately five minutes. He had more men waiting with the girl and equipment, three of them pilots who used to run liquor until Prohibition was repealed roughly a year back. He would need them to pilot that damn thing, too. It would take at least five men, despite the ship's small size. One of the flyers was in the rear car. That would be enough to at least, with a couple other gangsters' help, to at least get it to the rendezvous field. "They should have reached their positions fifteen minutes ago," Pizzicato said at last. "Give them time to cut through the alarm box casing, disarm the system and get inside." "I think we're cookin' our own goose, walking into the lion's den, kicking the woodpile--" "I get the idea, but we need that airship." "Why Savage's? Must be some other gasbag we can heist." "That dirigible is smaller and sleeker than any other and it's rigged for practically any emergency. Even carries its own plane. Besides, Savage has it full of helium instead of hydrogen." "So?" Snapped looked puzzled. "Ever seen one of those things explode? Makes a hell of a crematory. Hydrogen is highly combustible. Helium won't get us all killed." "That's a plus." Snapper slid his jaw back and forth. "You're an idiot, Prozini." Pizzicato found himself growing more and more annoyed with the pink-suited gangster, but then his nerves felt tighter than an over-tuned violin string waiting on the two men disabling the underwater alarms and infiltrating their way into the structure. Doubts wracked him about being able to pull the caper off, though the boss had insisted it could be done and that Savage was easily duped. He would have argued that point, because with the box sitting on the car floor somehow nullified, it was a bad sign. He wondered how Savage had managed it. "You're buckin' Doc Savage and you call me the idiot?" Snapper let out a laugh that sent bolts of irritation through Pizzicato's nerves, all the more so because the thug's words carried a certain truth to them. Maybe Prozini wasn't as stupid as the rogue gumshoe gave him credit for. He certainly did seem to possess an unlimited source of

The Polar Terror

116

men, ones who, unlike their boss, did not ask questions. Pizzicato peered out at the building again and felt his belly tighten. His gaze riveted to the huge metal door and he shifted, sighed. Every second that ticked by risked Savage showing up and putting a quick stop to things. His hand slipped inside his pocket, feeling the bird's egg-sized sapphire and reminding himself how powerful he would be once this was finished and the boss was out of the way. In fact after they arrived in the Blue One's land he would approach him with just that proposition and make sure the plotter behind this venture was literally frozen out of the competition. After he made sure everything went as planned, of course. He laughed a nervous laugh at his poor joke. A sound caught his attention and his gaze focused on the Hidalgo Trading Company's corrugated metal door. The door suddenly began rattling upward and a thin smile creased his lips. They had made it inside, and so far he'd seen no sign of Savage. "It's time," Pizzicato said and Snapper nodded, pulling a tommy gun from a case on the floor. The driver scrambled out of the car before the investigator could even get the handle up on his own door; he almost laughed at the man's fear of the Blue One, would have if the damned blue being weren't so deadly. The blue One exited from the passenger side and stood in the gray dawn, the damp breeze stirring the streamers beneath his arms. He looked like some kind of goddamn human jellyfish, in Pizzicato's opinion. There was something unreal about it, something nightmarish. Tearing his gaze from the being, he scanned the street then waved an arm at the car behind him. Men piled out, carrying machine guns, and they all headed for the warehouse. "Watch your step in there. Make sure you stay on a line to that dirigible or one of the other camera angles will pick you up. That happens you won't be alive to see Savage come after you." The men nodded and started inside. He glanced at the small devices planted near the door, ones he'd developed to block the bronze man's capacity alarms, and allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. The men formed a line and moved towards the big airship suspended at the far side of the building. Snapper Prozini stopped behind the rogue investigator and let out a whistle. "Some joint." Pizzicato was inclined to agree and he stood spellbound at the sheer size of the interior and range of equipment. In one section, he counted at least a dozen planes, from a gigantic tri-motored job to sleek little speed numbers, a peculiar saucer-like thing so gray it was almost white, and even an autogyro. In another section he noted a small submarine with runners along its hull and various sized boats. A machine shop stood to one side. Beyond where the dirigible floated, enormous doors shown, which allowed the airbag to depart the building. The sight of such sophisticated machinery made Pizzicato wish he had more time to study a number of them he did not see, like the hidden alarms and traps he could only guess at. Even he had to admit that in some ways the bronze man was a scientific marvel. Perhaps in another existence he might have even respected him. Men where climbing up a rope ladder to the dirigible and clambering inside. The Blue One, plainly impressed, drifted towards them, pausing to admire many of the machines residing within the vast cavern of a room.

A Doc Savage Adventure

117

"Likely he ain't seen the likes of this where he comes from," said Snapper, stepping deeper into the room. "Who has?" Pizzicato's tone was filled with awe. The operation progressed quickly and Pizzicato was pleased, though he couldn't help fighting a degree of dread. One misstep might bring the bronze man down on them and until they were airborne that notion wouldn't leave him. He shot a glance at the camera mounted on the wall. One of the men had placed the picture of the warehouse via a clamp and metal arm device in front of the lens. He doubted it would fool Savage for long, but he hoped it would buy the time they needed. Watching the men secure the dirigible, he admired the sleek design of the thing. Its construction was amazing, truly amazing. The motors must have been in the hull, along with the control gondola. Only the propellers and their gear housing and struts protruded. That must have cut wind resistance down remarkably. The rogue investigator was on the verge of congratulating himself on a successful mission when the first mishap occurred. A squawk came from his right where Snapper Prozini stood, but the sound was quickly muffled. Pizzicato's gaze swung in the pink-suited gangster's direction, as did the Blue One's and a few of the other men who stood by with machine guns in case something went wrong. The gunsel dropped his machine gun and began pounding at the air as if he had suddenly taken leave of all his mental mechanisms. The investigator might have concluded the man was indeed crazy if it had not been for a thumping that sounded as the man's fists seemed to meet with some solid but invisible barrier. "What the hell?" Pizzicato moved closer to the gangster. "Get me out of here, Pizzicato!" yelled the gangster, voice seeming to come from a distance. "What is it?" asked the eerie-voiced Blue One, peering at the trapped thug. At least he appeared to be peering, thought Pizzicato. It was damned hard to tell with that sheet of blue over his eyes. "He must have stepped on a pressure point that released some sort of invisible enclosure." Pizzicato felt of the air, encountering a hard glass-like surface. Drawing his gun, he waved it at Snapper, indicating for him to stand as far to the side as he could. Stepping back, he blasted a shot that thundered in the warehouse, gobbling from the walls. The bullet flattened in midair and spiderweb cracks appeared across the barrier's surface, but the cage held. "Some kind of bulletproof glass." He holstered his gun. "This man Savage is very intelligent and inventive," said the Blue One, and for once Pizzicato detected a note of apprehension in the being's voice. It was almost funny. Pizzicato surveyed the pink-suited gangster and a notion occurred to him. He had reached the limit of his patience with Snapper anyway and within a matter of minutes they would be on their way. He would have no real need for the thug any longer. Even so, he could always find another connection if necessary. He laughed. It was not a nice laugh. It was a laugh that carried an edge of viciousness, that way a snake might laugh, if it were able, at a mouse. "Leave him here. He's more trouble than he's worth. I have no further use for him."

The Polar Terror

118

Behind the glass prison, Snapper Prozini began pounding on the glass, panic on his face. The Blue One lowered his voice. "He knows our destination, at least part of it. Perhaps it would not be wise to have Savage learn that fact." "I've got a notion he might find a way to follow us anyway, but you're right. Savage don't have any way of knowing where in the north we are going and it's a big place. Maybe you better get him out..." "He is a liability now?" Pizzicato nodded. "Not to mention a monumental pain where I sit." The Blue One nodded and went to the barrier, placing his right hand against it. Snapper looked vaguely relieved. A bluish liquid began to boil over the surface of the bulletproof glass, instantly filling the spiderweb cracks made by Pizzicato's bullet. The liquid spread out at a violent rate and wisps of bluish vapor curled into the air. The barrier surface turned a milky shade. The blue being withdrew his hand and waited a moment. Snapper Prozini stared at the surface, expectant, then picked up his machine gun and, reversing it, slammed the butt against the cage. The glass shattered, fragments piling at the gangster's feet. He jumped from the enclosure, wiping a line of sweat from his brow. "Hell's bells!" He eyed Pizzicato. "I thought you was gonna leave me here." Pizzicato grinned. "I am." "Huh?" Snapper started to slide his jaw back and forth but never completed the movement. Instead, he let out half a scream. The Blue One's hand had descended upon his shoulder. A mask of fear and shock welded on the pink-suited gangster's face for the rest of his life, which likely lasted less than ten seconds. "Let's get out of here," Pizzicato ordered after it was over. "No telling whether that thing was attached to alarms back in Savage's headquarters. The blue being nodded and started for the dirigible. Doc Savage finished taking his daily two-hour exercise regime as dawn turned the sky from indigo to ash. He had not slept in the intervening hours, nor had Long Tom, who monitored the televisor screen while tinkering with an electric mosquito killer he'd been working on for months to no avail. His Steinmetz forehead crinkled and he rubbed his eyes, then went back to the device, glancing first at the screen. Doc's remaining aides and Henry Hanneran had decided to catch a couple hours sleep in the reception room. Occasionally the gobbling sounds of Monk's snores reached the laboratory. "He keep's sawing wood like that and the whole building will collapse." Long Tom's tone said he was plainly annoyed by the sound. The bronze man came around the table and glanced at the televisor screen. The scene appeared the same as on the previous night. "No sign of movement?" Long Tom shook his head and put down his screwdriver. "Not so much as a mouse. You think maybe they gave up on the idea?" "It has only been a few hours since they departed their hotel headquarters. Whatever they want must be of tremendous value for them to go to the trouble they have and for men to lose their lives over it. It is unlikely they would give up on their plans so

A Doc Savage Adventure

119

easily." Long Tom shrugged. "Maybe they didn't count on you being so hard to shake. That Pizzicato impressed me as a big fish in a little pond, least one who thinks he is." "Someone else is directing him certainly, but do not underestimate the criminal ego. Perhaps Mr. Pizzicato has bigger plans." "You guessing?" Long Tom raised an eyebrow. Doc might have told him he rarely guessed at anything. He had merely set the known facts to this point in order. He doubted the man's ability to orchestrate everything that had happened and set the path the gang seemed to be following, but did not question Pizzicato's tenacity. A small-time hood would have backed out by now. If the sapphire Doc had examined were any indication, the investigator expected a big pay off, but Doc decided even that did not account entirely for Pizzicato's fortitude, not according to the reports the bronze man had accumulated on the gumshoe. A man like Pizzicato, by all appearances a petty blackmailer who skirted gangland's borders, would have ample knowledge of the bronze man's reputation and little desire to bring about the type of attention Doc Savage would give him. No ego influenced Doc's conclusion, merely logic dictated by the accounts of his exploits, which the newspapers had reported with a flourish and gusto Doc found infinitely embarrassing. Although unwanted, the bronze man had garnered a far-reaching reputation as a crime-buster, overblown and far too public. Would a petty blackmailer suddenly make the leap to murderer, mob director and incur the wrath of what the press labeled a superman for mere wealth? Doc did not believe so. He saw a super ego at work behind the scheme, a man whose desire for power had festered for many years, until some unknown entity and circumstance had provided him with opportunity. Wealth corrupted, but power abscessed. Whoever directed the operation, controlled the being who wielded the frozen death, had unleashed that latent ambition in Pizzicato. It was a simple matter of gangland psychology to predict what would occur next. Gangs rarely worked together for long without some sort of internal power struggle and once the leader's goal was achieved the gumshoe would make his move. His emotional makeup would allow nothing less. His capacity as a human leech would be elevated to its ultimate level. With that mindset, however, came the inevitability of over-confidence, cockiness, the likelihood of committing some mistake that toppled a house of crime built on unstable foundations. Sometimes the mistake was glaring, sometimes subtle, but it always came, beginning a chain of events that led to the criminal's downfall. It had happened in every case in his career and he felt reasonably confident it would happen again. "Pizzicato appears to be a lazy man in many respects," the bronze man said at last. "His record indicates a creature of opportunity." "A carrion feeder." Long Tom frowned. "He sure took a step up this time, though." Doc nodded. "This scheme indicates he has considerably more ambition than his record indicates." "You think that ambition will prove his Achilles' heel?" "Let us hope." Long Tom tugged on an over-sized ear and screwed his features into a puzzled mask. "What about that thing in the hall last night? Monk said some kind of gollywockus froze a man to death."

The Polar Terror

120

Doc's flake-gold eyes went grim. "I think we will find a perfectly reasonable explanation for it." "As reasonable as flash-freezing a man to death can be..." Long Tom's voice came with a hint of doubt. "That mean you got it figured out?" The bronze man didn't answer. His eyes had shifted to the televisor screen, the flake-gold in their depths appearing to swirl as if roiled by a tiny storm. He peered intently at the screen another moment, leaning over Long Tom's shoulder, then straightened. "They have broken into the warehouse." His tone came sure and even, as if he'd merely told his aide a light bulb had burned out in the laboratory. "What? How can you tell?" Shock jumped onto Long Tom's face and he peered more closely at the screen, then shook his head. "Everything looks fine. I been watching this screen the last few hours and nothing has moved there all night." "What time is it?" the bronze man asked. Long Tom glanced at his watch. "5:30." "What time is in on the wall clock at the warehouse?" Long tom studied the screen again, squinting."5:26. That doesn't mean anything, though, the battery might have run low." "Monk changed the battery last week. It is unlikely it would have stopped working so soon. I watched the clock for the past few moments. The camera takes another picture every minute, so the hand should have moved but it has not." "How--?" "A photograph in front of the lens, most likely. They must have timed it perfectly to coincide with whenever they originally snapped the picture, to match the times as close as possible." "Blazes!" Long Tom jumped from the seat, but the bronze man was already gone. He had whisked to the reception room, which was dimly lit in early morning gray light. He clamped a hand over Monk's open mouth and shook the hairy chemist, who awoke with a start. He would have let out a yell if not for Doc's restraining hand. The bronze man pulled his hand away. "Wake Ham and Renny." He glanced at Henry Hanneran, stretched out in another chair. "Do not wake Hanneran." Monk nodded and leaped from his chair, waking the others. They reloaded their machine pistols and reached the basement garbage within three minutes flat. The roadster shot up the ramp and onto the street, Renny at the wheel. Doc rode the running board. The mistake had come: it was a small miscalculation on Pizzicato's part, but Doc intended to take full advantage of it if he could. The rogue gumshoe had obviously spent time learning intricacies of the Hidalgo Trading Company's setup and had relied on his gadgets to counteract them. He had neglected one detail, something as simple and as obvious as an ordinary clock, something a second-rate cat burglar likely would have noticed. Something about that sent a flashing thought through the bronze giant's mind: he would have to make certain the same thing never happened to him, that he never became so reliant on his devices he slipped up on the basics or neglected to employ his wits. The roadster tore through the street, the chilled morning air slapping at Doc's clothing and face, but his features remained inscrutable. Like a living statue, he clung to the side of the automobile. A short distance from the warehouse he signaled for Renny to slow and jumped

A Doc Savage Adventure

121

off. Sending the car onward, he slipped onto a side street. The smell of the river hung heavy in the damp air. He reached the side of a building that showed a six-foot wide by three-foot deep protrusion running along its rear edge. The protrusion traveled the entire height of the building and anyone looking at it would have assumed it belonged to a corner stairwell or unused chimney. The bronze man's fingers roved over the bricks, pressing a spot, and the wall swung outward three feet with a grating sound. Doc Savage stepped into the opening and gripped a metal ladder bolted to the inside wall. He pressed another spot inside and the door slid shut behind him. The bronze man owned the building, which boasted a fishing concern on its front and in fact was just that. He'd rescued the company from financial ruin a little over a year back and had supervised a number of renovations to the place. One of those renovations was a shaft leading to a tunnel beneath the street. Reaching the bottom of the shaft, he clicked on his spring-generated flash and moved forward. The walls were of stone, seeping moisture, and a rat scurried by him, startled by the light and sudden presence of the bronze man. He made his way forward a number of blocks to another iron ladder bolted to the end of the tunnel. Sticking the flashlight back in his pocket, he gripped a wrung and climbed the ladder in darkness with no more effort than if arc lights had illuminated the shaft. Pushing against the ceiling, he hoisted a trapdoor and came up inside the machine shop within the Hidalgo Trading Company. Light from the open outer door bled into the room, outlining a desk holding a telephone and various engine and mechanical parts he and Long Tom had been working on. Without a sound, he whisked across the room to the door and peered out into the warehouse proper. The blue being clung to the rope ladder leading into the dirigible gondola, Pizzicato at its base, starting up. Four men with machine guns remained below, nervous looks dancing across their faces. A bull-fiddle moan erupted from the outer doorway, followed by a second and third. The gangsters had been peering out, expecting trouble; they dove for cover behind crates. Mercy bullets spattered a trail behind their flying feet. The gunmen returned fire, triggering bursts of lead that spanged from the concrete floor and tore splinters out of wooden frames. Chips of cement spewed into the air. Smoke drifted. Doc's men sought quick cover, scurrying into the warehouse and getting behind supporting columns and crates filled with plane parts. Bedlam reined. The blue being scrambled into the gondola and Pizzicato scampered up after him with more speed than anyone looking at him would have thought possible. Fear a great motivator, he let out a shout. "Untether the line!" The order was directed at the gangster closest to the mooring mount, who jumped to comply, apparently neglecting to consider the fact his boss was stranding him. With a mechanical whirring, the great doors at the end of the warehouse began to open. Pizzicato hauled the rope ladder up into the gondola and banged the door shut. The dirigible nose cone lifted and propellers whirled. The motors were ghostly quiet, as the ship began to rise through the opening.

The Polar Terror

122

Doc had precious little time to stop Pizzicato from escaping with the airship, but four gangsters remained in the warehouse, firing bursts of lead. He opened the door of the machine shop, fingers probing within the vest beneath his shirt and bringing out two thin-walled glass globules. Flashing out into the warehouse proper, he hurled the globules before the gangsters noticed his arrival. The balls shattered on the concrete and Doc shouted what at first seemed to be a few words of gibberish. The gibberish, an order delivered in ancient Mayan, which only Doc's aides understood, was an order to hold their breath. The smashed balls contained a quick-acting anesthetic gas that would dissipate after a little over a minute. His voice attracted the attention of a gangster behind a crate fifteen feet away. The man would have taken a breath and been down by the time he had a chance to aim at Doc if not for the fact that one of his companions collapsed and another let out a howl. "Hey, the bronze guy let out some kind gas!" he said it with a gasp and the knockout vapor got him the second later, but the damage was done. He hit the ground with a thunk, face first, his machine gun flying from his grip and skittering across the floor. The two remaining gangsters somehow managed to stop breathing before the gas overwhelmed them. The gangster who had spotted Doc Savage leaped from his concealment, obviously discerning the bronze giant carried no weapon. He started to swing the nozzle of his machine gun around. The bronze chastised himself for making nearly the same error as Pizzicato, despite warning himself just a short time before. He had relied on his gadgets, in this case the gas balls, to finish the job and preserve his life. But the gangsters knew about the gas and obviously Pizzicato had spent some time researching Doc and his men and warned his hirelings. At present, he got no time to dwell on his mistake, because the gangster swinging the gun had a vicious look on his face and spasm in his finger. He let go an initial burst before setting aim and riddled a crate far to Doc's right with lead. Splinters flew. Doc Savage didn't try to dive for cover. He was too far away from the closest concealment and the move would prove suicidal because it was in the same direction the machine gun was firing. He came straight forward. Great muscles bunching, thrusting, he moved with incredible speed, a bronze blur. The gangster's face widened with shock and he hesitated on the trigger, the sight of Doc Savage hurtling at him like some bronze Nemesis of vengeance paralyzing. He let out a bleat, overcoming his paralysis, and jerked the gun towards the sprinting figure, letting go another burst. His aim was faulty and chewed up chips of concrete. He tried to correct his accuracy, lifting the weapon. Doc hurled himself into the air, bronze hands grabbing a cable pulley arrangement used to lift motors. He caught an iron hook and momentum sent the thing rolling along its track. The bronze man, suddenly feet above where he had been, snapped his knees to his chest, as he reached the startled gangster, who was still pumping bullets. The deadly leaden spray was going everywhere, fear causing the thug to lose control of the weapon.

A Doc Savage Adventure

123

With a powerful thrust, Doc's feet crashed into the man's chest, sending him flying backwards. The gangster crashed into the floor, blowing out a burst of air, the machine gun twirling from his grip. Doc released his hold on the hook and landed on the floor beside the gangster. The thug, half-stunned, tried to rise and Doc looped an uppercut that lifted the man off his feet, then put him flat on his back. Across the warehouse, the remaining thug, who witnessed the proceedings from behind a crate in frozen awe, recovered and half-stood, trying to aim his own machine gun at the bronze juggernaut. Long Tom jumped from concealment, triggering a stream of mercy bullets that caught the man in the cheek, stitching a line of small punctures. The man crumpled to the floor, hands still clenched around his weapon. The bronze man, in motion again, whipped for the ascending airship. It was probably the most powerful leap of his career. A tremendous spring sent him hurtling into the air beneath the dirigible and for a moment it almost appeared as if he were flying. Up he went, a leap nearly eighteen feet in height. A bronze arm snapped up and his fingertips brushed the ship's lower vertical fin. He had been hoping to grasp the rudder, but the airship had just reached enough height to prevent it. The bronze man felt suspended in the air, then he was falling. He landed with a jarring thud on the floor. His powerful muscles cushioned the impact, but he felt it nevertheless. Head lifting, his flake-gold eyes watched the blimp rise higher and begin to turn, heading north. Long Tom came running up beside him. "Doc, we can launch one of the planes and follow it before they get away." "Let it go," said the bronze man. "I don't understand. We know they're going north but it's a big area up there." "We'll know exactly where they'll go and any attempt to bring the ship down would likely result in its destruction." Long Tom looked puzzled, but before he could ask further questions, Monk let out a yell behind them. "Hey, lookit this." Doc and Long Tom went to the apish chemist and Ham, who stood next to him. Monk jerked a thumb at the pink-suited frozen corpse of Snapper Prozini. "He ain't so pretty in pink anymore." Doc nodded. "Evidently, Pizzicato had no further use for him." Monk scratched his nubbin of a head. "Maybe we oughta keep him out front as a lawn jockey." Ham let out a groan. A shout came from the front of the building and their heads turned towards the lumbering form of Henry Hanneran, whose face was red and not the least bit amiable. "What the devil do you guys think you're doin' runnin' off while I was asleep? I'm getting damned tired of you thinkin' you can just leave me out of finding Jane." "Just what makes you think you got a right to tag along with us in the first place?" Irritation laced Renny's voice. "Long as that gang has Jane and you guys lost her, I got a right." No one cared to argue with him. "How is it you happened to have come here, Mr. Hanneran?" asked Doc.

The Polar Terror

124

The ex-pugilist's face took on a guilty expression. "Last night, before we all fell asleep, I heard Monk and Ham talking about each takin' a turn watching the warehouse on the screen. When I woke up and found everyone gone I figured something had happened here and thought it might concern Jane, so I walked over." "How is it you knew the warehouse's location?" asked Long Tom. "I overheard the name Hidalgo Trading Company. I asked a cop." Monk eyed him, suspicious. Suddenly, Henry Hanneran's face bleached as his gaze settled on the frozen figure of Snapper Prozini. The ex-pugilist had not encountered any of the Popsicle corpses so far and it apparently gave him pause. "Keep messin' around in things and you could end up that way." Monk said it with a little too much glee. Henry Hanneran appeared too stunned to bother threatening the chemist. "Doc, that dirigible makes pretty good speed since we improved on it," said Long tom. "Do we want to let it get too big a head start?" "We might start making preparations for cold weather." The bronze man gazed up into the sky in the direction taken by the blimp. Only a small silvery spot shown. "You mean...?" Ham's gaze followed Doc's to the sky. The bronze man nodded. "Brothers, we are going to the North Pole."

A Doc Savage Adventure

125

Chapter 19 FLIGHT INTO FEAR

The remainder of the morning was spent making arrangements for the trip north. An ambulance arrived to cart off the fallen gangsters and transport them upstate to Doc Savage's institution. The disposition of the pink-suited gangster's body was more problematic. Doc Savage possessed no desire to have New York's finest crawling around his waterfront hanger, nor was he inclined to spend time answering the inevitable questions associated with the gunplay and purloining of his airship the police would surely entertain. Despite his honorary credentials, certain detectives were starting to cast him a wary eye; given the number of bodies and mysterious deaths that occurred in his presence he supposed he could not blame them. A number believed they saw fire in the smoke, while a handful of others opined his methods smacked of vigilantism and often made the bulls appear inefficient and bumbling. After some discussion--most of it an argument between Monk and Ham regarding Monk's suggestion to leave the frozen corpse in Central Park for pigeons--the chilled remains of Snapper Prozini was crated up and labeled fragile for shipping. After the bronze man determined the exact nature of the mysterious form of death, the body would be buried at sea and Snapper Prozini would join the ranks of criminals who had faced Doc only to never be heard from again. Henry Hanneran had gotten most of the color back in his face but still avoided the vicinity of the corpse. He appeared to be thinking something over, perhaps debating the wisdom of hanging around Doc and his band of adventurers. A few slights aimed at his courage by Monk rectified the situation, much to the homely chemist's chagrin. He'd been endeavoring to get rid of the ex-pugilist, not make him more determined to accompany them in the search for Jane Doe. Monk set about figuring out ways to discourage the competition, deliberating whether to ship the frozen corpse of Snapper Prozini to Hanneran's apartment or accidentally shipping the fellow off to Doc's college. He was only half-serious, but let the thoughts go when for once Ham seemed to agree with him. "Doc, we takin' the Helldiver?" asked Monk, after he'd collected heavy clothing designed to ward off the chilling cold of the northern regions. He jerked a thumb at the small submarine moored at the river end of the warehouse. "We'll take the 'sled'" The bronze man's tone came somber. He'd spent the past hour investigating the various devices Clementine Pizzicato had used to nullify a number of his electro-mechanical sensors, developing a grim respect for the rogue investigator. Some of the devices proved ingenious, if unrefined, and the bronze man almost felt a sense of pity the man hadn't turned his knowledge to some more socially acceptable outlet.

The Polar Terror

126

"Hot dog!" A grin spread across Monk's features, nearly swallowing his face. "I been waitin' to try that out." "I thought the craft was still experimental..." offered Ham, coming up behind the chemist. "Long Tom, Renny and I have taken it as far as possible. It only needs a test flight, but I think there will be no problems." The bronze man was understating the case. He had spent numerous hours and much research on the craft devised by him and Renny and could have flown the thing a number of months ago, but had chosen to err on the side of caution. The thing had cost as much a small nation and was likely years ahead of its time. The craft in question resided at the far end of the warehouse. It sat on a platform that could be lowered into the water for a river launch. The 'sled' as Renny had nicknamed it, was a marvel of aerodynamic design. Half as thick as a regular aircraft, with graceful lines, its wings were practically non-existent, sweeping back at such an angle to make it nearly saucer-shaped. Sleek runners protruded from its base, constructed especially for snow landing and travel, while scaled-down retractable pontoons allowed for water landings and launchings. The color, so gray as to be nearly white, made the plane almost undetectable against the snow by enemies in the air. Powerful lights were capable of cutting through the endless night of the Polar winter. They had fashioned the ship to scuttle across long stretches of barren snow pack and tundra and the thing sported rocket assists, and directed underblowers that shot tremendous bursts of heated air to melt snow and ice in case the plane became bogged down in soft snow. Blasters from beneath could launch the plane nearly straight upwards in an emergency. They set about loading a minimum of equipment into the shuttle, mostly cold weather clothing and compressed food stuffs, which went into compartments near the back included for such exigencies. The interior was sleek and compact, though large enough to hold seven passengers: two seats for pilot and co-pilot, and five behind. The accommodations were comfortable if slightly cramped, the material dull gray, with a series of belts to keep occupants from slamming their heads against the low ceiling in case the ride got overly bumpy on the ground. Henry Hanneran gave the plane a look that said he was not particularly keen on being the guinea pig for its initial flight. Monk edged that along, claiming that many times experimental planes nose-dived and burst into flames on the first runs. It was a bald-faced lie, for such had never happened to one of Doc's craft, and Henry Hanneran somehow figured it out and steeled himself for the trip. "You aren't gettin' rid of me this time," he insisted and Monk sighed. "You just want Jane all to yourself." Monk couldn't deny that, for he'd been consumed with worry over the lovely young woman ever since her capture. He didn't consider the ex-pugilist much competition, considering the fact she had rebuffed his every advance, but he wasn't about to leave anything to chance. "You may accompany us," the bronze man said, much to Monk's displeasure. "Aw, Doc." The bronze man might have smiled. Monk wasn't sure. "Mr. Hanneran, you should be aware there is an element of danger, but the choice is yours."

A Doc Savage Adventure

127

"I choose to go." An arrogance laced his tone and the smug look he cast the hairy chemist almost started another brawl. A half-hour later they were seated in the sled. With a thrumming of motors and mechanical equipment, the floor submerged and the aircraft taxied out onto the Hudson. The plane's motors were nearly silent, only a low hum audible within the soundproofed cabin. Monk sat in the co-pilot's seat. The plane began to pick up speed as Doc manipulated the controls. The instrument panel was a maze of gauges, buttons and indicator lights, many of which even Monk little understood. He distinguished the usual: airspeed indicator, radio controls, vertical velocity gauge, compass, autopilot, but he saw a hundred other things he wasn't sure about. He let out a whistle of admiration. The sled lifted into the air at a sharper angle than Monk would have believed possible and a grin appeared on his face. "Whoo-ee, whatta job!" In a back seat Henry Hanneran looked slightly green. The sight made Monk's grin widen. The sled climbed rapidly into the ash-colored sky, Doc's expert hand piloting the craft as if he'd flown it a thousand times before. Below them the streets of Manhattan grew smaller. As the sled streaked past the dirigible mooring mast atop the building housing their headquarters Long Tom let out a chuckle. "We can practically see in our own windows," the electrical wizard muttered. Henry Hanneran remained quiet, his fingers bleaching as he gripped the edges of his seat. Below the scenery sped by and two hours later the rugged coast of Maine spread out in jagged majesty. A blaze of color lined the shore, stands of maple and oak emblazoned with fall colors. The sun glinted off the water like liquid topaz as the sky above the state cleared. "This is the first time I ain't heard you complainin'," Monk said to Henry Hanneran. "You get your foot stuck in your mouth?" "I don't like flying." His voice a mumble, he glared at the homely chemist. "I ain't surprised." The hours passed as the sled winged through the sky at a little over two-hundred miles an hour. The clouds rushed in again over Prince Edward Island, making the interior of the plane gloomy. Doc's flake-gold eyes studied the instrument panel, watching one indicator in particular, a small screen with a pale blue blip against a graph. "Say, Doc…" Monk scratched his rusty-haired forearm. "This thing is capable of pulling a lot more speed. We'll never catch them flying at this rate. That dirigible can hold its own and it has a big head start on us." "We do not want to catch them." The bronze man's metallic features remained placid. His tone came steady and modulated. "Huh? I thought we wanted that gang." "We do, but not yet." "Why not?" Monk's eyebrow cocked in a puzzled expression. "Because I want to know where they are going. Jane Doe's father is still missing and they will lead us to him and the explanation behind this mystery." "But we don't know where they're going--do we?" "Last night I departed our headquarters for about half an hour. I went to the

The Polar Terror

128

Hidalgo warehouse. Not knowing which of our vehicles the gang was after I set a small metal box in each plane, the dirigible and the Helldiver. Each box contained a radio transmitter that was self-contained and capable of transmitting for over a hundred hours on its battery. The tubes draw little current." "That indicator you've been watchin'?" The chemist nodded, understanding dawning. "Tells me the exact location of the dirigible. It appears headed on a flight path that will bring it over Ryerson Island. There is a small base outpost there. I estimate we have cut the distance between us to about an hour." As the sled whisked north, the cloud cover went from ash to white veined with silver. Pellets of ice and hard snow occasionally swirled in bursts and the sky darkened considerably, growing blacker the closer they came to the Arctic Circle. The sled's heaters kept the temperature regulated, though slightly on the cool side. The mountains and vast expanses of Greenland appeared below, and Doc's eyes focused again on the blip moving across the tracking screen. "The dirigible stopped," said Monk, gaze leaping from the screen to the bronze man. "Yes, directly over Ryerson Island." "Why, you reckon?" Doc Savage did not comment. "We will reach the base within the half-hour. That half-hour dragged. Monk and Ham resumed briefly their quarrel over running boards on cars, which appeared to drive Henry Hanneran crazy, because he forgot about his airsickness and made rumblings about wiping the floor with the both of them when they landed somewhere. The attack came suddenly and Doc sent the sled banking sharply left to avoid it. Monk let out a piping yell and promptly ceased his argument with Ham. Henry Hanneran started looking green again. Outside the sky had gone nearly black. A great creature of metal and subdued bronze glittered in the sled's lights as it swooped out of the heavens and nearly grazed their upper hull. "That guy's crazy!" Monk said. "He'll kill us both, flying that way." Doc nodded. "Not an experienced pilot obviously. It is likely he did not intend such a close call but was unable to make the plane respond properly." The bronze plane had angled around and suddenly appeared before their side window, pulling up and over them. "Hey that plane looks--" Monk started and clamped his mouth shut. "It is one of ours." No emotion bled into the bronze man's tone. "It was in the dirigible's bay. The controls are somewhat advanced. No doubt the pilot is having difficulty with them." A stuttering sounded, stitching a thudding line across the top of the sled. The thuds were followed by a single clink. "He's shootin' at us with our own guns!" The chemist's voice jumped a notch in shrillness. "I didn't like that last sound, either." The sled's construction included two fuselage skin coverings, the outer a tough alloy designed to resist ordinary machine gun fire. The inner skin was non-sweating, and between lightweight material provided insulation against hot and cold. Most of the bullets

A Doc Savage Adventure

129

fired from the attacking plane would do little or no damage, but there was always the chance of a lucky shot. The last chink might have been one of those, in Monk's estimation. Doc piloted the sled into evasive maneuvers. No better pilot existed on the face of the earth in Monk's estimation, but no matter how much skill a man possessed he still had to watch out for the other guy. The attacking pilot was unskilled and controlling an advanced plane he had no business flying. "How did they know we were trailing them, Doc?" Monk asked, as the bronze giant sent the sled slipping left to avoid another burst of machine gun fire from the diving attacker. Doc Savage's face failed to register the disgust he felt with himself. For when he had placed the tracking devices in all his equipment and left them transmitting he had also placed one in a hidden compartment of the sled. He had neglected to turn the device off. "The dirigible is equipped with a tracking monitor much like the one installed in this plane." His voice came somber, almost ghostly in the cabin. "Evidently, Pizzicato figured out what it was and how to use it. The screen would have started signaling automatically when the other gauges activated." "Then he musta figured out we were following him using the same method?" "No doubt he searched the dirigible for the transmitter. I hid the device where it is unlikely he would discover it, so he arranged a reception instead. It is probably a good thing he had no time to prepare something to block the signal." "Then we might be on a wild goose chase..." The homely chemist's voice came with a note of frustration. "He might have led us here on purpose." "I would not be surprised." The bronze man went silent, focusing all his attention on the attacker who was flying more erratically by the minute. The man obviously was having considerable difficulty flying Doc's ship. The pilot charged straight in at Doc, clumsy and with foolhardy risk, machine guns blazing lead and tracers. The put-put-put of slugs tearing across the sled's upper hull brought a bleat from Henry Hanneran. "Get the hell out of here!" he wailed in a voice that might have caused a woman envy. "You'll get us killed!" "Just you," Ham said smugly, but gripped his sword cane tighter until his knuckles turned alabaster. Doc brought the sled up and around, at an angle that would have likely torn the wings off a normal plane. The moved seem to surprise the opposing pilot, who struggled to lift upward and loop. Doc released a burst from the sled's own machine gun and the sputtering was almost soundless in the cabin. The stream of bullets ripped along the top of the second plane but did no damage. The bronze man had constructed the airship himself and it had the same bullet-resistant alloy and design. The sled was significantly more maneuverable and faster than Doc's bronze job, but some sacrifice had been made in armament. But the way the pilot was flying, it was far more likely the man would destroy himself before the sled's guns showed any effect. The sled swept right and dropped as the bronze plane suddenly tore by their left

The Polar Terror

130

side, machine guns cackling. The pilot's face, frozen with viciousness and a measure of fear, was briefly visible in the sled's window. A rending of metal sounded. The sled shuddered and Henry Hanneran let out another unnerving bleat. "He clipped us, Doc!" Monk's own voice came with a dose of worry. Doc struggled with the controls as the sled swooped left then right and seemed to have considerable trouble stabilizing. Although he had slipped and dropped, it had not occurred instantly and the opposing plane had snipped a vital part of the sled's wing. He managed to compensate for the difficulty and bring the plane under control. "Our left wing." The bronze's man's tone remained calm, exhibiting every ounce of his control. "We probably didn't sustain much damage but the other plane..." The bronze plane appeared almost wounded, wobbling left, right, then suddenly dropping into a tight spiral. A good chunk of his left wing was missing. Doc Savage watched with a sense of helplessness. It was doubtful even an experienced pilot could have brought the craft down safely. This pilot had no chance. The bronze ship shot at blinding speed towards a snow-covered expanse dotted with evergreens and jagged hills not far from the coastline of Ryerson Island. A moment later a blinding flash of light blazed against the darkness as the plane impacted. Plumes of oily black smoke billowed into the sky. Flames licked at the air. "Damn fool." Monk shook his head. The bronze man's face remained immobile, though a slight twitch betrayed his sorrow at the loss of even a criminal life. They got little time to dwell on the demise of their plane and its pilot. The sled began to waver and make a peculiar sputtering sound. Seconds later, the engine went dead. "I knew that clink sound meant trouble." Monk eyed the bronze man. "Part of one wing is bent or broken as well." Although the situation was serious, anyone hearing the bronze man's statement might have thought he was no more excited than if he'd just announced they had decided to land. A thin line of sweat broke on his forehead and the great muscles in his forearms strained as he struggled to keep the sled from bounding towards the earth out of control, but those were the only signs he was at all distressed. A speckling of lights appeared ahead. "That's the base at Ryerson," Monk noted. "We gonna make it?" "There is no guarantee." A look of worry appeared on the homely chemist's face. Coming from Doc that statement meant their lives were riding on a thread. The field appeared vaguely in view, an expanse of what appeared to be packed snow. A line of trees stood to one side and the way the sled was dropping altitude avoiding them was going to be a concern. Anyone with less skill and steeliness of nerve would never have made it. As it was, even Doc couldn't avoid the trees completely. The sled dropped in a stomach-plunging swoop, its underbelly brushing the tops of the evergreens. The plane barely cleared the line and came down suddenly on the packed surface, its sleds taking the impact with a tremendous shuddering and popping the plane right back up off the surface again.

A Doc Savage Adventure

131

A wing, the one that was already damaged, clipped a small spruce. A grinding of metal tore through the night. The sled jolted and nearly flipped over onto its left side. Doc's muscles strained, fighting to compensate and keep the thing righted. Runners hitting the ground again with a thud, the sled careened forward, slewing left and right. The runners buckled under the tremendous strain, flying from beneath, the retractable pontoons snapping off with them. The sled slammed to the ground on its belly. A shower of sparks and the grinding shriek of metal filled the night. Monk's face dripped sweat and Henry Hanneran uttered a squawk. His head suddenly dipped forward to land against his chest. Monk might have laughed at the man's blacking out if the situation hadn't been so serious. The plane's speed slackened but with it went some of its forward momentum. It swerved left and spun around completely, then slewed into a snow bank at the far end of the field. The ship hit the bank with a crunching thud and the wing crumpled, snapping off and sending the ship half onto its side. The impact jolted all aboard but no one was seriously hurt. They got out of the ship, all except Henry Hanneran, who was still unconscious, and examined the damage. It took only a moment to ascertain the thing would not fly again without major structural repairs Doc was incapable of making at the outpost. "What'll we do now, Doc?" Monk frowned. "I noticed a hangar attached to the operations building. We will see about appropriating the plane if there is one." With that, the bronze man started towards the small building at the opposite end of the field. The air was bitter cold and a chilled wind whipped particles of ice and snow against Doc Savage's face. If the pelting bothered him he did not show it. His aides followed, leaving Henry Hanneran in the sled for the time being. If a polar bear came along and ate him Monk would not have been any too disappointed. The building was a small affair of corrugated metal and heavy beams. Great drifts of snow piled at its sides but it had been cleared away from the building and hangar doors. Doc stepped inside, hit by a blast of heated air. Lights were on, and a generator hummed somewhere behind a metal door to Doc's left. A man in coveralls came running up to the bronze man and promptly shot him in the chest.

The Polar Terror

132

Chapter 20 HELL AND ICE

Doc Savage reacted almost immediately, though the shot had taken him somewhat by surprise. He had concluded the attack from the air was the primary threat and in actuality expected to find the base attendant murdered, the building deserted. He was half right. The man in the coveralls who came at him didn't look like any employee of the military. He would have looked more at home in the dives of New York City. He clutched a .45 caliber automatic and a scared rabbit look danced in his dark eyes. The bullet thudded against Doc's chest and felt like someone had hauled back and hit him with a sledgehammer. The chain mail underwear protected him from any serious damage but he would have a bruised rib. The man stared, shock welding onto his face at the fact the bronze giant not only failed go down but stepped forward and plucked the gun from his grip. "You ain't human..." the man muttered. A bronze hand shot out, gripping the man's neck, manipulating the nerves at its base. The fake attendant crumpled to the floor, conscious but temporarily paralyzed. His eyes darted back and forth in their sockets, filled with terror. Doc handed the .45 to Renny, who shoved it into his belt. The real attendant stood behind the long counter, fear cemented to his frozen features. "That gollywockus has been here, Doc." Monk eyed the unfortunate military man with a look of regret. "He had company." Doc Savage indicated a pile of shattered glass, wires and metal. "They smashed the radio equipment." "Then we are stranded here, at least for now." Renny's booming voice echoed in the small room. "We got a radio in the sled--if it wasn't damaged--but we won't get anyone up here fast enough to go after that gang. "We will see if there is a plane in the hangar." There was. "That death trap's got to be six years old or more." Monk shook his head as they entered the small hangar. "And if they smashed the radio equipment they probably did a job on it, too." "They did not have a lot of time. Perhaps we will have some luck." "That thing don't look none too air worthy as it is," Long Tom put in, eyeing the contraption with suspicion. Doc set about examining the small craft, determining a couple vital parts had been removed. "They grabbed just what was necessary to prevent flight."

A Doc Savage Adventure

133

"The pedals?" asked Ham. "Very funny, shyster. Next you'll be tellin' us it needs running boards." Monk scratched his head, frowned and turned to Doc. "What I don't get is how'd that fella who tried to kill you expect to get out of here?" "They probably said they'd come back for him, you oaf," said Ham. Monk blinked. "You think they would have?" "When Hell freezes over," said Long Tom. "It's damn near cold enough on this snowball for that to happen." Monk sighed. "What's the chances of getting that thing airborne, Doc?" "I can modify some of the parts from the sled. The gas tank is still full. You can test the fuel to make sure they didn't add anything to it that might give us trouble in the air. I do not know how much distance we will get out of it, however, but perhaps a long flight will not be necessary." The bronze man slipped out into the frozen night and made a number of trips to the sled. Monk, Ham and Renny aided him, while Long Tom watched the prisoner. Henry Hanneran had revived by this time and sat stone still in his seat. "You sure showed what you were made of," prodded Monk, smirking. "I bumped my head, monkey face. I was knocked out." "What'd you bump in on, your backbone?" "Hey, that sounds like an insult." He tried to sound indignant but missed the mark. The bronze man studied the instrument panel, which was still functioning. The blip had not moved in the past few minutes. "The dirigible has stopped," he said. "Not far north of here." "You think that plane'll make it there?" asked Monk. "Yes, but it is unlikely it will make it back. We will have to secure the dirigible." Monk nodded and Henry Hanneran asked, "What plane?" They showed him. The ex-pugilist apparently had experienced enough for his shattered nerves. He stamped a foot and his face turned various shades, from red to purple, then pale white. "What're you throwin' a fit for?" asked Monk. The ex-boxer turned on the homely chemist, a murderous gleam in his eye. "You expect me to get in that crate?" "You are free to remain here," said Doc Savage. "Or walk," added Ham with a smirk. The last tenuous thread of Henry Hanneran's composure snapped. He whirled on Doc Savage. "I've had it up to here with you and your bunch of misfit screw-ups!" Henry's voice came shrill and laced with a touch of desperation. "You can't even fly that fancy rig you got out there and damn near got us all killed. You've done nothing but act like God's gift to humankind while these bunch of idiots argue and act like a gaggle of spoiled two-year-olds fighting to be first to the toy box. Jane is probably dead by now and we might just as well be. I tell you, you're just the over-blown pipe dream of some nitwit reporter who had nothing better to do than concoct some silly myth about a modern-day knight in shining armor. Well, I'm sick and tired of waiting on you to pull a rabbit out of your hat, Savage." Henry jabbed an arm towards the field. "You get your over-rated bronze carcass in that worthless piece of scrap metal you got out there on the field and call up the army or whoever can get up here and take us all back to some place

The Polar Terror

134

nice and warm. And do it now before I give you the same thing I gave the rest of these bamboozles!" The bronze man's flake-gold eyes whirled with a hint of annoyance. "You might restrain yourself, Mr. Hanneran, and give us a hand fitting these parts on the plane." His tone remained calm and even, which seemed to infuriate the ex-boxer. "Did you hear a word I said? Are you deaf as well as incompetent?" "I heard you, Mr. Hanneran. You may remain behind if you wish. You are free to radio for help using the equipment in the sled. My men and I are continuing north." Henry Hanneran's face went dark with fury. Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. He let out a growl and lunged for Doc Savage, eyes narrowing to a squint and a blocky fist coming up. He shot a powerful punch towards the bronze man's jaw. With a resounding thwack, his fist slammed to a halt in midair. A great bronze clamp seemed to engulf it and shock replaced the anger on Henry Hanneran's face. Tendons leaped out on the back of Doc's hand as he squeezed. The look of shock on the ex-boxer's face changed to one of utter pain. Doc let go of the man's fist. Henry Hanneran danced away, then shuffled back in, looping a vicious punch that would have felled an oak. The bronze man deftly avoided the blow and countered, sending a bronze fist streaking straight down the middle. The blow collided with Hanneran's jaw, the report echoing through the hangar. The ex-boxer took a step backward. He stared with a dazed look at the bronze man, blinked, then sat down hard. He didn't move until Monk nudged him with a toe and he fell over, out cold on the floor of the hanger. "He had that comin'..." The grin came back onto Monk's face. The proceeded to modify the needed parts to the small plane, finishing a half-hour later. By that time Henry Hanneran was conscious, he was strapped into a seat aboard the plane and refused to say a word after muttering, "Forty fights...unbeaten..." His pride had apparently suffered a worse defeat than his physical self and a glum expression hung on his face. Doc Savage, back in the small building, eyed the prisoner, whom Long Tom covered with a rapidfirer. The man had come out of the paralysis enough to speak. "You ain't just gonna leave me here, are you?" A note of terror laced his voice. His gaze flicked to the frozen corpse behind the desk. "You got him to keep you company," said Long Tom, ducking his chin at the corpse. They left the man squawking and spewing invectives. Doc made a final check of the sled's monitor, making certain the dirigible had not moved. It held the same position. He taxied the small plane out onto the snow packed runway. The crate rattled and its heater blew bursts of luke-warm air. The motor strained, coughed, and exhibited a plethora of peculiar noises, but the bronze man had made sure it was air-worthy enough for the trip. The craft lifted into the polar night sky like a drunken dragonfly. The cabin was frigid, despite the laboring heater's best efforts. Monk's teeth chattered and Henry Hanneran's glum look had been replaced by one of terror.

A Doc Savage Adventure

135

The night appeared endless, as if they were flying into the hungry maw of some great beast. Swirls of snow occasionally blustered by. "I hope we get where we're going fast," said Long Tom, wrapping his arms about himself, though they all wore thick parkas. "I'm gonna be one of those frozen men soon if we don't." "You're white enough already," said Renny, shivering violently. Far ahead, just barely in sight, a whitish mass appeared, rearing up from the ebony expanse of Arctic ocean. They flew over the ice-caked shoreline and a rising swell of frozen land, keeping to the coordinates Doc had memorized for the dirigible. The little plane bucked occasionally, turning Henry Hanneran another shade whiter, but even Monk looked too worried to bother harassing the pugilist about it. Another hour dragged by and the plane's motor began to sound somewhat labored. At first it appeared the plane suddenly dipped closer to the ground, but in fact it had encountered a wide ridge jutting up from the pale expanse of snow and ice. The ridge gave way to a deepening depression that dropped over five-hundred feet in a few seconds. The bronze man's trilling, briefly audible, sounded eerie and somehow alien in the confines of the chilly cabin. "What is it, Doc?" asked Monk. "We seem to be flying above a huge crater. I would estimate it is at least two hundred miles across." Monk shook his head in amazement. "Would have taken a pretty big rock to do that." The bronze man nodded. "Considerable. It would have likely hit at a speed close to seven-hundred miles an hour and thrown up a huge amount snow and debris." "Hey, I wonder if that ties in with Johnny's theory about a meteor killin' off the dinosaurs?" A laugh came from Henry Hanneran. It was a booming laugh, totally incongruous given the circumstances, and more than a trifle insane. "Ha! Killed the dinosaurs! Ha. Ha, ha!" "What the devil's wrong with you?" asked Long Tom, irritation in his voice. "A big rock killed the dinosaurs. You're crazy, every last one of you!" Henry Hanneran continued laughing and the whole display was a bit unnerving. "Shut the hell up!" snapped Long Tom, losing his patience with the boxer. "Or we'll drop you out of the plane." That quieted Hanneran down. He went back to his glum silence. "We have bigger problems," said Doc. The plane seemed to drop altitude, despite Doc's best efforts to compensate and keep it at a level height. "Hey, you see that?" Monk suddenly pointed. Far in the distance, along a rising wall of the crater, a hint of bluish glowing mist appeared. "I will head for it," said the bronze man, but the plane suddenly ditched more height and the motor sputtered and spat. The ship rocked under a gust of polar wind and for a moment no one was certain the wings wouldn't come off. The engine died. "We're goin' down..." A note of worry hung in Monk's voice. "Again," said Long Tom. The ground came up a lot faster than anyone wanted it to. Wind shrieked by the

The Polar Terror

136

falling plane, which shivered and rattled. Something, they never were quite certain just what, snapped off and went twirling into the air. Doc fought the controls, managing to keep the aircraft reasonably steady. It hit the ground with little speed and plumes of snow flew up in great cottony clouds. The plane didn't travel far. It seemed to just thuck into a drift, the ground beneath surprisingly solid, and stick there. "That smell..." said Monk. "Fuel's leaking," said Doc. "Out of the plane." They hurried out, the bronze man nearly having to drag Hanneran lose, so tight were his hands clamped to his seat. The air felt nearly solid with cold and gusts whipped stinging bursts of snow and ice particles into their faces. The particles felt like frozen bullets. They trudged their way forward, putting as much distance between them and the plane as possible in the next few moments. The deep snow made the going difficult; their legs ached and each quickened breath came in a painful icy gasp. With a tremendous whoop, the plane exploded. A ball of flame rocketed into the polar night, spraying out like a display of fireworks. Bundles of black smoke billowed. A wave of blasted air slammed into them, knocking all but Doc to the ground. Snow melted by the heat and thrown up into the air froze into shards of ice as it rained back to the earth. "Everyone in one piece?" asked Monk, picking himself up and slapping snow off his clothing. "We just better hope we're close to that dirigible," said Ham. "Or that'll be a moot question." "We are." The bronze man stared off into the distance, where a hint of bluish glow could be seen. "We might move on before we freeze..." They started forward, pummeled by the bitterly cold air and wind-whipped snow. The wind shrieked around them. There was something utterly forlorn and lonesome about the Arctic wastes, the endless expanse of snow and ice. It bit into a man's soul as much as the chilled air and tested the mettle of any explorer brave enough to challenge its reaches. These men--with the notable exception of Henry Hanneran--were as tough and experienced as men came. They had traversed the scorching Arab deserts and trekked through snake-infested jungles, but each felt the incredible awesomeness of this polar wasteland. A blinding geyser of white forced them to join hands and for endless moments the world seemed to have no lines of demarcation. Everything was swirling white, with no beginning or end, no up or down. Snow particles wedged into their boots and parkas and their faces became numb, strangely warm with cold. Breathing the super-chilled air was difficult and painful. Muscles cramped. As the snow settled enough for sight to improve moderately, the strange blue glow appeared much closer. It looked smoky, swirling, swelling like some sort of gigantic genie rising from its bottle. As they drew closer, a looming black opening became visible behind the bluish swirls, which appeared to be clouds of sapphire mist tumbling from the maw. The air seemed somehow less frigid as they approached. "We goin' into that, Doc?" Monk shouted above the howl of the wind.

A Doc Savage Adventure

137

"It appears we have little other choice." Doc Savage went first, walking directly into the clouds. The others quickly followed. Even Hanneran voiced no objection. The opening appeared to be at least two-hundred feet across and hundred high. Within the aperture, the air seemed to glow slightly bluish. The snow did not penetrate far inside. Moving deeper into the opening, they discovered a great cavern, its vaulted ceiling striated with veins of glimmering blue that brightened the deeper they traversed. The mist swirled by, but not enough to obscure their sight. "Holy cow, Doc--look!" Renny jabbed a gloved hand at an incredible sight. A hundred feet ahead, their dirigible floated within the cave, blue mist swirling around it. The airship appeared deserted but Doc used caution in approaching it, just in case. "Why don't we just grab it and fly out of here now?" Henry Hanneran asked, not unreasonably. "You suddenly lose you sense of chivalry?" asked Monk and the ex-pugilist ignored him. Apparently the ordeal had thrown a damper on his affection for Jane Doe. The blimp proved abandoned but they took advantage of the ship's heaters to warm their frozen limbs and dry the snow off their clothing. The air within the cavern was much warmer than outside, though the bluish mist carried certain clammy coldness. "Where are they, Doc?" Monk lowered the hood of his parka. The bronze man shook his head. "It appears they wasted little time going after what they came for." "You act like you know what that is." "I have an idea. They may be disappointed." "I hope we ain't," grumbled Monk. "We might try seeing where they went," the bronze man suggested. Henry Hanneran voiced his disapproval but followed them anyway, having little desire to remain alone with the airship. The cavern led downward at a gentle angle and the bronze man judged they must have traveled deep below the Arctic surface. A number of smaller tributary tunnels branched off but they kept straight on. The air grew warmer and somehow brighter, though everything carried a bluish tint. "It's almost hot in here now," grumbled Long Tom. "Especially after half-freezing to death." They found they could remove their parkas and carry them. "About fifty degrees, and rising," said Doc. Swirls of mist wafted by them, the glowing quality to it eerie, like blue ghosts with chilly clutching fingers. They began to encounter vegetation, at fist sparse then becoming thicker. A number of trees grew, though somewhat stunted, along the east edge, mostly hardwood Northern varieties such as oak and maple. The forest increased as the air grew warmer. They stopped suddenly, Monk jabbing a finger. "Hey, lookit that." "What is all that stuff?" Ham's eyes widened. "Looks like a big pile of junk," said Long Tom. That's basically what it was, a large mound of old plane engine parts, boat pieces such as life rings and oars, plane seats, containers of various sizes and shapes. Monk ambled over to the pile, lifting a preserver. "Hey, it's from that big boat that

The Polar Terror

138

sunk a little over twenty years back, the one that was supposedly unsinkable." "It wasn't a boat it was a ship, you missing link," said Ham, but he looked amazed all the same. "A number of the victims were never found." Doc's flake-gold eyes grew thoughtful. Monk tossed the preserver back into the pile. "I wonder if any of 'em made it here?" Moving forward, they descended deeper into the cavern. The vegetation thickened and the walls suddenly began to glitter. "Hey, lookit them gems!" Monk pointed and let out a whistle. "Those are the biggest sapphires I ever seen." "Jove!' said Ham, eyes wide. "Some rocks," said Renny. A bit farther on they came to strange pool. It was surrounded by an enclosure made of crystal blue, a foot thick and somewhat lighter in hue than the robin's egg sapphires. A crystal bridge spanned its middle. A strange bluish liquid filled the pool, from which curled wisps of azure smoke. The smoke drifted towards the cavern opening. The liquid carried an odd glowing quality. "What is it?" asked Monk. "Why don't you dip your toe into it and find out?" Ham suggested. Monk seemed too amazed to retort. "Those blocks containing it, they're sapphire, a foot thick!" "Not sapphire, Monk." The bronze man knelt beside the pool, observing the blue liquid. "A substance much like obsidian or glass." "How do you know that, Doc?" Monk knelt beside the bronze giant and started to poke a finger at the pool. "Don't touch it," the bronze man said, straightening. He went to the small tree, snapped off a branch and carried it back to the pool. He dipped the end of the stick into the liquid and pulled it out. The stick was smoking slightly. He tapped it against the edge of the blue crystal wall and it shattered. "Howlin' calamities! What is that stuff?" "It is much akin to liquid oxygen, if my theory is correct. The smoke is actually vapor, fortunately not imbued with the same freezing qualities as the liquid." "But, Doc, oxygen ain't a liquid until it reaches more than two-hundred degrees below zero. It ain't that cold in here. What keeps it from evaporating?" "I have not determined all its properties, but my theory is some naturally occurring factor has become part of its makeup and is keeping the liquid stable." "Is it liquid oxygen?" "No. It is something science has never encountered. Most likely it exists only in this cavern." "Why don't the crystal freeze?" "I imagine it has properties that keep it from doing so, much the way regular glass is unaffected by certain acids." "You think that gollywockus is usin' this stuff to freeze them dead men?" "It seems likely." "What about the way it freezes the bodies? It would have to spread somehow in

A Doc Savage Adventure

139

order not to cause localized freezing, wouldn't it?" "Something intrinsic within the liquid acts much like a virus, an extremely aggressive yet inanimate one that ravages whatever it touches almost instantaneously." The bronze man rose and peered ahead. There appeared to be something in the distance, but the wisps of mist made vision unclear. Doc Savage made his way across the crystal bridge, testing it first to make sure it would hold his weight, then indicated for the others to follow one at a time. The brush thickened and they seemed to be following a trail worn smooth by the passage of countless feet. It wound through the forest, towards vague bluish outlines far distant. They only made it a few dozen yards when the vegetation around them suddenly seemed to come alive.

The Polar Terror

140

Chapter 21 THE SAPPHIRE CITY

Nearly a dozen men sprang from various spots within the brush. Some leaped from behind trees, other jumped from behind boulders, but all carried an odd stick-like arrangement with a glowing blue end. In a half-crouch, they shuffled towards Doc and his men, making little sound as they came. They appeared experienced at stealth and even the bronze man's uncanny vision and sense of hearing had failed to discern their presence. Garbed in blue tunics tied with a peculiar sapphire belt that glittered as it caught glints of the blue light within the cavern, they were bare-legged and armed. Hide boots rose to their knees and blue crystal bracelets adorned their left wrists. Half of the attackers were large men, some nearly seven feet tall, wide of shoulder and broad of chest. Their skin was the palest white, almost blue, but the bronze man concluded that was the work of the glow in the cave. Their features appeared Nordic, most having blonde of light-brown hair, close-cropped. The other half were much shorter, darker-featured, with flat wide noses and dark eyes. Black hair hung nearly to their broad shoulders, though a few had lighter locks and appeared to be of mixed lineage. The band encircled Doc and his men, jabbing the strange glowing spears forward in a threatening manner. None spoke, but the man who stepped forward, appearing to be their leader, gestured violently with his stick. "It appears they want us to accompany them," the bronze man said. "We gonna just do it, Doc?" Monk appeared ready to charge one of the men. "We might go along with them and determine what they want." "They're up to no good, I tell you!" Henry Hanneran said. He took a threatening step towards a captor, one of the smaller darker men. The man poked Henry with his stick and the results were little short of comical, though at the same time frightening. Henry Hanneran let out a yowl and fell on the ground. He thrashed about a moment, making animal noises, then sat up and peered about with a glazed look in his eyes and shock on his face. The others watched his actions with a mixture of surprise and, in Monk's case, perverted amusement. Doc Savage knelt, peering into the ex-pugilist's eyes, then helped Hanneran to his feet. The fellow wobbled a moment then steadied. "What happened to him, Doc?" Renny's booming voice sounded much louder in the cavern. Two of the captors closest to the giant engineer jumped back, startled. They peered at Renny with a healthy measure of fear and awe. "It appears he got the equivalent of a cold shock. Is that right, Mr. Hanneran?" Henry Hanneran tried to speak, failed and took another moment to collect himself.

A Doc Savage Adventure

141

He drooled, then wiped it away with the back of his hand. "That's an accurate description. Felt like I grabbed an electrical cable, only it was horribly cold. My whole body went haywire." "I would suggest we do as they indicate." Doc started forward, the strange captors flanking either side of the band. Henry Hanneran stumbled for the first few yards then steadied out. "Are those Eskimos?" asked Monk, as they began moving forward. Doc nodded. "I would hazard they are of mixed native stock, including Eskimos." As they trailed deeper into the subsurface domain, the surroundings changed dramatically. The strange glowing blue light that illuminated the place ran in snaking tubes along certain areas of the cavern wall and high above on the ceiling. The tubing was not a natural occurrence, though the glowing blue liquid that ran through the ducts was. "The lighting in this place..." Monk looked up. "Is quite ingenious." A touch of amazement glittered in Doc's flake-gold eyes. "The outside world has nothing like it." "With all that know-how you'd think they'd be carryin' guns instead of Popsicle sticks..." The homely chemist's brow scrunched. "Maybe they are simply more advanced than we." Ham's sarcasm brought a scowl from Monk. The vegetation gave way to cultivated fields. In numerous places great ducts protruded from the cavern walls, sloughing water, which Doc decided was melting snow from the surface, into irrigation canals that fed crops. The ground became stone pathways leading in many directions, some crystal blue, while others were fashioned of silver and low-grade gold. A latticework affair of streets fanned out towards a center point, low buildings resembling yurts of hardwood and stone dotting the outskirts. A number of people made their ways along the streets, scurrying into buildings as soon as they spotted the party leading Doc and his men. The bronze man caught hushed mutterings of amazement and a few of fright. An eerie pall of fear seemed to reign over the inhabitants for no immediately apparent reason. The denizens of this strange land appeared far more wary over the presence of outsiders than simple timidity might have indicated. Something unrelated to the arrival of Doc and his men had occurred to turn them that way. As the lower buildings gave way, an amazing sight rose before them. The center of the city was composed of great buildings fashioned mainly of sapphire. Huge blocks of the crystalline substance had been chiseled and erected into amazing structures, many of which resembled edifices seen in ancient Roman cities. Crystal slabs fitted close formed courtyards and veins of silver ornamented the framework. Great columns of gold reared from graceful sapphire verandas. The more the bronze man studied the buildings and layout, the more he discerned a melding of many ancient cultures, though the primary influence appeared Nordic and Roman. Greek, Egyptian and Middle Eastern architecture was in evidence as well. The most spectacular structure resembled a Mosque, Manaras with magnificent fluted spires rising from its four sides. The heart of the building was a magnificent dome topped with a gold cupola, lower wings to either side domed with cornices and pendentives. A Shinto gateway, or Torii, with gently concaved lintel stood a hundred yards before the temple-like building. A sweeping courtyard entirely of sapphire

The Polar Terror

142

spread out before the great structure. The courtyard appeared to be the city center. In the distance, the bronze man spotted a pyramid composed completely of sapphire. Its apex rose perhaps seventy-five feet into the air and it more resembled Maya or Aztec architecture than Egyptian. Perhaps the most startling point about the pyramid was not the structure itself, for Doc Savage and his aides had seen many such pyramids deep within the jungles of Hidalgo, but the crystalline statue erected before it. The idol was of a bald, flowing-skinned creature on a great silver block. "Doc…" Monk's high voice got even higher. "Ain't that the gollywockus that turns men into snow cones?" "A likeness of it at any rate. I would venture it is a tribute to some mystical god belonging to these people." Long Tom let out a scoffing noise. "Only we seen that god walkin' around New York." The bronze man remained silent and focused his gaze ahead. The scientist within him, the man taught for years to investigate the most intricate workings of ancient cultures and races, longed to explore the surroundings, study them. Here lived a society hitherto unknown, an amalgamation of cultures and perhaps even races living in harmony. All that the ancient settlers of America, fleeing oppression, had sought and to this day not achieved. Along with that, the resourcefulness of these people, their technology and ability to employ an unknown substance that somehow froze whatever it touched, with the exception of the blue crystal, yet provided lighting and even weapons, fascinated him, made him want to spend carefree hours just cataloging and understanding what he was observing. It struck him Johnny Littlejohn would throw a conniption when he found out what he was missing. They were led through the gateway and across the courtyard. A number of citizens within the area peered out from behind pillars adorning the strangely Romanesque concourse. The captors led them through a huge metal door, a mix of gold and another alloy not readily apparent, into a spacious hall of blue crystal. The hall led on for over a hundred feet, branching off into numerous tributary corridors. The glowing blue liquid ran through veins along the tops of the wall, illuminating the hallway, while tubes shimmering with it striated the floors to either side. Their footsteps clattered in a hollow rhythm along the crystal tiles, though their captors’ steps were noiseless. A number of wall niches held priceless artifacts, representations of ancient Norwegian gods and Viking leaders. Most appeared to be original works. A handful were fashioned of blue crystal and others were rendered in silver or gold. "Whoever lives in these digs has to be wealthier than the Vanderbilts!" Renny's voice rumbled like thunder along the hall. Henry Hanneran shuffled along, eyes wide, mouth agape. Monk noticed a certain glint of greed in his eyes. "Yeah, our boxer here's sure got dollar signs in his peepers!" said the hairy chemist. Doc and his group were led into a room of spectacular proportions. The floor was a fantastic spiraling design of crystal and silver and glowing blue. At one end of the

A Doc Savage Adventure

143

room, two pillars rose to either side, each holding an amazing ball of shimmering blue. In places, grand tapestries hung on the walls, depicting scenes of Viking war ships, marauding bands and voluptuous maidens in alluring poses. Behind the pillars stood an upraised section with three short steps that extended the width of the chamber. Atop the platform, in the center, sat a throne of silver. "Holy Cow!" muttered Renny, his eyes wide with amazement. The incredulity and sense of wonder showed plain on all their faces. Even Doc's normally immobile features registered a sense of awe. Sitting upon the throne was probably the most remarkable woman any of them had ever seen. She rose from her seat, her honey-blonde hair cascading over her bare white shoulders. Her face was a masterpiece unequaled by any classic painter, with amazing blue eyes and skin as fine and smooth as vanilla silk. Her lips, sculpted in perfect lines and full, shimmered softly beneath the blue light. A slightly upturned nose and high cheekbones highlighted her delicate beauty. An intricate sapphire and silver earring dangled from her left lobe and a necklace of gold and crystal graced her slim neck. Her body was a sculpture's dream, with old-fashioned curves that made even the normally misogynistic Long Tom let out a sigh of amazement. A halter-type arrangement fashioned of crystal threads left her shoulders bare and tied behind her back. The garment ended just beneath her ample breasts and, low cut, accentuated the swell of her bosom. Her belly rippled in enticing lines towards the sapphire squares of material joined by silver filaments at her hips, revealing a generous expanse of sensuous thigh. The arrangement dipped halfway to her knees, leaving little to the imagination. Sapphire sandals adorned her small white feet. "Wow, what a pip!" said Monk, jaw agape. "What happened to Jane Doe?" Ham elbowed the homely chemist. "Just cause I got a favorite on the buffet don't mean I can't sample the other offerings." She came down the three steps, her walk grace, her chin high. Blue eyes settled on the bronze man, selecting him instantly as the leader. An electrifying wave sizzled through Doc Savage's body and he felt his toes curl, as the young woman peered at him with appreciation and a certain coyness. The reaction was one with which he was familiar. Many women found themselves immediately enamored with the bronze giant, enraptured by his commanding presence and handsome features, but he had long ago decided there was no place in his life for any sort of relationship with the fair sex. His life held constant danger, and anyone he chose to become attached to would become an instant target for any criminal endeavoring to strike at him. Not that he was unaffected by such beauty; he was, but women frightened him as well. He had never understood them, doubted he ever would. Women were exotic emotional creatures, incapable of being understood by men, and not at all governed by the laws of science and rational behavior with which he was familiar. Sometimes that fact also made then entirely too intriguing. "Hvem er De?" The woman spoke with the voice of an angel, though Doc Savage admitted he had no idea what an angel sounded like. She had the dulcet tones of what he might have expected one to have, if he were inclined to accept such things. "What the devil was that?" Monk's brow scrunched. "Norwegian, a somewhat altered dialect, however." The bronze's man's flake-gold

The Polar Terror

144

eyes settled on the woman, which was not difficult while at the same time nearly impossible. "Jeg er Doc Savage." The woman's eyes widened. "You are the man Professor Denton journeyed to find, ja?" "You speak English?" For one of the few times in his life the bronze giant felt a note of surprise. "Many years ago, more than two decades, visitors from a great ship that sank beneath the waters taught my father. He then taught me how you speak." One of the men holding a glowing stick, the leader of the band, said something in Norwegian to the woman. She replied with a note of anger lacing her voice and all but two of the men departed, bowing as they left. The remaining two took up positions near the doorway, remaining alert. The woman gestured at a huge table at the opposite end of the room. The table was fashioned of polished beams and silver trimmings and set with silver plates. She bade them to take places along the table. "You must be weary and hungry from your journey. We shall speak after you replenish yourselves." "I could sure go for a steak about now," muttered Monk, rubbing his belly. They placed their coats, which they still carried, on a small table she indicated and sat. Within moments, two women, each dressed in more conservative blue tunics, brought plates of steaming meat and silver goblets filled with a sharp dark tea that much resembled earl grey. Doc's group was hungrier than they thought and all devoured their meals except Henry Hanneran, who eyed the food suspiciously, as though he suspected it were poisoned. After the others remained amongst the living, he gobbled his meal. "What is this stuff, anyway?" asked Monk, picking at his teeth with his pinkie nail. "Got a funny taste to it. I didn't notice at first because I was so hungry, but now that I think about it..." The young woman smiled, an entrancing expression that put a mooning look on Ham Brooks' handsome face. "It is polar bear and walrus steak. The vegetables are grown here; they are called myjunas." Monk made a funny expression then shrugged and wolfed down another piece. "You sent Professor Denton to seek my help?" Doc Savage asked, after they were finished. "We have experienced much turmoil. He told me of a man who lived in the outside land, a man who aided people who were oppressed." "That explains the welcoming committee," said Ham, nodding. "Some men might have come before us." The bronze man's voice remained even. "Were they escorted to this palace as well?" "Nej. No. The men who brought you were a hunting party. A lookout sighted a polar bear wandering into this land. They were sent to capture it." "They were very skilled at stealth," said Monk, skeptical. Ham made a pfft sound. "Have you ever tried to sneak up on a polar bear, you missing link?" Monk frowned. "What were they gonna do, shock it to death?" The young woman laughed an angelic laugh. "That is precisely what they would do, apish one." Ham let out a snicker. "Who are you, anyway? What is this place?"

A Doc Savage Adventure

145

"I am Princess Juwyl, the ruler of Frjyslandt. My father, King Eryc, passed only a few months ago. I am his only heir." "How long you been here?" asked Long Tom, sipping his goblet of tea and making a face. "We have always been here. My race is very old." "There are other races..." The bronze's man words were more a statement of fact than a question. "Yes, many have intermingled, what the white men from the ship called Indians, ancient races as well. We have blended many cultures and ideas." "There was another man, one named Jefferson Doe? Where is he now?" Her gaze dropped a moment, her face darkening with grief. She looked back to the bronze man. "I do not know. He vanished over a week ago, right before Professor Denton departed on his journey." "No one saw him abducted?" "Nej. He vanished right here in the palace while he was working in Jurg's laboratory late at night." The bronze man's flake-gold eyes stirred. "You mentioned trouble; that is part of it?" "Yes, a small part." "Many of your people appeared frightened." "They are terrified of the frozen death." "Not hard to imagine why," said Monk, nodding. "We've seen enough of that to frighten even us." "It is horrible." Her eyes appeared sorrowful, tinted with fear, but also with courage. "But I will die the same way before I let Jurg rule this land." "Perhaps," said Doc Savage, "you should start from the beginning." She nodded, her lips tight with emotion. "Jurg was our greatest scientist. He found many ways to harness the bluepool, use it for the benefit of every Frjyslandtian, but he never accepted my rule. He does not believe women are capable of governing alone. He began to act strangely." "Strangely how?" Monk cocked an eyebrow. "He began to acquire odd notions about changing the harmony of this land. He saw us separately from the darker peoples of this place. He believed they were inferior and should be turned into slaves or imprisoned. I told him I would never allow such foolishness and that his views were foreign to this place. We have always been one people." "I take it he didn't appreciate that idea?" Renny asked, face growing gloomier. She seemed to search for words a moment. "If you mean he did not like it, nej. At first he appeared to accept it but soon he became more and more sullen and withdrawn. He made statements about my rule, calling me unfit and diseased with old ideas. He began to make speeches within the courtyard, as is the right of all citizens here when they wish to voices opinions. But he said horrible things, said he could prove the darker ones were of inferior intelligence and breeding, that those men were no more than the beasts, intended to carry the burdens of those superior in intellect and prowess. Many did not listen until..." She paused, face growing darker. "Until what?" Monk leaned forward, features intent.

The Polar Terror

146

"Until the Karljyneg." She shivered. "What exactly is a Karl-what-choo-ma-call-it?" Monk asked. "Karljyneg. He is our deity, the giver of all life. His statue stands before the scared pyramid. He came here millennia ago and seeded our people, taught them how to use the bluepool." "But what does that have to do with this Jurg fellow?" Ham's face took on a perplexed look. "And if this Karljyneg sired your people why would anyone be afraid of him?" "Because the people of this land began to see Karljyneg again. He appeared one day before the courtyard. At first people rejoiced, for it was prophesized he would someday return and lead us to our rightful place on the surface world, a day when that world would be ready for our kind. But he reached out and touched one of the darker men." "I think I can guess what happened." Monk shivered. "He was frozen instantly. It was horrifying to witness. The mist came from him and when Karljyneg pushed the man over he broke into many pieces." "I still don't quite understand how all this connects," said Long Tom, frowning and tugging on an ear. "Karljyneg vanished before the pyramid and Jurg made a speech. He said the Blue One was displeased with us for allowing the darker peoples to remain as equals and me to remain in power. He warned as long as all remained as it was more would die by the frozen death. Within days, more men were found that same way." "All members of the darker race..." said Doc Savage, flake-gold eyes restless. "Ja. The people of this place became frightened, but did not challenge my rule, though a few began to join Jurg, and later still more. Not a sufficient number to overthrow me, for I have ample followers and guards, but enough to indicate what would soon happen if the unrest were not stopped." "That's when Professor Denton and Jefferson Doe came here?" She nodded. "Ja, they were conducting an expedition and discovered this cavern. They wished to remain to study, though in some ways Jefferson Doe reminded me a little of Jurg. He did not have the same ideas, but he was very scientific, distant. Reginald Denton was different. He cared about our people and their plight. He told me only one man was capable of aiding us and convinced me if I did not act soon many more would perish. I refused to watch any more of my people die so horribly and I could not turn my rule over to Jurg and allow him to enslave innocent men. I did not believe his ramblings." "A number of men in the outside world have used that argument to justify their own thirst for power and control over others," said Doc Savage. "It invariably leads to much misery and bloodshed. Some men tried it in the last century and a certain power in Europe is starting to make rumblings about it now." Her face saddened. "We have never been touched by such hatred and small thinking, at least until now." "Where exactly is this Jurg at the moment?" asked Monk. "I'd like to show him a thing or two about inferiority." "He has not been seen in over a week. Perhaps he has vanished for good." "I wouldn't bet on it," said Renny. "Your Karljyneg found its way to New York and I wager this Jurg had somethin' to do with it."

A Doc Savage Adventure

147

The princess opened her mouth to speak but whatever she was about to say became lost as sharp cry came from the from the outer hall. Monk started and Doc Savage came to his feet just as a guard entered, worry on his face. "Jurg, har har returnert!" The man's voice was shrill with excitement. "Han taler i gårdsplassen." The princess's face grew distressed. She dismissed the guard, who bowed and scurried off. "What did she say?" asked Monk. "He said Jurg has returned. He is making a speech in the courtyard. Doc Savage was already halfway down the hall by the time she finished the words.

The Polar Terror

148

Chapter 22 DEATH IN SAPPHIRE

Citizens of both races crowded the courtyard, the darker native types and larger Nordics. A murmur rose from the gathering, hushed tones laced with an occasional sharp cry of disgust from one of the darker men. Intense looks tightened the faces of a number of citizens, who nodded at intervals. Dressed in a blue tunic, a man stood on a blue crystal platform that elevated him above the rest of the gathering. A large man, with dirty blond hair, ropy muscle and wide shoulders, he presented a charismatic presence that held even detractors spellbound. A look of fanatical conviction glittered within his piercing blue eyes. The vicious intensity welded to the man's face reminded Doc of the look wielded by a certain dictator who was making stomping sounds in Eastern Europe. A hatred, as pure and pernicious as the blackest promise of evil. A hatred that played on fear and prejudice and swallowed the unwitting and weak, corrupting them to carry out its bidding, propagate its loathsome message. Society's true and interminable virus. Doc Savage halted at the back of the crowd, his men, the princess, as well as a number of her guards, lining up to either side of him. The man on the platform, his high forehead creasing with deep lines, leveled an arm and swept it above the heads of the crowd in a regal gesture. His voice rose in a passionate bark. "We are the superior people!" His tone rang with the surety of a zealot espousing his cause. "We are the lighters, the power, the original inhabitants of this land. Our heritage is rule, yet we have diluted its immaculate supremacy. The Blue One is much displeased the bloodlines have mingled. He brings the frozen death upon the dark ones, and soon he will bring it upon others if his words remain unheeded." He gazed at his audience, nodding a firm nod. "There those among you who doubt this edict. They perceive all men as equal, but do not be deceived, for they are afflicted with the immoral disease of racial communion." He paused, looking over the gathering, eyes narrowing. He was apparently pleased with what he saw because the confidence on his face grew, became more fervent. "This disease must be cleansed from our pure blood, expunged as even the grains of sand are filtered from the water. These darker ones were meant to be used as the animals, for beasts of burden, nothing more. They are inferior in intellect and in strength. In character. Their brains are smaller, as are their bodies. They soil whatever they touch." The murmuring increased, gasps coming from the darker people, whose faces tightened with disgust and not a little worry. "No lighter will be required to lift a finger if I am to rule. All labor will be

A Doc Savage Adventure

149

completed by those the Blue One has deemed below us. Your princess suffers from the disease, as do many of you. But I can cure this affliction, cleanse your filthy blood. You will convince her a new savior has come, sprung from the loins of the magnificent Karljyneg, the Giver of All. She will soon beg me to show her the truth of the Blue One. But I need your help, the help of all lighters of Frjyslandt." A disturbing shift in attitude occurred with the gathering, hushed murmurs turning to affirmations and nods of approval for the speaker. The man's powerful voice was having its effect, for he was playing on weeks of pent-up fear and the princess's so far impotent ability to halt the frozen death. Many, spurred by Jurg's words of hate, were no doubt beginning to question whether they had brought on the malady themselves, by accepting the policies if equality and harmony. Jurg and this mysterious Blue One had left just enough of the frozen corpses to plant the seed of terror and now he was fertilizing the soil. Soon, perhaps within hours, he would reap the harvest of malice. The bronze man was familiar with the workings of demagogues such as Jurg and the sight of it brought a measure of disgust to his being. "You are a fool, Jurg!" yelled a dark man from the crowd, stepping forward. "You speak the language of hate and dissension. Long ago such foul wisdom was outlawed. We must live as one people to survive in this place, as we have done since the beginning." Jurg's cold eyes settled on the objector and even from the distance Doc Savage saw bitter rebuke glitter within the blue orbs. "You are the one who speaks the wisdom of a fool, my friend. I bring the Word of the Blue One, He that is All. He has granted me the power to administer his punishment upon those who refuse to heed his enlightenment. I, Jurg, the Second Hand of Karljyneg!" Princess Juwyl's face reddened with anger and the young woman spoke up. "What is the meaning of such nonsense, Jurg? Why do you incite such hatred amongst the people?" The large man's bitter gaze focused upon the woman, a lustful sweep of his vision showing his true motives towards her. "You have allowed strangers to live among us as equals, Princess. And now you bring more, men who would seek to subvert the Word of the Blue One. I made you an offer to rule by my side, to be my queen. Yet you foolishly mock me and refuse." "He wants you to be his queen?" asked Monk, irritation in his tone. "Yes, apish one. It is the custom of my people that a princess may only be queen if she weds." "Wouldn't the king have a big say then?" asked Ham. "Yes, he would be the primary lawgiver. I am the first woman to rule this land unmarried. Since my father's passing, Jurg has spoken his words of hate and asked my hand in ceremony." "Maybe we should give this guy something new to think about, Doc." Monk balled a hairy fist. Doc held up a restraining hand. "We are guests here, Monk. It is not our place to speak unless the princess approves." "Please, Doc Savage, this courtyard is the forum of opinion. It has always been such and all may speak freely." She gave the bronze man a smile that made him entirely uncomfortable. His flake-gold eyes centered upon the figure standing before the crowd. "If your

The Polar Terror

150

god truly wished you to speak for him he would not have you utter such words of disharmony." His voice lifted above the murmur, sharp and clear and the anger within Jurg's eyes increased. "You have great power in your world, bronze one. But here you are no more than another dark-skinned inferior. You are not better than the beasts of the forest or the fish of the waters. Your strength will dig many fields and carry many sacks of grain." "That is enough, Jurg!" The princess's angelic tones carried a razor edge now. Her eyes narrowed to slits and her lips pulled into disapproving lines. "I will never be wed to one such as you and your law will never govern this land. You no more bring the Word of the Blue One than you bring sense to your notions." The large man's eyes darkened, a storm raging behind them. His fist clenched and balls of muscles stood out to either side of his jaw. "You would do well to yield your tone, woman. I will not have a wife speak to me in such a manner." "You hear, Jurg, but you do not listen. "I will never accept your proposal and you will never rule." The darkness in his eyes swarmed over his face. Spittle gathered at the corners of his lips. "You speak presumptuously, Princess, as well as foolishly. I bring more than words from the Blue one. I bring a final warning and I seal it with the power he has granted me to call upon his might. You will turn over the strangers to me and accept my proposal within one dag, or many men will come with weapons the likes of which you have never witnessed. Many will die and your guards will be powerless to stop the assault." "One dag?" muttered Monk. "That sounds like we got a while." The princess frowned. "It is the equivalent of twenty-four of your hours." "One day?" Surprise jumped into the hairy chemist's voice. She nodded and peered at Jurg. "You have lost your mind in the time you have been absent, foolish one. Such weapons do not exist." Doc Savage's trilling sounded and the princess cast him a puzzled look. He promptly stopped the sound. "You do not believe him, do you, bronze one?" she asked. "The Blue One has stolen some rifles from our world. They do exist and it is not unreasonable to assume he has plans to use them." Shock hardened her face. "You have seen the Blue One?" Doc nodded. "He has brought some men to this land, men who will stop at nothing to gain wealth and power." "And he kidnapped the doctor's daughter, Jane," put in Monk, concern in his voice. "I cannot marry such a man and subject my people to slavery." A note of doubt crept into her voice. Doc Savage knew she was weighing the evils of subjugation and a life with a man she detested against the deaths of innocent people. Jurg was giving her little choice and he knew it. She was strong, with courage enough for any five men, but she cared deeply about her people and that was preying on her mind. "You have one day as they say in the outer world," said Jurg. "And so you will know that I do not make idle boasts as to the Blue One's decree..." He raised his hand, palm up, and made a slight waving motion. A man stepped from the edge of the courtyard, from where he had been concealed

A Doc Savage Adventure

151

near a large sapphire block nearly his height. "Hey, he's got one of our superfirers!" snapped Long Tom, face hardening into an angry mask. "It must be the one Pizzicato stole from me!" Doc Savage had noted the same detail seconds before Long Tom spoke. The man with the superfirer, obviously one of Snapper Prozini's gang, raised the gun and aimed at the dark man who had challenged Jurg's word. The smaller man's eyes widened in fear but he seemed cemented where he stood. Doc's hand flashed to his belt, snatching up the grappling hook and thin line he always carried. In nearly the same motion, his hand flicked out, hurling the grapple. The hook shrieked towards the man with the rapidfirer. A deep-throated sound like a base violin string being plucked rang out as the gangster pulled the trigger. The grapple glanced off the top of the thug's head with enough force to lift the man completely off the ground and kick him backwards half a dozen feet. The rapidfirer flew from his grip and clattered on the sapphire walkway. The man lay still, blood trickling down his temple. The throw had come a fraction too late. The darker man shrieked for only an instant before something hit his chest and penetrated his tunic. A splotch of blue appeared, quickly sizzling across his front and he froze where he stood, a terrified expression etched onto his face. Wisps of vapor curled from his body. A cacophony of screams ripped from those standing closest to him. None dared touch the smoking corpse. They moved back, faces fraught with utter fear. A gasp sounded from the princess and her hand went to her mouth. "The frozen death can be delivered from a weapon..." Her voice sounded incredulous. "Jurg has somehow done the impossible." "Not impossible," Doc Savage said, "but it does present him with a formidable advantage." The bronze's man voice came with a certain note of grimness. One of his modified guns had provided the gang with the idea for hurling the frozen death. Pizzicato had likely examined Long Tom's rapidfirer and discovered the thin-walled glass shells that normally contained a knockout drug. From there, it was a short step for one with his knowledge of gadgets to employ the substance that caused the frozen corpses into the same medium. Doc felt a measure of responsibility for inspiring such a method. Glittering with grimness, his flake-gold eyes settled on the large man atop the platform. Jurg's face was twisted with gloating. Storms of swirling gold roiled within the depths of the bronze man's gaze as he began to push through the crowd, heading towards the renegade scientist. The large man lost his gloating look and apparently most of his courage at the sight of the bronze Nemesis threading towards him. He leaped from the platform and dashed through the gateway with startling speed. Doc Savage managed to get through the frightened congregation and was only a few seconds behind the fleeing Jurg. The bronze man whipped through the gateway and headed for him, using every ounce of his incredible speed. Doc Savage could best Olympic runners' times for the hundred-yard dash, but for a large man Jurg made amazing speed. Doc slowed as Jurg rounded the corner of a low building, having no wish to be surprised if Pizzicato had arranged some sort of trap. He hadn't. Doc glimpsed the

The Polar Terror

152

retreating figure arrowing for the open area that led towards the sapphire pyramid. The bronze man gained a fraction. Jurg cast a glance backward and let out a slight sound of fright. The move caused him to miss his step on a fist-sized sapphire embedded into the ground. So great was his speed he got no chance to recover his balance and right himself. He fell, curling into a tumble and coming up half on his feet, his back to Doc. The bronze man leaped, a tremendous jump that sent him hurling trough the air more than eighteen feet to land just behind the rising Jurg. The renegade scientist whirled, swinging a punch at the same time. The fellow was extremely agile and the punch came a lot faster than the bronze man expected was possible. That blow held lightning and though Doc reacted immediately, he still wasn't fast enough to avoid it completely. Jurg's blocky knuckles clacked off Doc's temple and the bronze man saw an explosion of stars. He took a step backward, shaking his head. He couldn't recall ever being hit quite that fast and that hard by anyone in his life. The blow stunned him, but so great was his resilience he recovered within seconds. Just in time to see another blow from the frightened Jurg streaking towards his face. Jurg, judging the bronze man temporarily defenseless, had swung wild. Panic glared from the scientist's eyes as well; for some reason, despite his great strength and speed, Jurg was obviously afraid of Doc Savage. Doc saw only one way for that to have occurred, but did not have time to stop and accuse his attacker. He ducked. Jurg's wild blow sailed over his head. Coming back up, he brought a bronze fist from his hip in a short arc into Jurg's ribs. The blow landed with a resounding thud and should have been enough to crack a few bones. Jurg took it with a grunt and the fearful expression dancing in his eyes went from four-quarter to cut time. He staggered back a step, then recovered and lunged, spittle flying from his lips. Doc swung again and Jurg countered with a chopping left that cracked the bronze man solid across the jaw. His entire lower face rang with pain and the stars were back before his vision for an instant. On instinct, Doc pivoted and snapped a roundhouse kick into Jurg's side. The large man stumbled right and groaned, almost going down. His legs buckled but recovered enough to keep him on his feet. The bronze man stepped in, only to find the renegade scientist had played up his condition. Jurg used his head to butt Doc in the chest. The butt felt like a mule kicking. The bronze man grunted and snapped a left hook. Jurg jigged backward, the blow glancing from his ear. He staggered and let out a Norwegian expletive that would have made even Monk blush. In the following minute there came an almost cartoonish exchange of blows from flying fists and feet, along with grunts and groans, thuds and thwacks. Doc managed to poke a finger into Jurg's Adam's apple and got it pulled out of joint for his effort. Elbows seemed to come from everywhere, landing in nearly every soft spot either of them possessed. Within a few moments, the bronze man's strength and training started to assert itself, but he would have enough damage to look and feel as if he'd lost the battle.

A Doc Savage Adventure

153

Abrasions and livid bruises already marred his handsome features. His lips were broken and a number of ribs paining. His shirt was torn half to shreds. Jurg was in no better condition, his white face reddened and bloodied, his lips swollen, eyes blackened. He breathed in searing gasps and staggered. Doc was himself breathing heavier than he had in ages and his legs felt slightly quivery. Jurg collapsed suddenly and the bronze man hesitated before approaching him, cautious of another trick. The renegade scientist remained still and Doc, trying to catch his breath, prodded him with a boot toe. For an extra precautionary measure, he fished a glass anesthetic ball from his vest and, using his heel, broke it beside his fallen opponent's face, then held his breath a moment until the gas dissipated. He went to turn the man over. Perhaps under other circumstances the bronze man might have recalled back in New York the gang had been aware of his gas balls. But he was weary from the incredible battle that had just taken place, and though he would have surely beaten the powerful Jurg if the scientist had gotten up, he did not get the chance. Jurg had apparently managed to stick his face in the dirt and breath through the ground, avoiding the gas. For when Doc Savage rolled him over he sprang to life like letgo spring. In his hand, he clenched the fist-sized sapphire he'd originally tripped over. Doc saw it coming, but was a fraction too slow in getting out of the way. It ricocheted off his forehead and he fell backwards, blood trickling over his eyes from a small gash in his brow. Jurg bounded to his feet. Apparently he'd experienced his fill of physical combat, because he lit off towards the pyramid a few hundred feet in the distance with all the speed of which he was capable. Doc dazed, staggered to his feet, bursting into motion only a few seconds behind the man, but it was enough for Jurg to escape. Even so, the bronze giant might have caught him, but when the scientist rounded the pyramid he simply vanished. Doc Savage, recovering his balance and breath, surveyed the pyramid, walking around the entire length but discovered no sign of the former palace scientist. He discerned no obvious openings in the pyramid nor footprints indicating where the man had fled. The area surrounding the great structure was of crystal and silver, worn by countless feet and it made tracking the fellow nearly impossible. He gave up the search for the time being, more than a little annoyed with himself for being taken in, though Jurg should have had no way of knowing about the gas balls. That he did, confirmed the bronze man's suspicions about the fellow. Doc Savage retraced his path back to the palace. By the time he reached the gateway, he noted most of the crowd had dispersed, the morbid reminder of death in the form of the frozen corpse still standing within the courtyard. He gazed about, but failed to find the gangster he'd knocked out with his grappling hook, though he did locate the grapple itself. He replaced it at his waist. The superfirer was missing, however. He made his way back into the palace, and halted as he entered the great hall. Guards stepped from all around him, armed with the glowing sticks and jabbing them at his torso. The princess came from one of the rooms, a sorrowful look on her face. She hung her head as she stepped closer to the bronze man, then met his gaze. "I am sorry, bronze one. But I must do this." "My men?" "Are my prisoners for the time being, as now are you."

The Polar Terror

154

"You are making a mistake, Princess. My men can help you." "I cannot risk the lives of my people on your word, Doc Savage, no matter how much I believe you would keep it. The weapons they possess are too powerful for us to defend against and in the morning I will place you with Jurg and accept his proposal of marriage. I have no other choice, though it pains me greatly." "Jurg disappeared around the pyramid. There must be a way inside." "No one enters the pyramid. It was sealed by the Blue One millennia ago. It is sacred. Not even Jurg would dare defy that tenant." Doc Savage did not agree. "The man who fired the weapon, where is he? He can be made to talk. He can tell us if Jurg went inside." "He cannot tell us anything now, Doc Savage." "I have chemicals that may loosen his tongue." "You do not understand. He had taken the life of another. We have no tolerance for that in this place. No murders have occurred in this land for over three-hundred years until the frozen death." Doc Savage did not care for the suspicion he was getting. "What became of him?" "He was led to the bluepool and thrown in." For all the more peaceful aspects of the Frjyslandtian society they apparently dispensed with due course and it gave the bronze man pause. The gangster had clearly committed murder and it was probably a quicker death he would have received had he gone to the electric chair, but somehow he had not expected such swift cold justice from these people. He was also vaguely annoyed he could not question the man. With a gesture to one of the guards, the princess indicated Doc's vest, which showed through his torn shirt. The guard tentatively stripped Doc of the garment and grappling hook, but left the chain mail undershirt beneath. Since they had no guns they apparently didn't consider the bulletproof material much danger. Jabbing their glowing sticks, they urged him along the hallway and around a corner, the princess watching them go, her face deepening with regret. He knew her decision had not come easily. She had decided the good of her people was worth her own unhappiness and the sacrifice of a few strangers, because she saw no other option. If the situation hadn't been so dire he might have admired her courage. As it was, he decided her decision was one he could not accept.

A Doc Savage Adventure

155

Chapter 23 INSIDE THE PYRAMID

Doc Savage, his men and Henry Hanneran sat on floor mats that doubled as beds in a comfortable chamber in the palace. The room was elegantly decorated in crystal, silver and gold, with velvet tapestries draped on the walls, but the lush surroundings did not detract from the deadly seriousness of their situation. They'd been confined within the chamber by a generous locking mechanism secured to the silver door. The bronze man had studied the contrivance and concluded that without his vest he did not have the tools available to pick the lock. "You think she's really gonna give us to that big hate-peddler?" asked Monk, back propped against a blue crystal wall. The lighting within the chamber was subdued. Evidently the entire system could be regulated from some central location and the lights had been lowered for the night. "Why do you think we're prisoners, you missing link?" Ham made a grimace. "She's not planning a knighting ceremony for us." Monk scowled at the dapper lawyer. "Maybe we could convince the Blue One to sacrifice just you." "At least my frozen corpse wouldn't frighten little children." "Will you two birds pipe down," said Long Tom, irritation lacing his tone. "It's bad enough without you arguing all night." "What are you worried about?" asked Monk. "You're too ornery to freeze." "Don't start that with me or you'll rue the day." Long Tom sounded as if he meant it. "Why don't you all just shut up," put in Henry Hanneran. "It's your fault we're in this situation. What a bunch of lame-brains you turned out to be." Monk raised an eyebrow. "You weren't happy when we left you behind and you ain't happy now. Maybe you'd prefer to be out there takin' your chances with that Karls-ama-call-it fellow." "I couldn't do any worse." Henry grumbled and plastered a sour expression on his face. Folding his arms, he peered at the bronze man. "You just gonna sit there like a bump on a bullfrog?" The bronze man's flake-gold eyes remained placid. He sat against the north wall, his forearms crossed over his drawn-up knees. "What would you have me do?" Henry spat out a curse. "I dunno, live up to your reputation or something." He couldn't have put any more venom into the statement if he were a cobra. Monk appeared on the verge of delivering some unkind retort when Doc Savage rose to his feet and peered at Long Tom.

The Polar Terror

156

"You still have your listening device on you?" Long Tom gave a curt nod. "Sure, Doc." The electrical wizard pulled the tiny apparatus from his pocket. Henry Hanneran sneered and let out a scoffing laugh. "Sure, that he keeps." "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Long Tom eyed the ex-pugilist with a rattlesnake-daring-a-mouse-to-move look. "They wouldn't have got your fancy gun that man in the courtyard wouldn't be a snow cone and the princess wouldn't have decided to turn us all over to the gang." Long Tom's mouth snapped shut. A skeleton of guilt peered from his eyes. He pulled at his ear lobe and twisted his mouth into disgusted expressions. "There is plenty of blame to go around," said Doc Savage, moving for the chamber door. "Let us hope we can set things right for the rest of these people." He pocketed the listening device, then knelt by the lock mechanism. Bronze fingers went to his mouth, probing against a cheek and dislodging a fake molar. He brought the tooth to the lock and tapped it open, sprinkling a small amount of the powder within into the keyhole, then returned the empty tooth to his mouth. The bronze man turned to Henry Hanneran. "Monk told me you went out for cigars..." "Yeah, what of it?" Henry gave the bronze giant a challenging look. "You feelin' guilty 'bout something?" Monk prodded, picking up on the man's defensive tone. "Hell, no! Just you guys are always lookin' for someone to blame your screw-ups on and it ain't about to be me." "Mother Nature beat us to it," Ham said. Henry's face reddened. "Why you prissy little turd in a turnover, I oughta--" "Do you have any matches?" the bronze man asked, before another murder got added to the already long list. Henry blinked, gave Ham a look that promised another time would come, and fished in a pocket. "Yeah, course, I got matches." He tossed a stick to the bronze man. Doc Savage struck the match on a pant leg and inserted the stick into the keyhole, unlit end first. He waited for the match to burn down and turned his torso and face away from the lock. A muffled bang sounded, followed by a searing noise. A flash of light and smoke came from the keyhole. The bronze man turned back to the door and eased it open, the lock mechanism having surrendered under the explosive powder. Monk began to get up but Doc Savage waved him back. "Wait here. And make sure no one raises enough fuss to attract the attention of anyone in the palace." He glanced at Henry Hanneran, who got an indignant look on his face. "What are you going to do, Doc?" the hairy chemist asked. The bronze man was already through the door by the time his aide completed the question. He drifted out into the great hall, the lowered blue lights along the wall and floor giving the corridor an eerie otherworld appearance. The flesh on his forearms and chest prickled with the feeling, though he was normally not given to such things. Something about the unnerving frozen deaths and the gravity of the predicament combined with this strange new world brought on the sensation. Here was a civilization that had somehow

A Doc Savage Adventure

157

miraculously existed through the centuries in an integrated harmony, something the outside world would have done well to strive for, and that harmony was threatened by the merchant of hate, Jurg. It seemed a tremendous thing to lose, such peace and equality, a condition the surface races might never achieve. There was something pristine, unsoiled, about it, something that once destroyed could never be regained. In a way, it reflected the code and mission the bronze man had sworn his life to, the ridding of crime and evil throughout his own world. Perhaps that was what moved him to such stirrings of urgency--the need to preserve that which was pure, dreamt of only in his father's philosophies. He could readily see what the former palace scientist stood to gain from his actions: power, a woman whose beauty was equaled by few others, and the promise of a life unfettered by labor. He would command all the land's riches, reap its rewards, all at the cost of other men's sweat and blood. Even more, Jurg reminded the bronze man of another who had risen from obscurity in a small eastern European country, a man who thrived on discord and was nurtured by hate. That man, for the moment, appeared somewhat untouchable, nations complacent and even fearfully indulgent towards him. Jurg was a different story. Perhaps the bronze man could do something about this tyrant. He seemed to glide along the hall, ears pricked for the slightest sound, eyes alert for any threat of discovery. He slipped past the throne room with its great table. The princess sat at the table, her head buried in her hands, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the decision she was being forced into making. He did not envy her. His own decisions were confident, lightning fast, but then he did not have a kingdom at stake. Perhaps if he had his path might not have been such a clear one. He moved onward, exploring the corridors, seeking the renegade scientist's laboratory. The princess had told him Dr. Doe vanished from that lab and Doc Savage knew somehow the kidnappers had infiltrated the palace. Combined with the fact that he believed the man was indeed entering the pyramid somehow, perhaps a connection was likely. It took him another half-hour to locate the room. The palace turned out to be a veritable honeycomb of chambers and a number of them proved occupied by guards or hired servants. He nearly stumbled over a guard and had to do some quick backtracking to keep from being discovered. The laboratory was barely lit by a nightlight-like arrangement in a corner. He noted the lab contained a number of the usual things labs held, only beakers and test tubes were made of sapphire. He noticed some archeological specimens as well, and assumed these indicated something Dr. Doe was working on when he vanished. He became a bronze ghost in the room, drifting to the far wall and pressing his fingers to the smooth sapphire blocks. The crystal felt cool to the touch, almost vibrating in some places, and he assumed this came from whatever system they used to convert the blue liquid into lighting. Plucking the listening device from his pocket, he went to a table and located a sapphire slightly smaller than the one he'd examined in New York. Returning to the wall, he stuck the listening device in his ear and pressed the diaphragm to the wall. He tapped along the blocks with the sapphire he'd taken from the table and began moving left, listening intently to the timbre of sound echoing from each strike. The wall, he decided, was at least three-feet thick in most places until he came to a certain spot. Pausing, he

The Polar Terror

158

tapped; a hollow clink came through the earphone. This portion of the wall was likely only six inches thick, the space behind it empty. The bronze man returned Long Tom's apparatus to his pocket then pocketed the sapphire as well. His fingertips drifted over the wall, his touch sensitive enough to read even the most minuscule indentations and bumps. A slightly worn area the size of a man's hand lay just to his left. He pressed the spot. With a mechanical whirring, the wall slid inward, revealing an opening just big enough to accommodate his large frame. Doc Savage slipped into the niche, having to turn sideways to maneuver his way along the tunnel. No light came from within and he was suddenly glad he did not suffer from claustrophobia, for the space was cramped and black and he had no idea whether anything was ahead of him. If Jurg had gotten Doe out this way it must have been no easy feat. The tunnel began to slant sharply downward and he was conscious of it angling around. He decided it led beneath the courtyard and in the direction of the pyramid. The walls felt damp and chilled and he heard dripping plinks from seepage in the stone. Something scurried by his feet and he had little desire to discover just what it was, so he moved on before giving himself time to think about it. Despite his tremendous control, an extended period in this sensory-deprived tunnel might start to play on his mind. Ahead, a dull blue glow caught his eye. He had to admit the sight was a welcome one. The glow became brighter the closer he got to it and the tunnel widened somewhat, the walls turning from stone to blue crystal. A bright area at the end told him the tunnel led directly into an open room. Doc Savage reached the opening, halting, flake-gold eyes stirring restlessly. The tunnel exited at another laboratory, larger than the one in the palace. A man sat hunched over a long table, working over something. The man was clearly not a native of this land, but one of Pizzicato's gangsters. The bronze man glided into the room, making no sound as he swept across the floor. He reached the gangster before the man had a chance to sense his presence and let out an alarm. The bronze man's fingers clamped to the back of the fellow's neck and manipulated a nerve center. The man went slack and Doc lowered him to the floor. Doc Savage's eyes sparkled with grim lights as they roved over the table's contents. A number of rifles, ones stolen from the Bogart Munitions Factory, were lined in neat rows along the table. The bronze man lifted one, examining the firing mechanism. Pizzicato was a fast learner and the blame for that knowledge lay on Doc's shoulders. The gadget-wielding gumshoe had discovered the system Doc used for modifying the machine pistols to fire mercy bullets and subsequently altered the rifles to do the same. He had probably performed most of the modifications on the dirigible during the trip. His flake-gold eyes grew hard. He spent the next fifteen minutes inspecting each rifle, discovering each had been fitted with the same adjustments. A certain coldness of spirit went through him as he handled each gun, knowing what they would be used for and realizing he alone was responsible for making certain they did not accomplish their purpose. Another fifteen minutes with the rifles only made the grimness in his gaze deepen. Perhaps some decisions were not so easy for him after all. His attention next settled on where the gangster had been working. A series of

A Doc Savage Adventure

159

molds in the shapes of little balls held sapphire globules filled with glowing blue. In one heated container resided a liquid form of the crystal, which the man had been pouring into the mold, also made of sapphire. A crystal ladle lay beside a crystal beaker of glowing blue liquid. A flat container with a hundred individual pockets held at least fifty completed balls, which would serve as ammunition for the guns, bringing the frozen death. Pizzicato had obviously taught the man how to construct the crystal shells and the thug had been busy stocking their supply. Doc Savage lingered in the room, a measure of amazement at the Jurg's industriousness with the blue crystal taking him. Perhaps under other circumstances the man would have made wondrous advances for his race. One more object demanded his attention and he went to another table, which held a bundle of blue fabric. The bronze man used caution lifting the material, discovering it was a costume. The same construction as the princess's apparel, it was composed of glittering sapphire, which they had somehow managed to make malleable enough to form clothing. Even the bronze man could not immediately discern the process. The suit sparkled under the blue lighting. The cowl contained a filter sewn into the mouth, which disguised the wearer's voice. Mesh eyelets allowed one-way vision. A flexible crystal vein leading from a backpack-type arrangement wove down the length of an arm. Within the pack, two containers held glowing blue liquid. Doc examined the right hand of the suit, discovering it held a dozen retractable crystal needles. He was careful not to prick himself on one. The outfit and method of delivering the blue liquid though the glove confirmed the bronze man's theory about the so-called Blue One. It was no more than a costume, an ingenious one that would require some study to determine all its capabilities and construction, but nothing supernatural. Doc set the bundle down and moved to the door. Beyond, the entire hallway was of sapphire, like the palace, and Doc knew he was inside the pyramid. Eerie electric blue illuminated the halls, which appeared deserted. Slipping out into the corridor, he glided along without a sound. He caught murmured voices from a room to his left, halted, hearing Pizzicato's sharp tone ring out. "Hell, how do you know that princess will turn Savage and his men over to us?" "She will not let her people perish," came another voice. Jurg, considerably less animated than at his speech earlier. "She will decide in our favor." "I hope you're right. This place is giving me the heebie-jeebies. I just want to get my sapphires and get outta here." The bronze man moved on, slipping past the room while the men were still speaking. He traveled silently along the corridor, memorizing his way. The place was a maze of hallways and chambers, sharp angles. Its architecture was amazing, and he knew Johnny Littlejohn would have given his right arm to examine it. He briefly considered its resemblance to Mayan and Aztec pyramids, wondering how it had come to be in such a remote and hidden land. He would likely never know, but it pricked the scientist within him. He came to a room covered by a thick silver door, a small panel with silver bars serving as a window. Edging up to it, he chanced a look inside. It contained one person, who huddled in a corner, and was dimly lit by the hallway light seeping through the opening.

The Polar Terror

160

The bronze man plucked a button from his shirt and crushed it on the bolt arrangement securing the door, first peering behind him to make sure no one was approaching. He snapped free a second button and crushed that between his fingers, grinding it into a fine powder. He sprinkled the second powder over the first. A blinding light burst to life. Intensely hot, it ate through the bolt and the door came open an inch. Doc eased the portal inward, holding a finger to his lips when the man inside looked up. A sound came from behind Doc and he spun, realizing he had blundered somewhere and attracted attention, but not immediately certain how. Men charged down the hallway, coming suddenly from both directions. Machine guns raised in threatening gestures, pinning the bronze man where he stood. Any movement would bring a hail of lead and even with the chain mail undergarments a bullet would certainly find his face. His flake-gold eyes stirred with irritation. A man came through the gangsters, ambling like an over-sized rodent. "Savage, I don't know how you got in here but you just saved us a hell of a lot of trouble." "He discovered the laboratory tunnel," said the man coming up behind Pizzicato. Hate and a healthy measure of fear-induced respect glittered in the blond Jurg's eyes. "How did you discover me?" asked the bronze man, voice calm. "Little box inside the door projects a beam. You broke it when you entered and it set off a light on my box in the other room." Pizzicato's voice carried a certain measure of pride. "Into the room," the rogue gumshoe ordered, gesturing with a .45 he pulled from his shoulder holster. "Put some guards on that door. He tries to leave fill him full of holes. And get that undershirt off him, too." They forced the bronze man to remove the undergarment, leaving the torn remains of his own shirt when they discovered no weapons within its pockets. They searched his trousers and boots as well, Pizzicato first prying off the heels and discovering an assortment of chemicals ready for use. "The guy's a walking arsenal!" He shook his head. "I gotta figure these things out and use them for myself." The prison door closed with Doc in the room. He was not entirely happy with himself. "Dr. Doe, I presume?" he said to the man huddled in the corner after a moment. The man nodded. Jefferson Doe looked like he had been through an ordeal. Welts and livid bruises crisscrossed his gaunt face, and deep black pouches nested beneath his hollow blue eyes. His clothes hung on his frame, his suit torn. "Who are you, sir?" The man's voice came hard, somewhat lifeless. "My name is Clark Savage, Jr." "Then Reginald made it to you, I see." "He made it." The bronze man neglected to add any details as to what happened after that. "He is dead, I imagine?" No hint of emotion bled into the man's tone. "Yes. That does not surprise you?" The man uttered a hollow laugh. "They were sending the Blue One after him. They made me tell them where he was going and why. Jurg wanted to stop him at any cost." "Apparently Jurg got ideas."

A Doc Savage Adventure

161

"What do you mean?" "This Blue One somehow hired himself a gang of cutthroats and stole my dirigible, as well as a number of rifles. They modified the rifles from a design of my own." "What could the Blue One possibly have that a gangster would want?" Doc Savage reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the sapphire he'd brought with him from the lab. The gang had left it with him in their search, most likely since the gems were plentiful. He tossed it to Dr. Doe, who caught it with a flick of his hand. The doctor began laughing. It was a cold, nearly insane thing and altogether unnerving. "You are aware of its properties?" the bronze man asked. "Oh, most assuredly. I have spent a great deal of time studying this land. I know much of it, and still only a fraction of its secrets." "They have made some ingenious discoveries." The doctor let out a disgusted grunt. "I told that idiot Denton he would just bring more trouble if he went for your help." The man seemed more to be speaking to himself than to Doc Savage. "He should have left well enough alone. We still could have continued with our work if he hadn't got the bright idea of interfering in these people's petty problems." "You do not seem overly sympathetic to their plight." The bronze man wondered if he totally hid the irritation in his voice. "Should I be, Savage?" The man cocked an eyebrow. "I am a man of science, a visionary. Races come and go, but science and study will always remain." "Without people such as these your science might not be worth very much, Doe." "I have read of your advances and discoveries, Savage. I hardly took you for a prophet..." Doe laughed his cold laugh again. "Ah, but, well, I can see where you might be just as responsible for all this as poor Reginald. Brilliant man, but misguided. He cared too much about people, more than he cared about discovery, I dare say. I have no such limitations." "Perhaps you might consider the responsibility you will bear in this as well, Dr. Doe. Perhaps more of the fault for the events that brought so much death to innocent people is to be placed on your conscience." "What the devil do you mean by that?" The bronze man ignored the question, sliding down against a corner and awaiting the gang's next move. He saw no way past the guards at the door and had none of his gadgets left with which to fashion an escape. Now, he could only rely on forethought and a certain degree of ingenuity. In the meantime, he had little wish to debate philosophies with the doctor, for he felt certain whatever Jefferson Doe was he was not a compassionate man capable of changing. With the dawn he imagined events would prove his words to the scientist but those words would have little meaning, even then. A pity. It might have saved a number of lives had Doe exhibited some of the same caring as his partner, Reginald Denton.

The Polar Terror

162

Chapter 24 THE ICE WIZARD

Dawn came to Frjyslandt, though in the underground world in general and Doc Savage's prison in particular the bronze man had no way of witnessing the event. No sun rose in the East and set in the West. The lighting within the huge chamber showed no appreciable differences. Within the hallway beyond the prison, the lights seemed to come up and approaching footsteps clacked in a hollow dirge-like march against the tile. Hushed voices filtered in to the bronze man's ears. He had remained awake in the intervening hours. Dr. Jefferson Doe had not uttered a word. The man of science appeared somewhat piqued over Doc Savage's habit of choosing not to answer certain questions and had gone silent. The door clanked and swung open and blue light spilled into the room. Prairie Dog Pizzicato, a smug expression turning his lips, motioned with a .45 for the bronze giant to stand. He repeated the gesture at Jefferson Doe after Doc gained his feet. The squirrel-faced gangster led the prisoners into the hallway where fully a dozen gangsters, as well as number of large blond-haired men, likely Jurg's followers, waited with the rifles Doc had discovered in the laboratory. Apparently enough ammo had been completed for the morning's events. At the head of the men stood the strange figure garbed in shimmering crystal blue. The creature's head lifted, but the lack of a mouth and masked eyes made it impossible to determine any expression. The Blue One had come to watch the execution. Pizzicato motioned Doc Savage and Dr. Doe forward. As the men parted to let them pass, Doc Savage saw another person, her arm gripped by one of Jurg's followers. "Jane!" Jefferson Doe's eyes narrowed a fraction, but his voice held little emotion. "What are you doing here?" The man holding the young woman gave her a shove and Jane came towards her father, her dress rumpled and creased, her hair in disarray and her hands bound behind her back. The storms in her eyes swirled and she gave her father a chilled look. "I came to Doc Savage to ask his help in finding you. Obviously you could not care less." Ice dripped from her words and her lips drew into a tight line. "You are as foolish as Reginald and Savage in that case." Disapproval lacquered the doctor's tone. Jane Doe's demeanor hardened further. Small lines formed around her eyes and mouth as her face pinched. "Am I, father? If you had stayed around long enough you might have known you taught me some things better than you thought." "You are a woman. You should have known your place." Her father's tone filled

A Doc Savage Adventure

163

with spite and he shook his head in condemnation. The young woman held her ground. "I did, father. That is why I am here." The men gestured with rifles and began leading the bronze man and the Doe's down the long blue corridor. The hall twisted and sloped downwards. A somberness gripped the procession, the grimness of walking the final steps to an execution. Jefferson Doe's face became stolid, dark with resolve, while the young woman's face tightened with animosity towards her father and what might have been a touch of pain. The bronze man wondered if she had clung to any thin hope the man would change at the last moment. Based on the short time he'd been imprisoned with the man, he might have told her the unlikeliness of that occurrence, but the situation was too dire for such insight. At the same time he pondered whether the threads of belief could be so summarily discounted. "It may not be too late to reconcile with the past, Miss Doe." The bronze man's tone came firm and low. The young woman gazed at him, the coldness remaining on her face for her father. "Really, Mr. Savage? I fear it was too late for that the moment I was brought into this world." "Not all transgression must be propagated." She eyed him with a question in her gaze. "You have a much more philosophical bent than I would expect from a scientist. I must admit, I never really considered such men entirely human, you even less so. Perhaps there are still some surprises in this world..." "Perhaps...but not in this situation." She cast him a puzzled look but the bronze man's attention had focused ahead as they came to a solid crystal wall. The Blue One went to the wall and touched a certain spot. A door slid sideways into a recess. "Quit your jabbering and get outside." Pizzicato emphasized the order with a flick of his automatic. The door opened to the outer world, exiting at a point at the bottom left side of the pyramid. The concealed door explained Jurg's sudden disappearance the previous day and likely a number of ways into the structure existed. The prisoners marched forward along a trail that led towards the palace. Doc Savage noticed no spectators about, but the hour was early and likely the princess had issued the order for all to stay within their homes during the exchange. The strangers' frozen statues in the courtyard would be reminder enough of the Blue One's tenants; they did not need to witness the deaths. Reaching the courtyard, the men parted and urged Doc Savage and the Doe's forward, towards another group of men consisting of the bronze giant's aides and Henry Hanneran. A slightly fearful look gripped Hanneran's face but not the expression of a man about to be turned into a frozen corpse. He had shown much more fear at the Hidalgo warehouse upon seeing Snapper Prozini's remains and in the plane on the flight north. To the left of the group, Princess Juwyl stood with a number of her guards. They clutched to their blue sticks and flanked her sides, faces intense, eyes darting. She took a small step forward at the sight of the bronze man, lips tightening. Sorrow had set her features into grim lines and sadness bled from her eyes. She bowed her head, averting her gaze from his.

The Polar Terror

164

"Doc, they got you, too?" asked Monk. Then his face brightened as he set eyes on Jane Doe. The expression didn't last. "Miss Doe, I'm sorry I didn't do a better job of protecting you." The girl gave Monk a curious smile. "I am sure you did the best you could, Mr. Mayfair. Some things are destined..." "Where is Jurg?" The princess's gaze came up, scanning Pizzicato's gang. She settled on the rogue gumshoe. "Who are you?" "Jurg will be here later to fetch you, Princess, don't you worry about that. He wants to make preparations and look his best on his wedding day." Pizzicato seemed to find his statement humorous and uttered a chopped laugh. "In the meantime I am sure your god will do as a substitute?" A gasp came from her lips as Pizzicato stepped back and the Blue One came from behind the lardy investigator. His costume shimmered in the pale blue light. The princess's guards fell back, fright jumping onto their faces, as the Blue One came closer. "I am Karljyneg, Giver of All." The being's voice rang out distorted and hollow. "I have been greatly displeased by what I see under your rule." The princess stood her ground against the creature she must have surely thought a god. "I did not believe one as all-compassionate and wise as yourself would order such heresy as the deaths of innocent subjects and sow hatred among the races." "You have a lot to learn about the ways of the Blue One, Princess. I will instruct my disciple, Jurg, to teach you." "Can we just cut the corn?" Monk shifted feet and scowled. "I ain't swallowin' that talk from no gollywockus in a cheesy sapphire suit." Pizzicato uttered a laugh. "Appears close up you don't pass muster, Blue One. No matter, let's get on with it shall we? I detest long good-byes." "Monk," said Ham, a doleful look on his face. "About those names I've been calling you..." "Never mind, shyster. I know. Same here." Monk maneuvered himself in front of Jane Doe and she let out a laugh. The laugh seemed entirely inappropriate given the circumstances. "You really are a dinosaur, Mr. Mayfair." She smiled. "Perhaps not all scientists are unchivalrous." "You might want to step away, now, Miss Doe," said the bronze man. The young woman's face turned serious and she peered at Doc Savage, then walked from them and took up a spot next to Pizzicato. The squirrel-faced investigator made no move to stop her. "You knew?" "I suspected from nearly the beginning." Monk's face looked suddenly crestfallen. "She's one of them, Doc?" Shock and disbelief hung in his voice. "She is more than one of them, Monk. She is their leader, along with Jurg." "But she came to us for help..." Monk's voice said he did not want to believe what he was hearing. "She came to plant a listening device in our reception room and keep tabs on us." "You found it?" Pizzicato's eyebrows arched. "Yes, but not soon enough. I grew suspicious when your gang seemed to counter our every move. I knew there had to be a leak somewhere."

A Doc Savage Adventure

165

"But what about Hanneran, Doc?" asked Renny. "I thought it was him. He made a phone call when I followed him." Henry Hanneran let out a scoffing sound. "I was calling my bookie, you lunk." "Mr. Hanneran's actions were suspicious," the bronze man continued. "He made calls, went for cigars at inopportune moments. But I checked the phone logs from when he was trapped in the laboratory and found no outgoing calls. He had no way of informing the gang we were on our way to the hotel so I knew he could not be the one. There was also the fact that men were waiting for me at Pizzicato's office, before Hanneran was with us. Of course, the Blue One might have overseen me reading Long Tom's message on the sidewalk and informed Pizzicato in time to arrange that setup, so at that point my suspicions were merely conjecture. Even after Miss Doe's supposed kidnapping the gang remained aware of our plans, so I knew there had to be a device after I eliminated Hanneran as a suspect. And I knew only one person could have planted it. If you will recall, I brought a metal box from the lab. A blinking light indicated the presence of the 'bug'. It also blocked the signal." Pizzicato nodded, understanding dawning on his face. "That's why I got static in the car. I thought my gadget went flooey." "But how did Pizzicato's men know to grab Jane?" Monk asked, his voice still touched with shock. "They overheard it on the device but also I imagine she figured out some way of setting it up with them, is that about it, Miss Doe?" "Yes, when I went to the powder room. I had a small transmitter in my purse. I contacted Pizzicato." "But I heard you scream a warning when those men attacked." Monk eyed the young woman, regret on his face now. "You could have let them kill me." Her face softened just a hint. "You talked to me like a real person, Mr. Mayfair. For a moment I nearly forgot what my father had done to me. I grabbed one of the men's guns and hit you on the back of the head. I s'pose I let a moment of sentimentality sway my judgment and left you alive." The girl's hands came from behind her back, holding loose strands of rope. She had never really been tied. "Thanks for nothin', I guess," muttered the homely chemist. "Don't take it too hard, Mr. Mayfair. I could never really go for a scientific type anyway." She laughed. "You did all this just to get even with your father?" Ham asked, eyes widening. "My, my, no!" A cruel chuckle came from her lips. "The Blue One came to me originally because he believed Reginald Denton would want to inform me about my father and he could intercept him at the apartment before he went to Doc Savage. He was right, though the timing was unpredictable--Denton did try to contact me. The Blue One intended to kill me once he stopped Denton from soliciting Savage's help, but I convinced him there were other more lucrative options. There isn't a man on this earth I can't talk into doing what I want." "There's one..." Monk mumbled, glancing at Doc. "How did you know Pizzicato?" The bronze man's flake-gold eyes intensified. "From my chorus girl stint. He had a hard time keeping his hands off the women, didn't you, Pizzy?" "Don't call me that," said the investigator with a good measure of irritation.

The Polar Terror

166

Jane Doe reached over and plucked the .45 from the pinguid investigator's hand, chuckling. "I knew he had gangland connections and we would need equipment to reach this place. But millions in sapphires makes all the effort worth it, doesn't it?" A thin smile appeared the bronze man's lips. "You might have saved yourself the trouble." "What the hell does that mean?" Her eyes narrowed. The bronze man ignored the question. "You planned things to the last detail but perhaps you should have been keeping a closer eye on your partner instead of us." "Don't mince words, Savage. Out with it." Her voice grew plainly irritated. A nerve near Pizzicato's left eye began to twitch. "Shut up, Savage. He's just trying to stall. Let's get this over with. This guy is dangerous even stripped down." Jane Doe eyed the investigator with a glimmer of annoyance at his interruption. "I think we should hear things out, don't you, Pizzy? It's the least we can do for a dying man." She indicated Doc Savage with a swing of the gun. "You're making a mistake." Pizzicato scowled, but his voice carried the slightest quiver of guilt. He gestured to a man, who handed him one of the modified rifles. "Go on, Savage," said Jane Doe, ignoring the plump gumshoe. "Enlighten us all on our fat friend, here." "I would suspect Mr. Pizzicato has higher aspirations than mere wealth in jewels." "And you suspect that because?" The young woman's tone said she had developed an utter disdain for the bronze man's abilities and was toying with him, as well as Pizzicato. The bronze man wanted her to think just that; it bought him time, relaxed their guard a fraction. "Psychologists might call it a Napoleon complex. He is not satisfied with being a second in command, isn't that right, Mr. Pizzicato?" "You got your head screwed on backwards, Savage." The investigator made a move to shift his rifle towards the bronze man, but Jane Doe grabbed the barrel and pushed it down. "Don't make any moves you aren't ordered to, Pizzy. I have a low tolerance for disobedience." "I did some checking on Mr. Hanneran," continued Doc Savage. Henry Hanneran suddenly got a nervous look on his face. "Seems he did not just lose his boxing career by being difficult. He had a habit of betting on fixed fights then blackmailing the promoters or managers who set them up, with the help of a partner." Jane gazed at Pizzicato. "Let me guess, a lardy partner." "Hell, it was all his idea!" Henry Hanneran jabbed a finger at Pizzicato. "Shut up, you imbecile!" the investigator snapped. "You didn't just go for cigars or to call your bookie, did you, Hanneran?" asked Doc Savage. "Pizzicato hired you and you phoned in messages to him, likely through some go-between who contacted him by radio. That about right?" Henry Hanneran nodded. "Yeah, he gave me a number to keep in touch. Told me to stay with your crowd till we got here." "Why?" Jane Doe's face darkened. "Perhaps Mr. Pizzicato will fill in the details, but I imagine, given his background in blackmailing clients, he wanted Hanneran to get close to you, watch your moves so he could use it to his advantage. I don't think he quite expected this scheme to crop up. I

A Doc Savage Adventure

167

think he hoped to discover something to use against you or your father down the line." "That true, Pizzy?" Pizzicato shifted feet and gripped the rifle tighter, fingers bleaching. "My father left me one legacy: never play poker unless you got a fifth ace. Hanneran was mine. Jefferson Doe was a rich man and after I met his daughter in a nightclub doing her chorus gal routine I figured there had to be something there I could use. I set Hanneran up to keep tabs on her, pretend to be interested in marrying her. Then when this little operation popped up it seemed like a good idea to have my ace inside my sleeve, so to speak. I wasn't plannin' anything, though." "Just blackmail?" Jane Doe raised a suspicious eyebrow. Her expression said she didn't believe the man had just that in mind. "I swear that it. Course, I didn't need it after you came to me with the Blue One, but I figured Henry would be good for keepin' an eye on Savage once we got you away from him, in case the bug failed..." "We will discuss this later, Pizzy. I am inclined not to believe a word of what you're telling me." She shifted her attention to Henry Hanneran. "Why were you in my apartment when we found you?" "I was removing the listening devices Clementine had me put in weeks before." Jane Doe let out a pfft sound and shook her head. "And all this time I thought you were just a big dumb pest wanting to get into my skirt." She lifted the .45 and blew Henry Hanneran's brains out. The ex-pugilist hit the crystal flagstones like a tree falling. Monk let out a nervous gasp and looked at him. "Reckon we don't have to give him a count..." Shock hung in his voice. "Anything else?" she asked Doc Savage. The bronze man's lips tightened and a twinge of regret took him. He had not expected her to instantly kill the boxer. "Do not use those rifles against us." Doc's tone came steady and controlled. The girl laughed. The men laughed as well, with the exception of Pizzicato, who looked nervous and suddenly puzzled. "I would have expected something more philosophical after our earlier exchange, perhaps a plea to spare your lives or a request for a bad girl to go good." The bronze man remained silent. His flake-gold eyes stirred with regret. "Kill them!" the girl ordered and stepped back. Rifles came up, each centering on Doc and his men. Fingers tightened on the triggers. The reports all blended into one thunderous sound and suddenly amidst the gunfire came a horrendous cacophony of screams. The screams didn't last for long. Terror froze, literally, onto the faces of all the men who had fired. Their frozen smoking corpses remained holding their crystallized rifles. "Holy cow, Doc, what happened?" asked Renny "I thought we were Popsicles for sure!" "I discovered the rifles in their laboratory and noted they had modified them to fire the frozen death. I adjusted the firing mechanism. I hoped I got them all." Renny shook his head, relief on his face. "It appears you did, all expect Pizzicato's."

The Polar Terror

168

The investigator had not fired his rifle, however. He glanced at his gun then at the bronze man. "I wondered if you had been in the pyramid longer than we thought. I knew you meant what you said about not firing. You got reputation for not kidding around." Shocked looks played on the faces of the princess and her guards, but she recovered quickly and snapped an order for her followers with their glowing sticks to charge Jane Doe, who still clutched the automatic, fury on her face, and the Blue One, who started to run. "Oh, no, you don't! Jane shouted and snapped a shot at the glittering being. The bullet drilled him in the side and spun him half-around. The suit prevented mercy bullets from penetrating but it did not stop lead. The Blue One gyrated, blood bubbling from the wound. "Who it is, Doc?" Long Tom asked. "It is Jurg, no doubt," said the bronze man. "The scientist showed fear of me before we fought. I knew he only did so because I escaped our first encounter on the street." Jurg, though having a death spasm, managed to lunge at the woman who had shot him. Monk tired to burst forward as he saw it coming but Doc grabbed him, holding him back. "I can save her, Doc!" he shouted, struggling furiously. The bronze man held onto him. "You'd be killed, Monk." Jane Doe pulled the trigger again and again, pumping bullets into Jurg, but the man's incredible strength and resiliency served him a final time. He grabbed the girl's face with his right hand and Jane Doe did not even scream as blue liquid boiled across her features and her body became a frozen statue. Jurg collapsed, spasming, then going still. In the meantime, Prairie Dog Pizzicato, the only one of the gang left alive, lost his nerve. He bolted, still carrying the riffle. For such a large lazy man he lit off towards the cavern entrance as though he were an Olympic sprinter. Doc Savage decided the fellow probably entertained some foolish notion that he could reach the dirigible and fly back to civilization, leaving them stranded, but he would not have been able to control the airship on his own. The bronze man hurled after him, closing the distance quickly. Pizzicato looked back, shrieked and threw his rifle at Doc Savage. The bronze man caught the thing in midair and tossed it aside. Pizzicato plunged into the vegetation, zigzagging, making a monumental effort to lose his bronze pursuer. Doc Savage cut the distance even more. Reaching the crystal bridge leading to the outer cavern, he threw another look backward, to discover the bronze man only six feet behind him. He let out a squawk. He spun to complete his dash across the bridge, but the combination of terror and speed subverted his balance. He was suddenly struggling not to go over, arms windmilling, face twisting into a horrified mask as the glow of the bluepool reflected from his eyes. He made a great splash and Doc Savage had to leap suddenly backward to avoid being hit by any spray from the liquid. Pizzicato went under, freezing instantly.

A Doc Savage Adventure

169

Chapter 25 SAPPHIRE CHARADE

Doc Savage and his men remained in Frjyslandt the next few weeks. The bronze man spent many hours studying the blue liquid and native culture. He discovered records in the pyramid of a hitherto unknown race who had built the place, a great civilization existing before modern man but one who had been dying out, because for all their technological prowess they could not fend off some inbred diseases that ravaged their society. Apparently the elders of the people had decided to snatch some unwary Vikings and Eskimos, along with others from ships that wandered off course, and interbreed, thereby propagating their race and saving it from extinction. From this came their doctrine of equality and peace, and their absolute intolerance to murder. The records proved incomplete, and Doc Savage could only determine so much. They had not been careful documenting the majority of their history, which made it impossible to reconstruct just from where and when they came. They had neglected to document their scientific advances, especially where the bluepool was concerned and he determined it would take a lifetime to distinguish its properties and put it to commercial use. During the interval, Doc Savage found himself having to avoid the princess more than any normal man might have wanted to. She had grown more and more enthralled with the giant man of bronze and his abilities at leadership. Apparently she decided he would make a fine king. The attention made him more than a little uncomfortable, but fortunately Ham had taken up some of the slack where that matter was concerned. Much to Doc's disapproval, the group gathered in the courtyard for a ceremony the princess had insisted upon, to honor them for ridding their land of Jurg and his cohorts. When it was over they were bade farewell and prepared to return to the dirigible and the outside world. Renny came up to the bronze man, a puzzled expression on his face. "You won't believe this." He shook his head. "What?" asked Ham, who also came over and stood by Doc, accompanied by Long Tom. Only Monk was not with them. The hairy chemist stood at the opposite edge of the courtyard, peering at the statue of Jane Doe. "I tired to tell that Jefferson Doe fella how sorry I was about his daughter and you know what the guy said?" "He was less than heartbroken?" said Long Tom. "He said sacrifices have to be made in order for science to progress. He didn't seem to care. Said he was going to stay here now, too. He saw no reason to go back and the things he could discover in this place would keep him busy for the rest of his life. Hard to figure."

The Polar Terror

170

Sorrow flickered in the bronze man's flake-gold eyes. "In some ways he is not so different from us..." "How you figure, Doc?" asked the giant engineer. Doc Savage didn't answer. For an instant he thought about all each of them gave up in order to pursue adventure and punish those who deserved it. He hoped there was somehow a greater nobility to their cause than the one Jefferson Doe sacrificed himself to, and at least none of them were family men. Jefferson Doe's daughter had suffered for her father's obsession, but the responsibility of how she handled that emptiness lay with her as well. "The princess offered us a bunch of those bird's eggs sapphires," said Renny. "Bet them rocks will help build a hospital somewhere." Doc Savage shook his head. "Unfortunately they are worthless on the gem market. They are not sapphires, merely deeper-colored crystals such as the ones used to build this city." Renny let out a disappointed grumble. "Sure made all those murders worth it for them, didn't it?" "I think we better get Monk away from Jane Doe before he decides to take her home with him," commented Long Tom, never the most sympathetic of sorts. Ham cast the puny electrical wizard a scowl. "The big lug's takin' it pretty hard. I think he really cared about her." "Ham..." The bronze man made a motion with his head towards the apish chemist. Ham nodded and went to Monk, placing a hand on the fellow's shoulder. A moment later the gesture became a push and the chemist took a looping half-hearted swing at the dapper lawyer, missing. As they headed for the dirigible, their voices rose. "I'm tellin' you, you hairy mistake of nature, they put them on automobile's for the sake of style!" "Ladies dresses, shyster. Ladies dresses..."

A Doc Savage Adventure

171

If you enjoyed this novel be sure to check out Howard’s latest western under his Lance Howard penname!

THE PHANTOM MARSHAL by Lance Howard When the Gauvin brothers invaded the small New Mexican town of Blazewood they did so with a vengeance. They bought into the saloon and cattle industry and seized control of the territory. Then Marshal Print Madsen hanged their youngest brother. In an act of brutal retaliation, the Gauvins murder the deputy and drag the marshal to the river, beating him beyond recognition and leaving him to the buzzards. But they didn't do the job of killing Print Madsen well enough. For he returns, two years later, to exact vengeance as an eerie phantom figure dressed in black with a blazing Peacemaker and a single-minded mission--destroy the men responsible for shattering his life. But things don't go as easy as he planned. For when he crosses paths with a beautiful headstrong ranch owner searching for her missing husband, he finds himself snared in a dangerous web of cross-motives and deception that may prove too deadly for even The Phantom Marshal... ISBN: 0709068255 Hardcover (Black Horse)from Robert Hale, Ltd. July 31, 2001 Available from: www.amazon.co.uk, whsmith.co.uk, www.bookzone.co.uk

For a complete listing of Lance Howard novels please visit: www.howardhopkins.com

To contact the author: Author contact: [email protected]

The Polar Terror

172

Also check out Howard's electronic horror and westerns novels from:

Atlantic Bridge

• • • • • •

Night Demons Grimm Pistolero The Dark Riders Dark Harbors The Nightmare Club #1: The Headless paperboy