SERENDIPITOUS ENCOUNTER ...

. . . The cobra struck, and Holmes and I both jumped, yelling at the same time.

Something hissed through the air. The cobra was knocked aside by the impact of the missile, and it writhed dying on the ground. An arrow transfixed it just back of the head.

"Steady, Watson!" Holmes said. "We are saved, but the savage who shot that may have preserved us only so he'll have fresher meat for his pot!"

Suddenly we leaped into the air again, uttering a frightened scream. Seemingly out of the air, a man had appeared before us ... Holmes recovered first.

He said, "Lord Greystoke, I presume?"

Published by

DELL PUBLISHING CO., INC.

1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza

New York, N.Y. 10017 Copyright © 1974 by Philip Jose Farmer.

All rights reserved.

Dell ® TM 681510, Dell Publishing Co" Inc.

Reprinted by arrangement with the author.

Printed in the United States of America

First Dell Printing-September 1976

Dedicated to Samuel Rosenberg,

who has embroidered for the world

the greatest Doylie ever.

All the characters in this book are real;

any resemblance to fictional characters

is purely coincidental.

FOREWORD

As everybody knows, Dr. Watson stored in a battered tin dispatch-box his manuscripts concerning the unpublished cases of Sherlock Holmes. This box was placed in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co. at Charing Cross. Whatever hopes the world had that these papers would some day become public were destroyed when the bank was blasted into fragments during the bombings of World War II. It is said that Winston Churchill himself directed that the ruins be searched for the box but that no trace of it was found.

I am happy to report that this lack of success is no cause for regret. At a time and for reasons unknown, the box had been transferred to a little villa on the south slope of the Sussex downs near the village of Fulworth. It was kept in a trunk in the attic of the villa. This, as everybody should know, was the residence of Holmes after he had retired. It is not known what eventually happened to the Greatest Detective. There is no record of his death. Even if there were, it would be disbelieved by the many who still think of him as a living person. This almost religious belief thrives though he would, if still alive, be one hundred and twenty years old at the date of writing this foreword.

Whatever happened to Holmes, his villa was sold in the late 1950's to the seventeenth Duke of Denver. The box, with some other objects, was removed to the ducal estate in Norfolk. His Grace had intended to wait until after his death before the papers would be allowed to be published. However, His Grace, though eighty-four years old now, feels that he may live to be a hundred. The world has waited far too long, and it is certainly ready for anything, no matter how shocking, that may be in Watson's narratives. The duke has given his consent to the publication of all but a few papers, and even these may see print if the descendants of certain people mentioned in them give their permission. Gratitude is due His Grace for this generous decision.

On hearing the good news, your editor communicated with the British agents handling the Watson papers and was fortunate enough to acquire the American Agency for them. The adventure at hand is the first to be released; others will follow from time to time.

Watson's holograph is obviously a first draft.

A number of passages recording words actually uttered by the participants during this adventure are either crossed out or replaced with asterisks. The "peerless peer" of this tale is called "Greystoke," but on one occasion old habit broke through and Watson inadvertently wrote "Holdernesse." Watson left no note explaining why he had substituted one pseudo-title for another. He used "Holdernessee" in "The Adventure of the Priory School" to conceal the identity of Holmes' noble client. Holmes himself, in his reference to the nobleman in his "The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier," used the pseudotitle of "Greyminster."

It is your editor's guess that Watson decided on "Greystoke" in this narrative because the pseudotitle had been made world-famous by the novels based on the African exploits of the nephew of the man Watson had called "Holdernesse."

The adventure at hand is singular for many reasons. It reveals that Holmes was not allowed to stay in retirement after the events of "His Last Bow." We are made aware that Holmes made a second visit to Africa, going far beyond Khartoum (though not willingly), and so saved Great Britain from the greatest danger which has ever threatened it. We are given some illumination on the careers of the two greatest American aviators and spies in the early years of World War I. We learn that Watson was married for the fourth time, and the destruction of a civilization rivalling ancient Egypt is recorded for the first time. Holmes' contribution to apiology and how he used it to save himself and others is related herein. This narrative also describes how Holmes' genius at deduction enabled him to clear up a certain discrepancy that has puzzled the more discerning readers of the works of Greystoke's American biographer.

Some aspects of this discrepancy are revealed by Lord Greystoke himself in "Extracts from the Memoirs of Lord Greystoke," Mother Was a Lovely Beast, Philip Jose Farmer, editor, Chilton, October, 1974. However. this revelation is only a minor part of Watson's chronicle, one among many mysteries solved, and this account presents the mystery from a somewhat different viewpoint.

Your editor decided for these reasons to leave this explanation in this work. Besides, your editor would not dream of tampering with any part of the Sacred Writings.

– Philip Jose Farmer

1

It is with a light heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular genius which distinguished my friend Sherlock Holmes. I realise that I once wrote something to that effect, though at that time my heart was as heavy as it could possibly be. This time I am certain that Holmes has retired for the last time. At least he has sworn that he will no more go a-detectiving. The case of the peerless peer has made him financially secure, and he foresees no more grave perils menacing our country now that out great enemy has been laid low. Moreover. he has sworn that never again will he set foot on any soil but that of his native land. Nor will he ever again get near an aircraft. The mere sight or sound of one freezes his blood.

The peculiar adventure which occupies these pages began on the second day of February, 1916. At this time I was, despite my age, serving on the staff of a military hospital in London. Zeppelins had made bombing raids over England for two nights previously mainly in the Midlands. Though these were comparatively ineffective, seventy people had been killed, one hundred and thirteen injured, and a monetary damage of fifty-three thousand eight hundred and thirty-two pounds had been inflicted. These raids were the latest in a series starting the nineteenth of January. There was no panic, of course, but even stout British hearts were experiencing some uneasiness. There were rumours, no doubt originated by German agents, that the Kaiser intended to send across the channel a fleet of a thousand airships. I was discussing this rumour with my young friend, Dr. Fell, over a brandy in my quarters when a knock sounded on the door. I opened it to admit a messenger. He handed me a telegram which I wasted no time in reading.

"Great Scott!" I cried.

"What is it, my dear fellow?" Fell said, heaving himself from the chair. Even then, on war rations, he was putting on overly much weight.

"A summons to the F. 0.," I said. "From Holmes. And I am on special leave."

"Sherlock?" said Fell.

"No, Mycroft," I replied. Minutes later, having packed my few belongings, I was being driven in a limousine toward the Foreign Office. An hour later, I entered the small austere room in which the massive Mycroft Holmes sat like a great spider spinning the web that ran throughout the British Empire and many alien lands. There were two others present, both of whom I knew. One was young Merrivale, a baronet's son, the brilliant aide to the head of the British Military Intelligence Department and soon to assume the chieftainship. He was also a qualified physician and had been one of my students when I was lecturing at Bart's. Mycroft claimed that Merrivale was capable of rivalling Holmes himself in the art of detection and would not be far behind Mycroft himself. Holmes' reply to this "needling" was that only practise revealed true promise.

I wondered what Merrivale was doing away from the War Office but had no opportunity to voice my question. The sight of the second person there startled me at the same time it delighted me. It had been over a year since I had seen that tall, gaunt figure with the greying hair and the unforgettable hawklike profile.

"My dear Holmes," I said. "I had thought that after the Von Bork affair ... "

"The east wind has become appallingly cold, Watson," he said. "Duty recognises no age limits, and so I am called from my bees to serve our nation once more."

Looking even more grim, he added, "The Von Bork business is not over. I fear that we underestimated the fellow because we so easily captured him. He is not always taken with such facility. Our government erred grievously in permitting him to return to Germany with Von Herling. He should have faced a firing squad. A motor-car crash in Germany after his return almost did for us what we had failed to do, according to reports that have recently reached me. But, except for a permanent injury to his left eye, he has recovered.

"Mycroft tells me that Von Bork has done, and is doing, us inestimable damage. Our intelligence tells us that he is operating in Cairo, Egypt. But just where in Cairo and what disguise he has assumed is not known."

"The man is indeed dangerous," Mycroft said, reaching with a hand as ponderous as a grizzly's paw for his snuff-box. "It is no exaggeration to say that he is the most dangerous man in the world, as far as the Allies are concerned, anyway."

"Greater than Moriarty was?" Holmes said, his eyes lighting up.

"Much greater," replied Mycroft. He breathed in the snuff, sneezed, and wiped his jacket with a large red handkerchief. His watery grey eyes had lost their inward-turning look and burned as if they were searchlights probing the murkiness around a distant target.

"Von Bork has stolen the formula of a Hungarian refugee scientist employed by our government in Cairo. The scientist recently reported to his superiors the results of certain experiments he had been making on a certain type of bacillus peculiar to the land of the Pharaohs. He had discovered that this bacillus could be modified by chemical means to eat only sauerkraut. When a single bacillus was placed upon sauerkraut, it multiplied at a fantastic rate. It would become within sixty minutes a colony which would consume a pound of sauerkraut to its last molecule.

"You see the implications. The bacillus is what the scientists call a mutated type. After treatment with a certain chemical both its form and function are changed. Should we drop vials containing this mutation in Germany, or our agents directly introduce the germs, the entire nation would shortly become sauerkrautless. Both their food supply and their morale would be devastated.

"But Von Bork somehow got wind of this, stole the formula, destroyed the records and the chemicals with fire, and murdered the only man who knew how to mutate the bacillus.

"However, his foul deed was no sooner committed than detected. A tight cordon was thrown around Cairo, and we have reason to believe that Von Bark is hiding in the native quarter somewhere. We can't keep that net tight for long, my dear Sherlock, and that is why you must be gotten there quickly so you can track him down. England expects much from you, brother, and much, I am sure, will be given."

I turned to Holmes, who looked as shaken as I felt. "Surely, my dear fellow, we are not going to Cairo?"

"Surely indeed, Watson," he replied. "Who else could sniff out the Teutonic fox, who else could trap him? We are not so old that we cannot settle Von Bork's hash once and for all."

Holmes, I observed, was still in the habit of using Americanisms, I suppose because he had thrown himself so thoroughly into the role of an Irish-American while tracking down Von Bork in that adventure which I have titled "His Last Bow."

"Unless," he said, sneering, "you really feel that the old warhorse should not leave his comfortable pasture?"

"I am as good a man as I was a year and a half ago," I protested. "Have you ever known me to call it quits?"

He chuckled and patted my shoulder, a gesture so rare that my heart warmed.

"Good old Watson."

Mycroft called for cigars, and while we were lighting up, he said, "You two will leave tonight from a Royal Naval Air Service strip outside London. You will be flown by two stages to Cairo, by two different pilots, I should say. The fliers have been carefully selected because their cargo will be precious. The Huns may already know your destination. If they do, they will make desperate efforts to intercept you, but our fliers are the pick of the lot. They are fighter pilots, but they will be flying bombers. The first pilot, the man who'll take you under his wing tonight, is a young fellow. Actually, he is only seventeen, he lied to get into the service, but officially he is eighteen. He has downed seven enemy planes in two weeks and done yeoman service in landing our agents behind enemy lines. You may know of him, at least you knew his great-uncle."

He paused and said, "You remember, of course, the late Duke of Greystoke?"*

[*This is the line in which Watson inadvertently wrote "Holdernesse" but corrected it. Editor.]

"I will never forget the size of the fee I collected from him," Holmes said, and he chuckled.

"Your pilot, Leftenant John Drummond, is the adopted son of the present Lord Greystoke," Mycroft continued .

"But wait!" I said. "Haven't I heard some rather strange things about Lord Greystoke? Doesn't he live in Africa ?"

"Oh, yes, in darkest Africa," Mycroft said.

"In a tree house, I believe."

"Lord Greystoke lives in a tree house?" I said.

"Ah, yes," Mycroft said. "Greystoke is living in a tree house with an ape. At least, that's one of the rumours I've heard."

"Lord Greystoke is living with an ape?" I said. "A female ape, I trust."

"Oh, yes," Mycroft said. "There's nothing queer about Lord Greystoke, you know."*

[*Under normal circumstances your editor would delete this old joke. Doubtless the reader has heard it in one form or another. But it is Watson's narrative and it is of historical importance. Now we know when and where the story originated.]

"But surely," I said, "this Lord Greystoke can't be the son of the old duke? Not the Lord Saltire, the duke's son, whom we rescued from kidnappers in the adventure of the Priory School ?"

Holmes was suddenly as keen as an eagle that detects a lamb. He stooped toward his brother, saying, "Hasn't some connexion been made between His Grace and the hero of that fantastic novel by that American writer — what's-his-name? — Bayrows? Borrows? Isn't the Yank's protagonist modelled somewhat after Lord Greystoke? The book only came out in the States in June of 1914, I believe, and so very few copies have gotten here because of the blockade. But I've heard rumours of it. I believe that His Grace could sue for libel, slander, defamation of character and much else if he chose to notice the novel."

"I really don't know," Mycroft said. "I never read fiction."

"By the Lord Harry!" Merrivale said. "I do! I've read the book, a rattling good yarn but wild, wild. This heir to an English peerage is adopted by a female ape and raised with a tribe of wild and woolly ... "

Mycroft slammed his palm against the top of the table, startling all of us and making me wonder what had caused this unheard-of violence from the usually phlegmatic Mycroft.

"Enough of this time-wasting chitchat about an unbalanced peer and an excessively imaginative Yankee writer!" he said. "The Empire is crumbling around our ears and we're talking as if we're in a pub and all's well with the world!"

He was right, of course, and all of us, including Holmes, I'm sure, felt abashed. But that conversation was not as irrelevant as we thought at the time.

An hour later, after receiving verbal instructions from Mycroft and Merrivale, we left in the limousine for the secret airstrip outside London.

2

Our chauffeur drove off the highway onto a narrow dirt road which wound through a dense woods of oaks. After a half a mile, during which we passed many signs warning trespassers that this was military property, we were halted by a barbed wire gate across the road. Armed R.N.A.S. guards checked our documents and then waved us on. Ten minutes later, we emerged from the woods onto a very large meadow. At its northern end was a tall hill, the lower part of which gaped as if it had a mouth which was open with surprise. The surprise was that the opening was not to a cavern at all but to a hangar which had been hollowed out of the living rock of the hill. As we got out of the car men pushed from the hangar a huge aeroplane, the wings of which were folded against the fuselage.

After that, events proceeded swiftly-too swiftly for me, I admit, and perhaps a trifle too swiftly for Holmes. After all, we had been born about a half century before the first aeroplane had flown. We were not sure that the motor-car, a recent invention from our viewpoint, was altogether a beneficial device. And here we were being conducted by a commodore toward the monstrously large aircraft. Within a few minutes, according to him, we would be within its fuselage and leaving the good earth behind and beneath us.

Even as we walked toward it, its biplanes were unfolded and locked into place. By the time we reached it, its propellors had been spun by mechanics and the two motors had caught fire. Thunder rolled from its rotaries, and flame spat from its exhausts.

Whatever Holmes' true feelings, and his skin was rather grey, he could not suppress his driving curiosity, his need to know all that was relevant. However, he had to shout at the commodore to be heard above the roar of the warming-up motors.

"The Admiralty ordered it to be outfitted for your use," the commodore said. His expression told us that he thought that we must be very special people indeed if this aeroplane was equipped just for us.

"It's the prototype model of the Handley Page 0/100," he shouted. "The first of the 'bloody paralyser of an aeroplane' the Admiralty ordered for the bombing of Germany. It has two 250-horsepower Rolls-Royce Eagle II motors, as you see. It has an enclosed crew cabin. The engine nacelles and the front part of the fuselage were armour-plated, but the armour has been removed to give the craft more speed."

"What?" Holmes yelled. "Removed?"

"Yes," the commodore said. "It shouldn't make any difference to you. You'll be in the cabin, and it was never armour-plated."

Holmes and I exchanged glances. The commodore continued, "Extra petrol tanks have been installed to give the craft extended range. These will be just forward of the cabin . . ."

"And if we crash?" Holmes said.

"Poof!" the commodore said, smiling. "No pain, my dear sir. If the smash doesn't kill you, the flaming petrol sears the lungs and causes instantaneous death. The only difficulty is in identifying the corpse. Charred, you know."

We climbed up a short flight of wooden mobile steps and stepped into the cabin. The commodore closed the door, thus somewhat muting the roar. He pointed out the bunks that had been installed for our convenience and the W.C. This contained a small washbowl with a gravity-feed water tank and several thundermugs bolted to the deck.*

[*The good doctor probably intended to delete the references to sanitation in the final version of this adventure. At least, he always had been reticent to a Victorian degree in such references in all his previous chronicles. However, this was written in 1932, and Watson may have thought that the spirit of the times gave him more latitude in expression. Editor.]

"The prototype can carry a four-man crew," the commodore said. "There is, as you have observed, a cockpit for the nose gunner, with the pilot in a cockpit directly behind him. There is a cockpit near the rear for another machine gunner, and there is a trap-door through which a machine gun may be pointed to cover the rear area under the plane. You are standing on 'the trap-door."

Holmes and I moved away, though not, I trust, with unseemly haste.

"We estimate that with its present load the craft can fly at approximately 85 miles per hour. Under ideal conditions, of course. We have decided to eliminate the normal armament of machine guns in order to lighten the load. In fact, to this end, all of the crew except, the pilot and co-pilot are eliminated. The pilot, I believe, is bringing his personal arms: a dagger, several pistols, a carbine, and his specially mounted Spandau machine gun, a trophy, by the way, taken from a Fokker E-l which Captain Wentworth downed when he dropped an ash-tray on the pilot's head. Wentworth has also brought in several cases of hand grenades and a case of Scotch whisky."

The door, or port, or whatever they call a door in the Royal Naval Air Service, opened, and a young man of medium height, but with very broad shoulders and a narrow waist, entered. He wore the uniform of the R.N.A.S. He was a handsome young man with eyes as steely grey and as magnetic as Holmes'. There was also something strange about them. If I had known how strange, I would have stepped off that plane at that very second. Holmes would have preceded me.

He shook hands with us and spoke a few words. I was astonished to hear a flat mid-western American accent. When Wentworth bad disappeared on some errand toward the stern, Holmes asked the commodore, "Why wasn't a British pilot assigned to us? No doubt this Yank volunteer is quite capable, but really . . . "

"There is only one pilot who can match Wentworth's aerial genius. He is an American in the service of the Tsar. The Russians know him as Kentov, though that is not his real name. They refer to him with the honorific of Chorniy Oryol, the French call him l'Aigle Noir and the Germans are offering a hundred thousand marks for Der Schwarz Adler, dead or alive."

"Is he a Negro?" I said.

"No, the adjective refers to his sinister reputation," replied the commodore. "Kentov will take you on from Marseilles. Your mission is so important that we borrowed him from the Russians. Wentworth is being used only for the comparatively short haul since he is scheduled to carry out another mission soon. If you should crash, and survive, he would be able to guide you through enemy territory better than anyone we know of, excluding Kentov. Wentworth is an unparalleled master of disguise . . . "

"Really?" Holmes said, drawing himself up and frostily regarding the officer.

Aware that he had made a gaffe, the commodore changed the subject. He showed us how to don the bulky parachutes, which were to be kept stored under a bunk.

"What happened to young Drummond? I asked him. "Lord Greystoke's adopted son? Wasn't he supposed to be our pilot?"

"Oh, he's in hospital," he said, smiling. "Nothing serious. Several broken ribs and clavicle, a liver that may be ruptured, a concussion and possible fracture of the skull. The landing gear of his craft collapsed as he was making a deadstick landing, and he slid into a brick wall. He sends his regards."

Captain Wentworth suddenly reappeared. Muttering to himself, he looked under our blankets and sheets and then under the bunks. Holmes said, "What is it, captain?"

Wentworth straightened up and looked at us with those strange grey eyes. "Thought I heard bats," he said. "Wings fluttering. Giant bats. But no sign of them."

He left the cabin then, heading down a narrow tunnel which had been specially installed so that the pilot could get into the cockpit without having to go outside the craft. His co-pilot, a Lieutenant Nelson, had been warming the motors. The commodore left a minute later after wishing us luck. He looked as if he thought we'd need it.

Presently, Wentworth phoned in to us and told us to lie down in the bunks or grab hold of something solid. We were getting ready to take off. We got into the bunks, and I stared at the ceiling while the plane slowly taxied to the starting point, the motors were "revved" up, and then it began to bump along the meadow. Within a short time its tail had lifted and we were suddenly aloft. Neither Holmes nor I could endure just lying there any more. We had to get up and look through the window in the door. The sight of the earth dropping away in the dusk, of houses, cows, horses and waggons, and brooks and then the Thames itself dwindling, dwindling caused us to be both uneasy and exhilarated.

Holmes was still grey, but I am certain that it was not fear of altitude that affected him. It was being completely dependent upon someone else, being not in control of the situation. On the ground Holmes was his own master. Here his life and limb were in the hands of two strangers, one of whom had already impressed us as being very strange. It also became obvious only too soon that Holmes, no matter how steely his nerves and how calm his digestion on earth, was subject to airsickness.

The plane flew on and on, crossing the channel in the dark, crossing the westerly and then the southwestern part of France. We landed on a strip lighted with flames. Holmes. wanted to get out and stretch his legs but Wentworth forbade that.

"Who knows what's prowling around here, waiting to identify you and then to crouch and leap, destroying utterly?" he said.

"After he had gone back to the cockpit, I said, "Holmes, don’t you think he puts the possibility of spies in somewhat strange language? And didn't you smell Scotch on his breath? Should a pilot drink while flying?"

"Frankly," Holmes said, "I'm too sick to care," and he lay down outside the door to the W.C.

Midnight came with the great plane boring through the dark moonless atmosphere. Lt. Nelson crawled into his bunk with the cheery comment that we would be landing at a drome outside Marseilles by dawn. Holmes groaned. I bade the fellow, who seemed quite a decent sort, good-night. Presently I fell asleep, but I awoke some time later with a start. As an old veteran of Holmes' campaigns, however, I knew better than to reveal my awakened state. While I rolled over to one side as if I were doing it in my sleep, I watched through narrowed eyes.

A sound, or a vibration, or perhaps it was an old veteran's sixth sense, had awakened me.

Across the aisle, illumined by the single bulb overhead, stood Lt. Nelson. His handsome youthful face bore an expression which the circumstances certainly did not seem to call for. He looked' so malignant that my heart began thumping and perspiration poured out from me despite the cold outside the blankets. In his hand was a revolver, and when he lifted it my heart almost stopped. But he did not turn toward us. Instead he started toward the front end, toward the narrow tunnel leading to the pilot's cockpit.

Since his back was to me, I leaned over the edge of the bunk and reached down to get hold of Holmes. I had no need to warn him. Whatever his physical condition, he was still the same alert fox — an old fox, it is true, but still a fox. His hand reached up and touched mine, and within a few seconds he was out of the bunk and on his feet. In his one hand he held his trusty Webley, which he raised to point at Nelson's back, crying out to halt at the same time.

I do not know if he heard Holmes above the roar of the motors. If he did, he did not have time to consider it. There was a report, almost inaudible in the din, and Nelson fell back and slid a few feet along the floor backward. Blood gushed from his forehead.

The dim light fell on the face of Captain Wentworth, whose eyes seemed to blaze, though I am certain that was an optical illusion. The face was momentarily twisted, and then it smoothed out, and he stepped out into the light. I got down from the bunk and with Holmes approached him. Close to him, I could smell the heavy, though fragrant, odour of excellent Scotch on his breath.

Wentworth looked at the revolver in Holmes' hand, smiled, and said, "So — you are not overrated, Mr. Holmes! But I was waiting for him, I expected him to sneak in upon me while I should be concentrating on the instrument board. He thought he'd blow my a*s off!"

"He is, of course, a German spy," Holmes said. "But how did you determine that he was?"

"I suspect everybody," Wentworth replied.

"I kept my eye on him, and when I saw him talking over the wireless, I listened in. It was too noisy to hear clearly, but he was talking in German. I caught several words, schwanz and schweinhund. Undoubtedly, he was informing the Imperial German Military Aviation Service of our location. If he didn't kill me, then we would be shot down. The Huns must be on their way to intercept us now."

This was alarming enough, but both Holmes and I were struck at the same time with a far more disturbing thought. Holmes as usual, was more quick in his reactions. He screamed, "Who's flying the plane?"

Wentworth smiled lazily and said, "Nobody. Don't worry. The controls are connected to a little device I invented last month. As long as the air is smooth, the plane will fly on an even keel all by itself."

He stiffened suddenly, cocked his head to one side, and said, "Do you hear it?"

"Great Scott, man!" I cried. "How could we hear anything above the infernal racket of those motors?"

"Cockroaches!" Wentworth bellowed. "Giant flying cockroaches! That evil scientist has released another horror upon the world!"

He whirled, and he was gone into the blackness of the tunnel.

Holmes and I stared at each other. Then Holmes said, "We are at the mercy of a madman, Watson. And there is nothing we can do until we have landed."

"We could parachute out," I said.

"I would prefer not to," Holmes said stiffly.

"Besides, it somehow doesn't seem cricket. The pilots have no parachutes, you know. These two were provided only because we are civilians."

"I wasn't planning on asking Wentworth to ride down with me," I mumbled, somewhat ashamed of myself for saying this.

Holmes didn't hear me; once again his stomach was trying to reject contents that did not exist.

3

Shortly after dawn, the German planes struck. These, as I was told later, were Fokker E-III's, single-seater monoplanes equipped with two Spandau machine guns. These were synchronized with the propellors to shoot bullets through the empty spaces between the whirling of the propellor blades.

Holmes was sitting on the floor, holding his head and groaning, and I was commiserating with him, though getting weary of his complaints, when the telephone bell rang. I removed the receiver from the box attached to the wall, or bulkhead, or whatever they call it. Wentworth's voice bellowed, "Put on the parachutes and hang on to something tight! Twelve ****ing Fokkers, a whole staffel, coming in at eleven o'clock!"

I misunderstood him. I said, "Yes, but what type of plane are they?"

"Fokkers!" he cried, adding, "No, no! My eyes played tricks on me. They're giant flying cockroaches! Each one is being ridden by a Prussian officer, helmeted and goggled and armed with a boarding cutlass!"

"What did you say?" I screamed into the phone, but it had been disconnected.

I told Holmes what Wentworth had said, and he forgot about being airsick, though he looked no better than before. We staggered out to the door and looked through its window.

The night was now brighter than day, the result of flares thrown out from the attacking aeroplanes. Their pilots intended to use the light to line up the sights of their machine guns on our helpless craft. Then, as if that were not bad enough, shells began exploding, some so near that our aeroplane shuddered and rocked under the impact of the blasts. Giant searchlights began playing about, some of them illuminating monoplanes with black crosses on their fuselages.

"Archy!" I exclaimed. "The French anti-aircraft guns are firing at the Huns! The fools! They could hit us just as well!"

Something flashed by. We lost sight of it, but a moment later we saw a fighter diving down toward us through the glare of the flares and the searchlights, ignoring the bursting shells around it. Two tiny red eyes flickered behind the propellor, but it was not until holes were suddenly punched in the fabric only a few feet from us that we realised that those were the muzzles of the machine guns. We dropped to the floor while the great plane rolled and dipped and rose and dropped and we were shot this way and that across the floor and against the bulkheads.

"We're doomed!" I cried to Holmes. "Get the parachutes on! He can't shoot back at the planes, and our plane is too slow and clumsy to get away!"

How wrong I was. And what a demon that madman was. He did things with that big lumbering aeroplane that I wouldn't have believed possible. Several times we were upside down and we only kept from being smashed, like mice shaken in a tin, by hanging on desperately to the bunkposts.

Once, Holmes, whose sense of hearing was somewhat keener than mine, said, "Watson, isn't that a*****e shooting a machine gun? How can he fly this plane, put it through such manoeuvres, and still operate a weapon which he must hold in both hands to use effectively?"

"I don't know," I confessed. At that moment both of us were dangling from the post, failing to fall only because of our tight grip. The plane was on its left side. Through the window beneath my feet I saw a German plane, smoke trailing from it, fall away. And then another followed it, becoming a ball of flame about a thousand feet or so from the ground.

The Handley Page righted itself, and I heard faint thumping noises overhead, followed by the chatter of a machine gun. Something exploded very near us and wreckage drifted by the window.

This shocked me, but even more shocking was the rapping on the window. This, to my astonishment, originated from a fist hammering on the door. I crawled over to it and stood up and looked through it. Upside down, staring at me through the isinglass, was Wentworth's face. His lips formed the words, "Open the door! Let me in!"

Numbly, I obeyed. A moment later, with an acrobatic skill that I still find incredible, he swung through the door. In one hand he held a Spandau with a rifle stock. A moment later, while I held on to his waist, he had closed the door and shut out the cold shrilling blast of wind.

"There they are!" he yelled, and he pointed the machine gun at a point just past Holmes, lying on the floor, and sent three short bursts past Holmes' ear.

Holmes said, "Really, old fellow . . . " Wentworth, raving, ran past him and a moment later we heard the chatter of the Spandau again.

"At least, he's back in the cockpit," Holmes said weakly. However, this was one of the times when Holmes was wrong. A moment later the captain was back. He opened the trap-door, poked the barrel of his weapon through, let loose a single burst, said, "Got you, you ****ing son of a *****!" closed the trap-door, and ran back toward the front.

Forty minutes later, the plane landed on a French military aerodrome outside of Marseilles. Its fuselage and wings were perforated with bullet holes in a hundred places, though fortunately no missiles had struck the petrol tanks. The French commander who inspected the plane pointed out that more of the holes were made by a gun firing from the inside than from guns firing from the outside.

"Damn right!" Wentworth said. "The cockroaches and their allies, the flying leopards, were crawling all over inside the plane! They almost got these two old men!"

A few minutes later a British medical officer arrived. Wentworth, after fiercely fighting six men, was subdued and put into a straitjacket and carried off in an ambulance.

Wentworth was not the only one raving.

Holmes, his pale face twisted, his fists clenched, was cursing his brother Mycroft, young Merrivale, and everyone else who could possibly be responsible, excepting, of course, His Majesty.

We were taken to an office occupied by several French and British officers of very high rank. The highest, General Chatson-Dawes-Overleigh, said, "Yes, my dear Mr. Holmes, we realise that he sometimes has these hallucinatory fits. Becomes quite mad, to be frank. But he is the best pilot and also the best espionage agent we have, even if he is a Colonial, and he has done heroic work for us. He never hallucinates negatively, that is, he never harms his fellows — though he did shoot an Italian once, but the fellow was only a private and he was an Italian and it was an accident — and so we feel that we must permit him to work for us. We can't permit a word of his condition to get back to the civilian populace, of course, so I must require you to swear silence about the whole affair. Which you would have to do as a matter of course, and, of course, of patriotism. He'll be given a little rest cure, a drying-out, too, and then returned to duty. Britain sorely needs him."*

[*This mad, but usually functioning, American must surely be the great aviator and espionage agent who, after transferring to the U.S. forces in 1917, was known under the code name of G-B. While in the British service, he apparently went under the name of Wentworth, his half-brother's surname. For the true names of G-B, the Spider, and the Shadow, see my Doc Savage: His Apocalyptic Lite, Bantam, 1975. Editor.]

Holmes raved some more, but he always was one to face realities and to govern himself accordingly. Even so, he could not resist making some sarcastic remarks about his life, which was also extremely valuable, being put into the care of a homicidal maniac. At last, cooling down, he said, "And the pilot who will fly us to Egypt? Is he also an irresponsible madman? Will we be in more danger from him than from the enemy?"

"He is said to be every bit as good a pilot as Wentworth," the general said. "He is an American ... "

"Great Scott!" Holmes said. He groaned, and he added, "Why can't we have a pilot of good British stock, tried and true?"

"Both Wentworth and Kentov are of the best British stock," Overleigh said stiffly. "They're descended from some of the oldest and noblest stock of England. They have royal blood in them, as a matter of fact. But they happen to be Colonials. The man who will fly you from here has been working for His Majesty's cousin, the Tsar of all the Russias, as an espionage agent. The Tsar was kind enough to loan both him and one of the great Sikorski nya Mourometz Type V aeroplanes to us. Kentov flew here in it with a full crew, and it is ready to take off."

Holmes' face became even paler, and I felt every minute of my sixty-four years of age. We were not to get a moment's rest, and yet we had gone through an experience which would have sent many a youth to bed for several days.

4

General Overleigh himself conducted us to the colossal Russian aeroplane. As we approached it, he described certain features in answer to Holmes' questions.

"So far, the only four-engined heavier-than-air craft in the world has been built by the Russians," he said. "Much to the shame of the British. The first one was built, and flown, in 1913. This, as you can see, is a biplane, fitted with wheels and a ski undercarriage. It has four 150-horsepower Sunbeam water-cooled Vee-type engines. The Sunbeam, unfortunately, leaves much to be desired."

"I would rather not have known that," I murmured. The sudden ashen hue of Holmes' face indicated that his reactions were similar to mine.

"Its wing span is 97 feet 9½ inches; the craft's length is 56 feet 1 inch; its height is 15 feet 5 and seven-eighths inches. Its maximum speed is 75 miles per hour; its operational ceiling is 9,843 feet. And its endurance is five hours-under ideal conditions. It carries a crew of five, though it can carry more. The rear fuselage is fitted with compartments for sleeping and eating."

Overleigh shook hands with us after he had handed us over to a Lieutenant Obrenov. The young officer led us up the steps into the fuselage and to the rear, where he showed us our compartment. Holmes chatted away with him in Russian, of which he had gained a certain mastery during his experience in Odessa with the Trepoif case. Holmes' insistence on speaking Russian seemed to annoy the officer somewhat, since, like all upper-class people of his country, he preferred to use French. But he was courteous, and after making sure we were comfortable, he bowed himself out. Certainly, we had little to complain about except possibly the size of the cabin. It had been prepared especially for us, had two swing-down beds, a thick rug which Holmes said was .a genuine Persian, oil paintings on the walls which Holmes said were genuine Maleviches (I thought they were artistic nonsense), two comfortable chairs bolted to the deck, and a sideboard also bolted to the deck and holding alcoholic beverages. In one corner was a tiny cubicle containing all the furniture and necessities that one finds in a W.C.

Holmes and I lit up the fine Cuban cigars we found in a humidor and poured out some Scotch whisky, Duggan's Dew of Kirkintilloch, I believe. Suddenly, both of us leaped into the air, spilling our drinks over our cuffs. Seemingly from nowhere, a tall figure had silently appeared. How he had done it, I do not know, since the door had been closed and under observation at all times by one or both of us.

Holmes groaned and said, under his breath, "Not another madman!"

The fellow certainly looked eccentric. He wore the uniform of a colonel of the Imperial Russian Air Service, but he also wore a long black opera cloak and a big black slouch hat. From under its floppy brim burned two of the most magnetic and fear-inspiring eyes I have ever seen. My attention, however, was somewhat diverted from these by the size and the aquilinity of the nose beneath them. It could have belonged to Cyrano de Bergerac.*

[*The description of this man certainly fits that of a notable crime fighter operating out of Manhattan in the '30's through the '40's. If he is who I think he is then one of his many aliases was Lamont Cranston. Editor.]

I found that I had to sit down to catch my breath. The fellow introduced himself, in an Oxford accent, as Colonel Kentov. He had a surprisingly pleasant voice, deep, rich, and shot with authority. It was also heavily laced with bourbon.

"Are you all right?" he said.

"I think so," I said. "You gave me quite a start. A cloud seemed to pass over my mind. But I'm fine now, thank you."

"I must go forward now," he said, "but I've assigned a crew member, a tail gunner now but once a butler, to serve you. Just ring that bell beside you if you need him."

And he was gone, though this time he opened the door. At least, I think he did.

"I fear, my dear fellow, that we are in for another trying time," Holmes said.

Actually, the voyage seemed quite pleasant once one got used to the roar of the four motors and the nerve-shaking jack-out-of-the-box appearances of Kentov. The trip was to take approximately twenty-eight hours if all went well. The only time we landed was to refuel. About every four and a half hours, we put down at a hastily constructed landing strip to which petrol and supplies had been rushed by ship, air, or camel some days before. With the Mediterranean Sea on our left and the shores of North Africa below us, we sped toward Cairo at an amazing average speed of 70.3 miles per hour, according to our commander. While we sipped various liquors or liqueurs and smoked Havanas, we read to pass the time. Holmes commented several times that he could use a little cocaine to relieve the tedium but I believe that he said that just to needle me. Holmes had brought along a work of his own authorship, the privately printed Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations Upon the Segregation of the Queen. He had often urged me to read the results of his experience with his Sussex bees and so I now acceded to his urgings, mainly because all the other books available were in Russian.

I found it more interesting than I had expected, and I told Holmes so. This seemed to please him, though he had affected an air of indifference to my reaction before then.

"The techniques and tricks of apiculture are intriguing and complex enough," he said. "But I was called away from a project which goes far beyond anything any apiculturist — scientist or not — has attempted. It is my theory that bees have a language and that they communicate such important information as the location of new clover, the approach of enemies, and so forth, by means of symbolic dancing. I was investigating this with a view to turning theory into fact when I got Mycroft's wire."

I sat up so suddenly that the ash dropped off my cigar onto my lap, and I was busy for a moment brushing off the coals before they burned a hole in my trousers. "Really, Holmes," I said, "you are surely pulling my leg! Bees have a language? Next you'll be telling me they compose sonnets in honour of their queen's inauguration! Or perhaps epitases when she gets married!"

"Epitases?" he said, regarding me scornfully. "You mean epithalamiums, you blockhead! I suggest you use moderation while drinking the national beverage of Russia. Yes, Watson, bees do communicate, though not in the manner which Homo sapiens uses."*

[*For the first time we learn that Holmes anticipated the discovery of the Austrian scientist, von Frisch, by many decades. Editor.]

"Perhaps you'd care to explain just what . . . " I said, but I was interrupted by that sudden vagueness of mind which signalled the appearance of our commander. I always jumped and my heart beat hard when the cloud dissolved and I realized that Kentov was standing before me. My only consolation was that Holmes was just as startled.

"Confound it, man!" Holmes said, his face red. "Couldn't you behave like a civilised being once and knock before entering? Or don't Americans have such customs?"

This, of course, was sheer sarcasm, since Holmes had been to the States several times.

"We are only two hours from Cairo," Kentov said, ignoring Holmes' remarks. "But I have just learned from the wireless station in Cairo 'that a storm of severe proportions is approaching us from the north. We may be blown somewhat off our course. Also, our spies at Cos, in Turkey, report that a Zeppelin left there yesterday. They believe that it intends to pick up Von Bork. Somehow, he's slipped out past the cordon and is waiting in the desert for the airship."

Holmes, gasping and sputtering, said, "If his execrable voyage turns out to be for nothing . . . if I was forced to endure that madman's dangerous antics only to have. . . !"

Suddenly, the colonel was gone. Holmes regained his normal colour and composure, and he said, "Do you know, Watson, I believe I know that man! Or, at least, his parents. I've been studying him at every opportunity, and though he is doubtless a master at dissimulation, that nose is false, he has a certain bone structure and a certain trait of walking, of turning his head, which leads me to believe . . . "

At that moment the telephone rang. Since I was closest to the instrument, I answered it. Our commander's voice said, "Batten down all loose objects and tie yourself in to your beds. We are in for a hell of a storm, the worst of this century, if the weather reports are accurate."

For once, the meteorologists had not exaggerated. The next three hours were terrible. The giant aeroplane was tossed about as if it were a sheet of writing paper. The electric lamps on the walls flickered again and again and finally went out, leaving us in darkness. Holmes groaned and moaned and finally tried to crawl to the W.C. Unfortunately, the craft was bucking up and down like a wild horse and rolling and yawing like a rowboat caught in a rapids. Holmes managed to get back to his bed without breaking any bones but, I regret to say, proceeded to get rid of all the vodka and brandy (a combination itself not conducive to good digestion, I believe), beef stroganoff, cabbage soup, and black bread on which we had dined earlier. Even more regrettably, he leaned over the edge of the bed to perform this undeniable function, and though I did not get all of it, I did get too much. I did not have the heart to reprimand him. Besides, he would have killed me, or at least attempted to do so, if I had made any reproaches. His mood was not of the best.

Finally, I heard his voice, weak though it was, saying, "Watson, promise me one thing."

"What is that, Holmes?"

"Swear to me that once we've set foot on land you'll shoot me through the head if ever I show the slightest inclination to board a flying vehicle again. I don't think there's much danger of that, but even if His Majesty himself should plead with me to get into an aeroplane, or anything that flies, dirigible, balloon, anything, you will mercifully tender euthanasia of some sort. Promise me."

I thought I was safe in promising. For one thing, I felt almost as strongly as he did about it.

At that moment, the door to our cabin opened, and our attendant, Ivan, appeared with a small electric lamp in his hand. He exchanged some excited words in Russian with Holmes and then left, leaving the lamp behind. Holmes crawled down from the bunk, saying, "We've orders to abandon ship, Watson. We've been blown far south of Cairo and will be out of petrol in half an hour. We'll have to jump then, like it or not. Ivan says that the colonel has looked for a safe landing place, but he can't even see the ground. The air's filled with sand; visibility is nil; the sand is getting into the bearings of the engines and pitting the windshield. So, my dear old friend, we must don the parachutes."

My heart warmed at being addressed so fondly, though my emotion was somewhat tempered in the next few minutes while we were assisting each other in strapping on the equipment. Holmes said, "You have an abominable effluvia about you, Watson," and I replied testily, I must admit, "You stink like the W.C in an East End pub yourself, my dear Holmes. Besides, any odour emanating from me has originated from, or in, you. Surely you are aware of that."

Holmes muttered something about the direction upwards, and I was about to ask him to clarify his comment when Ivan appeared again. This time he carried weapons which he distributed among the three of us. I was handed a cavalry sabre, a stiletto, a knout (which I discarded), and a revolver of some unknown make but of .50 calibre. Holmes was given a cutlass, a carbine, a belt full of ammunition, and a coil of rope at one end of which were grappling hooks. Ivan kept for himself another cutlass, two hand grenades dangling by their pins from his belt, and a dagger in his teeth.

We walked (rolled, rather) to the door, where three others stood, also fully, perhaps even over-, armed. There was a window further forward, and so Holmes and I went to it after a while to observe the storm. We could see little except clouds of dust for a few minutes and then the dust was suddenly gone. A heavy rain succeeded it, though the wind buffeted us as strongly as before. There was also much lightning, some of it exploding loudly close by.

A moment later Ivan joined us, pulling at Holmes' arm and shouting something in Russian. Holmes answered him and turning to me said, "Kentov has sighted a Zeppelin!"

"Great Scott!" I cried. "Surely it must be the one sent to pick up Von Bork! It, too, has been caught by the storm!"

"An elementary deduction," Holmes said.

But he seemed pleased about something. I surmised that he was happy because Von Bork had either missed the airship or, if he was in it, was in as perilous a plight as we. I failed to see any humour in the situation.

Holmes lost his grin several minutes later when we were informed that we were going to attack the Zeppelin.

"In this storm?" I said. "Why, the colonel can't even keep us at the same altitude or attitude from one second to the next."

"The man's a maniac!" Holmes shouted.

Just how mad, we were shortly to discover.

Presently the great airship hove into view painted silver above and black below to conceal it from search lights, the large designation L9* on its side, the control car in front, its pusher propellor spinning, the propellors on the front and rear of the two midships and one aft engine-gondolas spinning, the whole looking quite monstrous and sinister and yet beautiful.

[*According to German official records the L9 was burned on September 16, 1916, in the Fuhlsbüttel shed because of a fire in the L6. Either Watson was in error or the Germans deliberately falsified the records in order to conceal the secret attempt to rescue Von Bork. At the time this adventure occurred, the L9 was supposed to be in action in Europe and its commander was Kapitänleutnant d. R. Prölss. Editor.]

The airship was bobbing and rolling and yawing like a toy boat afloat on a Scottish salmon stream. Its crew had to be airsick and they had to have their hands full just to keep from being pitched out of their vessel. This was heartening to some degree, since none of us on the aeroplane, except possibly Kentov, were in any state remotely resembling good health or aggression.

Ivan mumbled something, and Holmes said, "He says that if the storm keeps up the airship will soon break up. Let us hope it does and so spares us aerial combat."

But the Zeppelin, though it did seem to be somewhat out of line, its frame slightly twisted, held together. Meanwhile, our four-engined colossus, so small compared to the airship, swept around to the vessel's stern. It was a ragged approach what with the constantly buffeting blasts, but the wonder was that it was accomplished at all.

"What's the fool doing?" Holmes said, and he spoke again to Ivan. Lightning rolled up the heavens then, and I saw that his face was a ghastly blue-grey.

"This Yank is madder than the other!" he said. "He's going to try to land on top of the Zeppelin!"

"How could he do that?" I gasped.

"How would I know what techniques he'll use, you dunce!" he shouted. "Who cares? Whatever he does, the plane will fall off the ship, probably break its wings, and we'll fall to our deaths!"

"We can jump now!" I shouted.

"What? Desert?" he cried. "Watson, we are British!"

"It was only a suggestion," I said. "Forgive me. Of course, we will stick it out. No Slav is going to say that we English lack courage."

Ivan spoke again, and Holmes relayed his intelligence. "He says that the colonel, who is probably the greatest flier in the world, even if he is a Yank, will come up over the stern of the Zeppelin and stall it just above the top machine-gun platform. As soon as the plane stops, we are to open the door and leap out. If we miss our footing or fall down, we can always use the parachutes. Kentov insisted on bringing them along over the protests of the Imperial Russian General Staff-they should live so long. We will go down the ladder from the platform and board the ship. Kentov's final words, his last orders before we leave the plane are . . . "

He hesitated, and I said, "Yes, Holmes?"

"Kill! Kill! Kill!"

"Good heavens!" I said. "How barbaric!"

"Yes," he answered. "But one has to excuse him. He is obviously not sane."

5

Following orders communicated through Obrenov, we lay down on the deck and grabbed whatever was solid and anchored in a world soon to become all too fluid and foundationless. The plane dived and we slid forward and then it rose sharply upward and we slid backward and then its nose suddenly lifted up, the roaring of the four engines becoming much more highly pitched, and suddenly we were pressed against the floor. And then the pressure was gone.

Slowly, but far too swiftly for me the deck tilted to the left. This was in accordance with Kentov's plans. He had stalled it with its longitudinal axis, or centre-line, a little to the left of the airship's centre-line. Its weight would thus cause the airship on whose back it rode to roll to the left.

For a second, I did not realize what was happening. To be quite frank, I was scared out of my wits, numb with terror. I would never allow Holmes to see this, and so I overcame my frozen state, though not the stiffness and slowness due to my age and recent hardships. I got up and stumbled out through the door, the parachute banging the upper parts of the back of my thighs and feeling as if it were made of lead, and sprawled out onto the small part of the platform left to me. I grabbed for the lowest end of an upright pipe forming the enclosure about the platform. The hatch had already been opened and Kentov was inside the airship. I could hear the booming of several guns. It was comparatively silent now, since Kentov had cut the engines just before the stalling. Nevertheless, the wind was howling and under it one could hear the creaking of the girders of the ship's structure as it bent under the varying pressures. My ears hurt abominably because the airship was dropping swiftly under the weight of the giant aeroplane. The aeroplane was also making its own unmistakable noises, groaning, as its structure bent, tearing the cotton fabric of the ship's covering as it slipped more and more to the left, then there was a loud ripping, and the ship beneath me rolled swiftly back, relieved of the enormous weight of the aeroplane. At the same time the Zeppelin soared aloft, and the two motions, the rolling and the levitation, almost tore me loose from my hold.

When the dirigible had ceased its major oscillations, the Russians rose and one by one disappeared into the well. Holmes and I worked our way across, passed the pedestals of the two quilt-swathed eight-millimetre Maxim machine guns, and descended the ladder. Just before I was all the way into the hatch, I looked across the back of the great beast that we were invading. I would have been shocked if I had not been so numb. The wheels and the ski undercarriage of the plane had ripped open a great wound along the thin skin of the vessel. Encountering the duralumin girders and rings of the framework, it had torn some apart and then its landing gear had itself been ripped off. The propellors, though no longer turning, had also done extensive damage. I wondered if the framework of the ship, the skeleton of the beast, as it were, might not have suffered so great a blow it would collapse and carryall of us down to our death.

I also had a second's admiration for the skill, no, the genius, of the pilot who had landed us.

And then I descended into the vast complex spider-web of the ship's hull with its rings and girders and bulging hydrogen-filled gas cells and ballast sacks of water. I emerged at the keel of the ship, on the foot-wide catwalk that ran the length of the ship between triangular girders. It had been a nightmare before then; after that it became a nightmare having a nightmare. I remember dodging along, clinging to girders, swinging out and climbing around to avoid the fire of the German sailors in the bow. I remember Lt. Obrenov falling with fatal bullet wounds after sticking two Germans with his sabre (there was no room to swing it and so use the edge as regulations required).

I remember others falling, some managing to retain their grip and so avoiding the fall through the fabric of the cover and into the abyss below. I remember Holmes hiding behind a gas cell and firing away at the Germans who were afraid of firing back and perhaps setting the hydrogen aflame.*

[*There was actually no danger of fire since phosphorus-coated bullets were not being used. Apparently, the grenades, which might have set off the hydrogen, were not used. Editor.]

Most of all I remember the slouch-hatted cloaked form of Kentov leaping about, swinging from girders and brace wires, bouncing from a beam onto a great gas cell and back again, flitting like a phantom of the opera through the maze, firing two huge .45 automatic pistols (not at the same time, of course, otherwise he would have lost his grip). German after German cried out or fled while the maniac cackled with a blood-chilling laugh between the booming of the huge guns. But though he was worth a squadron in himself, his men died one by one. And so the inevitable happened.

Perhaps it was a ricocheting bullet or perhaps he slipped. I do not know. All of a sudden he was falling off a girder, through a web of wires, miraculously missing them, falling backward, now in each hand a thundering flame-spitting .45, killing two sailors as he fell, laughing loudly even as he broke through the cotton fabric and disappeared into the dark rain over Africa.

Since he was wearing a parachute, he may have survived. I never heard of him again, though.

Presently the Germans approached cautiously, having heard Holmes and me call out that we surrendered. (We were out of ammunition and too nerveless even to lift a sabre.) We stood on the catwalk with our hands up, two tired beaten old men. Yet it was our finest hour. Nothing could ever rob us of the pleasure of seeing Von Bork's face when he recognised us. If the shock had been slightly more intense, he would have dropped dead from a heart attack.

6

A few minutes later, we had climbed down the ladder from the hull to the control gondola under the fore part of the airship. Behind us, raving, restrained by a petty officer and the executive officer, Oberleutnant zur See Heinrich Tring, came Von Bork. He had ordered us thrown overboard then and there, but Tring, a decent fellow, had refused to obey his orders. We were introduced to the commander, Kapitänleutnant Victor Reich.* He was also a decent fellow, openly admiring our feat of landing and boarding his ship even though it and his crew had suffered terribly. He rejected Von Bork's suggestion that we should be shot as spies since we were in civilian clothes and on a Russian warcraft. He knew of us, of course, and he would have nothing to do with a summary execution of the great Holmes and his colleague. After hearing our story, he made sure of our comfort. However, he refused to let Holmes smoke, cast his tobacco overboard then and there, in fact, and this made Holmes suffer. He had gone through so much that he desperately needed a pipeful of shag.

[*The records of the Imperial German Navy have been combed without success in a search for identification of the L9 and the crew members mentioned by Watson. Could it be that the ship and crew were secret agents also, that the L9 was a "phantom" ship, that it carried out certain missions which the German concealed from all but the highest? Or were there records, but these are still in closed files or were destroyed for one reason or another? Editor.]

"It is fortunate that the storm is breaking up," Reich said in excellent English. "Otherwise, the ship would soon break up. Three of our motors are not operating. The clutch to the port motor has overheated, the water in the radiator of a motor in the starboard mid-ear has boiled out, and something struck the propellor of the control car and shattered it. We are so far south that even if we could operate at one hundred percent efficiency, we would be out of petrol somewhere over Egypt on the return trip. Moreover, the controls to the elevators have been damaged. All we can do at present is drift with the wind and hope for the best."

The days and nights that followed were full of suffering and anxiety. Seven of the crew had been killed during the fight, leaving only six to man the vessel. This alone was enough to make a voyage back to Turkey or Palestine impossible. Reich told us that he had received a radio message ordering him to get to the German forces in East Africa under Von Lettow-Vorbeck. There he was to burn the Zeppelin and join the forces. This, of course, was not all the message. Surely something must have been said about getting Von Bork back to Germany, since he had the formula for mutating and culturing the "sauerkraut bacilli."

When we were alone in the port mid-gondola, where we were kept during part of the voyage, Holmes commented on what he called the "SB."

"We must get possession of the formula, Watson," he said. "I did not tell you, but before you arrived at Mycroft's office I was informed that the SB is a two-edged weapon. It can be mutated to eat other foods. Imagine what. would happen to our food supply, not to mention the blow to our morale, if the SB were changed to eat boiled meat? Or cabbage? Or potatoes?"

"Great Scott!" I said, and then in a whisper, "It could be worse, Holmes, far worse. What if the Germans dropped an SB over England which devoured stout and ale? Or think of how the spirits of our valiant Scots would sink if their whisky supply vanished before their eyes?"

Von Bork had been impressed into service but, being as untrained as we, was not of much use. Also, his injured left eye handicapped him as much as our age did us. It was very bloodshot and failed to coordinate with its partner. My professional opinion was that it was totally without sight. The other eye was healthy enough. It glared every time it lighted upon us. Its fires reflected the raging hatred in his heart, the lust to murder us.

However, the airship was in such straits that no one had much time or inclination to think about anything except survival. Some of the motors were still operating, thus enabling some kind of control. As long as we went south, with the wind behind us, we made headway. But due to the jammed elevators, the nose of the ship was downward and the tail was up. The L9 flew at roughly five degrees to the horizontal for some time. Reich put everybody to work, including us, since we had volunteered, at carrying indispensable equipment to the rear to help weigh it down. Anything that was dispensable, and there was not much, went overboard. In addition, much water ballast in the front was discharged.

Below us the sands of Sudan reeled by while the sun flamed in a cloudless blue. Its fiery breath heated the hydrogen in the cells, and great amounts hissed out from the automatic valves. The hot wind blew into the hull through the great hole made by the aeroplane when it had stalled into a landing on its top. The heat, of course, made the hydrogen expand, thus causing the ship to rise despite the loss of gas from the valves. At night, the air cooled very swiftly, and the ship dropped swiftly, too swiftly for the peace of mind of its passengers. During the day the updrafts of heat from the sands made the vessel buck and kick. All of us aboard got sick during these times.

By working like Herculeses despite all handicaps, the crew managed to get all the motors going again. On the fifth day, the elevator controls were fixed. Her hull was still twisted, and this, with the huge gap in the surface covering, made her aerodynamically unstable. At least, that was how Reich explained it to us. He, by the way, was not at all reticent in telling us about the vessel itself though he would not tell us our exact location. Perhaps this was because he wanted to make sure that we would not somehow get to the radio and send a message to the British in East Africa.

The flat desert gave way to rugged mountains. More ballast was dropped, and the L9 just barely avoided scraping some of the peaks. Night came with its cooling effects and the ship dropped. The mountains were lower at this point, fortunately for us.

Two days later, as we lay sweltering on the catwalk that ran along the keel Holmes said "I estimate that we are now somewhere over British East Africa, somewhere in the vicinity of Lake Victoria. It is evident that we will never get to Mahenge or indeed anywhere in German East Africa. The ship has lost too much hydrogen. I have overheard some guarded comments to this effect by Reich and Tring. They think we'll crash sometime tonight. Instead of seeking out the nearest British authorities and surrendering, as anyone with good sense would they are determined to cross our territory to German territory. Do you know how many miles of veldt and jungle and swamp swarming with lions, rhinoceri, vipers, savages, malaria, dengue, and God knows what else we will have to walk? Attempt to walk, rather?"

" Perhaps we can slip away some night?"

And then what will we do?" he said bitterly. "Watson, you and I know the jungles of London well and are quite fitted to conduct our safaris through them. But here . . . no, Watson, any black child of eight is more competent, far more so, to survive in these wilds."

"You don't paint a very good picture," I said grimly.

"Though I am descended from the Vernets, the great French artists," he said, "I myself have little ability at painting pretty pictures."

He chuckled then, and I was heartened by this example of pawky humour, feeble though it was. Holmes would never quit; his indomitable English spirit might be defeated, but it would go down fighting. And I would be at his side. And was it not after all better to die with one's boots on while one still had some vigour than when one was old and crippled and sick and perhaps an idiot drooling and doing all sorts of pitiful, sickening things?

That evening preparations were made to abandon the ship. Ballast water was put in every portable container, the food supply was stored in sacks made from the cotton fabric ripped off the hull, and we waited. Sometime after midnight, the end came. It was fortunately a cloudless night with a moon bright enough for us to see, if not too sharply, the terrain beneath. This was a jungle up in the mountains, which were not at a great elevation. The ship was steered down a winding valley through which a stream ran silvery. Then, abruptly, we had to rise, and we could not do it.

We were in the control car when the hillside loomed before us. Reich gave the order and we threw our supplies out, thus lightening the load and giving us a few more seconds of grace. We two prisoners were courteously allowed to drop out first. Reich did this because the ship would rise as the crew members left, and he wanted us to be closest to the ground. We were old and not so agile, and he thought that we needed all the advantages we could get.

He was right. Even though Holmes and I fell into some bushes which eased our descent, we were still bruised and shaken up. We scrambled out, however, and made our way through the growth toward the supplies. The ship passed over us, sliding its great shadow like a cloak, and then it struck something. The whirring propellors were snapped off, the cars crumpled and came loose with a nerve-scraping sound, the ship lifted again with the weight of the cars gone, and it drifted out of sight. But its career was about over. A few minutes later, it exploded. Reich had left several time-bombs next to some gas cells.

The flames were very bright and very hot, outlining the dark skeleton of its framework. Birds flew up and around it. No doubt they and the beasts of the jungle were making a loud racket, but the roar of the flames drowned them out.

By their light we could see back down the hill, though not very far. We struggled through the heavy vegetation, hoping to get to the supplies before the others. We had agreed to take as much food and water as we could carry and set off by ourselves, if we got the chance. Surely, we reasoned, there must be some native village nearby, and once there we would ask for guidance to the nearest British post.

By pure luck, we came across a pile of food and some bottles of water. Holmes said, "Dame Fortune is with us, Watson!" but his chuckle died the next moment when Von Bork stepped out of the bushes. In his hand was a Luger automatic and in his one eye was the determination to use that before the others arrived. He could claim, of course, that we were fleeing or had attacked him and that he was forced to shoot us.

"Die, you pig-dogs!" he snarled, and he raised the gun. "Before you do, though, know that I have the formula on me and that I will get it to the Fatherland and it will doom you English swine and the French swine and the Italian swine. The bacilli can be adapted to eat Yorkshire pudding and snails and spaghetti, anything that is edible! The beauty of it is that it's specific, and unless it's mutated to eat sauerkraut, it will starve rather than do so!"

We drew ourselves up, prepared to die as British men should. Holmes muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "Jump to one side, Watson, and then we'll rush him! You take his blind side! Perhaps one of us can get to him!"

This was a noble plan, though I didn't know what I could do even if I got hold of Von Bork.

After all, he was a young man and had a splendid physique.

At that moment there was a crashing in the bushes, Reich's loud voice commanding Von Bork not to shoot, and the commander, tears streaming from his face, stumbled into the little clearing. Behind him came others. Von Bork said, "I was merely holding them until you got here."

Reich, I must add, was not weeping because of any danger to us. The fate of his airship had dealt him a terrible blow; he loved his vessel and to see it die was to him comparable to seeing his wife die. Perhaps it had even more impact, since, as I later found out, he was on the verge of a divorce.

Though he had saved us, he knew that we were ready to skip out at the first chance. He kept a close eye on us, though it was not as close as Von Bork's. Nevertheless, he allowed us to retreat behind bushes to attend to our comforts. And so, three days later, we strolled on away.

"Well, Watson," Holmes said, as we sat panting under a tree several hours later, "we have given them the slip. But we have no water and no food except these pieces of mouldy biscuit in our pockets. At this moment I would trade them for a handful of shag."

We went to sleep finally and slept like the two old and exhausted men we were. I awoke several times, I think because of insects crawling over my face, but I always went back to sleep quickly. About eight in the morning, the light and the uproar of jungle life awoke us. I was the first to see the cobra slipping through the tall growths toward us. I got quickly, though unsteadily and painfully, to my feet. Holmes saw the reptile then and started to get up. The snake raised its upper part, its hood swelled, and it swayed as it turned its head this way and that.

"Steady, Watson!" Holmes said, though the advice would better have been given to himself. He was much closer to the cobra, within striking range, in fact, and he was shaking more violently than I. He could not be blamed for this, of course. He was in a more shakeable situation.

"I knew we should have brought along that flask of brandy," I said. "We have absolutely nothing for snakebite."

"No time for reproaches, you imbecile!"

Holmes said. "Besides, what kind of medical man are you? It's sheer superstitious nonsense that alcohol helps prevent the effects of venom."

"Really, Holmes," I said. He had been getting so irascible lately, so insulting. Part of this could be excused, since he became very nervous without the solace of tobacco. Even so, I thought . . . The thought was never finished. The cobra struck, and Holmes and I both jumped, yelling at the same time.

Something hissed through the air. The cobra was knocked aside by the impact of a missile, and it writhed dying on the ground. An arrow transfixed it just back of the head.

"Steady, Watson!" Holmes said. "We are saved, but the savage who shot that may have preserved us only so he'll have fresher meat for his pot!"

Suddenly, we leaped into the air again, uttering a frightened scream.

Seemingly out of the air, a man had appeared before us.

My heart was beating too hard and my breath was coming too swiftly for me to say anything for a moment.

Holmes recovered first.

He said, "Lord Greystoke, I presume?"

7

He seemed to be a giant, though actually he was only about three inches taller than Holmes. His bones were large, extraordinarily so, and though he was muscular, the muscles were not the knots of the professional strong man. Where a wrestler or weight lifter recalls a gorilla, he resembled a leopard. The face was handsome and striking. His hair was chopped off at the base of the neck, apparently by use of the huge hunting knife in the scabbard suspended by an antelope-skin belt just above the leopard-skin loincloth. The hair was as black as an Arab's, as was the bronzed skin which was criss-crossed with scars. His eyes were large and dark grey and had about them something both feral and remote. His nose was straight, his upper lip was short, and his chin was square and clefted.

He held in one hand a short thick bow of some wood and carried on his back a quiver with a dozen more arrows.

So this is Lord Greystoke, I thought. Yes, his features are enough like those of the ten-year-old Lord Saltire we rescued in the adventure of the Priory School for him to be a twin. But this man radiates a frightening ferality, a savagery more savage than any possessed by the most primitive of men. This could not possibly be the scion of an ancient British stock, not by any stretch of the fancy the English gentleman that Saltire had been even at the age of ten. This man had been raised in a school that made the hazing of the Priory, Rugby, and Oxford seem like the child's play that it was.

Of course, I thought, he may be mad. How otherwise account for the strange tales that floated about the clubs and the salons of our nobility and gentry?

However, I thought, he could be a product which the British occasionally turn out. Every once in a while, a son of our island, affected in some mystical way by the Orient or Africa, goes more native than the native. There was Sir Richard Francis Burton, more Arab than the Arab, and Lord John Roxton, who was said to be wilder than the Amazon Indians with whom he consorted.

During the next few minutes I decided that the first guess, that he had gone mad, was the correct one.

He said, in a deep rich baritone, "I am known as Lord Greystoke, among other things." Without offering to shake our hands or determine our identity, as any true gentleman would, he put upon the snake one naked foot, calloused an inch thick on its sole, and he pulled the arrow out. He wiped it on the grass, replaced the arrow in the quiver, and cut off the head of the reptile. While we stared in fascination and disgust, he skinned the cobra and then began biting off chunks of its meat and chewing it. The blood dripped down his chin while he stared with those beautiful but wild eyes at us.

"Would you care for some?" he said, and he grinned at us most bloodily.

"Not unless it's cooked," Holmes replied coolly.

"Cooked or raw, I'd rather starve," I said, ungrammatically but sincerely.

"Starve then," Greystoke said.

"I say," I protested. "We are fellow Englishmen, aren't we? Would you let us die of hunger while those Germans are . . . "

He stopped chewing, and his face became quite fierce.

"Germans!" he said. "Here ? Nearby? Where are they?"

Holmes outlined our story, leaving certain parts out for security purposes. Greystoke listened him out, though impatiently, and he said, "I will kill them."

"Without giving them a chance to surrender?" I said horrifiedly.

"I don't take prisoners," he said, glaring at me. "Not any soldier, black or white, who fights for Germany. It was a band of black soldiers, under white officers, who murdered my wife and my warriors who were guarding her and burned down my house around her. I have sworn to kill every German I come across until this war ends."

He added, "And perhaps after it ends!"

"But these men are not soldiers!" I said weakly. "They are sailors, members of the Imperial German Navy!"

"They will die no less."

"Their commander dealt with us as an officer and a gentleman should," Holmes said. "In fact, we owe our lives to him."

"For that he shall have a quick and painless death."

Holmes said, "Could we at least make a fire and cook that reptile first and perhaps hear your story?"

Greystoke threw the skeleton, which was stripped of most of its meat, to one side. "I'll hunt something more suitable to your civilised palates," he said. "After all, they won't get away."

He said this so grimly and assuredly that shivers ran up my spine, "And you two stay here," he said. He was gone, taken in swiftly and silently by the vegetation.

"Good God, Holmes!" I cried. "The man is a beast, a savage engine geared for vengeance! And, Holmes, whoever he is, he was certainly never the child whom we brought back safely to the duke at Pemberley House!* Why, surely he would have recognised his saviours even though we are older! Fifteen years have not made that much difference in us!"

[*The true name of the ducal mansion Watson called Holdernesse Hall in "The Adventure of the Priory School." A description of the estate is found in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Editor.]

"But they have in him, heh?" Holmes said.

"Watson, there are muddy waters in this stream. I have kept a watch on that family over the years, an infrequent watch, it is true. For some reason, we keep bumping into members of the duke's family or into people who've been involved with them. It was the duchess who shot Milverton, it was Black Peter Carey who, I strongly suspect, murdered our present Lord Greystoke's uncle, you know, the Socialist duke who drove a cab for a while . . . "

"In the affair of the hound of the Baskervilles?" I broke in.

"You know I don't like being interrupted, Watson," he said testily. "As I was saying, Carey probably murdered the fifth duke before he came to a bad, but deserved, end at Forest Row. I have reason to believe that Carey, under another name, was aboard the ship carrying the fifth duke's son and his wife to Africa when it was lost with all hands aboard — for all the public knew, that is. Then I was called in again by the sixth duke to find his illegitimate son, who, it turned out, settled in the States instead of in Australia. It is a weird web which has tangled our fortunes with those of the Greystokes."*

[*For a fuller description of this involvement, see my definitive biography of Lord Greystroke. Editor.]

"I just can't believe that this man is the sixth duke's son!" I said.

"The jungle can change a man," Holmes said. "However, I agree with you, even though his features and his voice are remarkably similar. Our Lord Greystoke is an impostor. But how in the world did he succeed in passing himself off as the real Lord Greystoke? And when? And what happened to the sixth duke's son, the child we knew as Lord Saltire?"*

[*It is the English custom to address the sons of noblemen with an honorary title, though legally the sons are commoners. The duke had several secondary titles, the highest of which was Marquess of Saltire. Thus the duke's son was known as Lord Saltire. Editor.]

"Good Lord!" I said. "Do you suspect murder?"

"Anybody is capable of murder, my dear Watson," he said. "Even you and I, given the proper circumstances and the proper, or improper, state of emotion. But I have a feeling, a hunch, that this man would not be capable of cold-blooded murder. He may be emotionally unstable, though."

"Fingerprints!" I cried, elated because I had anticipated Holmes.

He smiled and said, "Yes, that would establish whether or not he is an impostor. But I doubt that there is any record of Saltire's    fingerprints."

"His handwriting?" I said, somewhat crushed.

"He would search out and destroy all papers bearing Saltire's handwriting, all he could get his hands on. There must be many that he could not obtain, however, and if these could be found, we could compare Saltire's holographs with Greystoke's. I imagine that Greystoke has trained himself to write like Saltire, but an expert, myself, for instance, could easily distinguish the forgery. However, we are now in no position to do such a thing, and from the looks of things we may never be in such a position. Also, before I went to the authorities, I would make sure that the revelation would be useful. After all, we don't know why Greystoke has done this. He may be innocent of murder."

"Surely," I said, "You aren't thinking of asking Greystoke to confess?"

"What? With a high certainty that we might be killed on the spot? And perhaps eaten? I don't think Greystoke would put us on his menu if other meat were available. If he were starving, he might not be so discriminating."

I hesitated and then I said, "I am going to confess something to you, Holmes. You remember when we were discussing Greystoke in Mycroft's office? You said that you had heard about the novel, the highly fictionalised and romanticised account of Greystoke's adventures in Africa? You also mentioned that very few copies of the novel had reached England because of the declaration of hostilities shortly before the book was published?"

"Yes ?" Holmes said, looking at me strangely.

"Knowing your attitude toward my reading of what you consider trash, I did not tell you that a friend of mine in San Francisco-he was my best man when I married my first

wife-sent me a copy not only of the first book but of its sequel. I have read them . . . "

"Good Lord!" Holmes said. "I can understand your shame, Watson, but withholding evidence . . . "

"What evidence?" I replied more hotly than was my wont, no doubt due to fatigue, hunger, and anxiety. "There was no crime then of which we were aware!"

"Touche!" Holmes said. "Pray accept my apologies. And continue."

"The American author, and what a wild imagination he has, pretends that the real Lord Greystoke was born in a cabin off the shore of western Africa. In his novel Greystoke's parents are marooned by mutineers. Unable to make their way back to civilisation, they build a hut and young Greystoke is born in it. When his parents die the baby is adopted bya female of a band of intelligent anthropoid apes. These apes are a product of the inflamed imagination of the author, who, by the way, has never been to Africa or apparently read much about it. To make a long story short, the boy grows, up, learns to read and write English without ever having heard a word of English . . . "

"Preposterous!"

"Perhaps, but the author makes it seem possible. Then a white girl, American, of course, and her family and associates, among whom is the youth who inherited the title of Greystoke . . . "

"Please speak in shorter sentences, Watson.

And back up in your story a little."

is that the American read some newspaper or magazine accounts of how Lord Greystoke, a prime example of English eccentricity, or of madness, had abandoned his heritage, for all practical purposes, and settled down in Africa. To make matters worse, he'd gone native. No, worse than native, since no native would be caught dead living as he does, alone in the jungle, killing lions with a knife, eating meat raw, consorting with chimpanzees and gorillas. So, this Yank sees a highly sensational novel in all this and formulates a plot and characters which are bound to appeal to the public."

"Perhaps," I said. "Allow me to tell you what transpired in the sequel which the Yankee wrote."

I proceeded to do so, after which I waited for Holmes to comment. He sat leaning against a tree trunk, his brows knit, much as I have seen him sit for an entire night while he considered a case. After several minutes he burst out, "God I How I miss my pipe, Watson! Nicotine is more than an aid to thought, it is a necessity! It's a wonder that anything was done in the sciences or the arts before the discovery of America!"

Absently, he reached out and picked up a stick off the ground. He put it in his mouth, no doubt intending to suck on it as a substitute, however unsatisfactory, for the desiderated pipe. The next moment he leaped up with a yell that startled me. I cried, "What have you found, Holmes? What is it?"

"That, curse it!" he shouted and pointed at the stick. It was travelling at a fast rate on a number of thin legs toward a refuge under a log.

"Great Scott!" I said. "It's an insect, a mimetic!"

"How observant of you," he said, snarling.

But the next moment he was down on his knees and groping after the creature.

"What on earth are you doing?" I said.

"It does taste like tobacco," he said. "Expediency is the mark of a . . . "

I never heard the rest. An uproar broke out in the jungle nearby, the shouts of men mortally wounded.

"What is it?" I said. "Could Greystoke have found the Germans ?"

Then I fell silent and clutched him, as he clutched me, while a yell pierced the forest, a yell that ululated and froze our blood and hushed the wild things.

8

Holmes unfroze and started in the direction of the sound. I said, "Wait, Holmes! Greystoke ordered us not to leave this place! He must have his reasons for that!"

"Duke or not, he isn't going to order me around!" Holmes said. Nevertheless, he halted. It was not a change of mind about the command; it was the crashing of men thrusting through the jungle toward us. We turned and plunged into the bush in the opposite direction while a cry behind us told us that we had been seen. A moment later, heavy hands fell upon us and dragged us down. Someone gave an order in a language unknown to me, and we were jerked roughly to our feet.

Our captors were four tall men of a dark Caucasian race with features somewhat like those of the ancient Persians. They wore thick quilted helmets of some cloth, thin sleeveless shirts, short kilts, and knee-high leather boots. They were armed with small round steel shields, short heavy two-edged swords, heavy two-headed steel axes with long wooden shafts, and bows and arrows.

They said something to us. We looked blank.

Then they turned as a weak cry came from the other side of the clearing. One of their own staggered out from the bush only to fall flat on his face and lie there unmoving. An arrow, which I recognized as Greystoke's, projected from his back.

Seeing this, the men became alarmed, though I suppose they had been alarmed all along. One ran out, examined the man, shook his head, and raced back. We were half-lifted, half-dragged along with them in a mad dash through vegetation that tore and ripped our clothes and us. Evidently ·they had run up against Greystoke, which was not a thing to be recommended at any time. I didn't know why they burdened themselves with two exhausted old men, but I surmised that it was for no beneficent purpose.

I will not recount in detail that terrible journey. Suffice it to say that we were four days and nights in the jungle, walking all day, trying. to sleep at night. We were scratched, bitten, and torn, tormented with itches that wouldn't stop and sometimes sick from insect bites. We went through almost impenetrable jungle and waded waist-deep in swamps which held hordes of blood-sucking leeches. Half of the time, however, we progressed fairly swiftly along paths whose ease of access convinced me that they must be kept open by regular work parties.

The third day we started up a small mountain. The fourth day we went down it by being let down in a bamboo cage suspended by ropes from a bamboo boom. Below us lay the end of a lake that wound out of sight among the precipices that surrounded it. We were moved along at a fast pace toward a canyon into which the arm of the lake ran. Our captors pulled two dugouts out of concealment and we were paddled into the fjord. After rounding a corner, we saw before us a shore that sloped gently upward to a precipice several miles beyond it. A village of bamboo huts with thatched roofs spread along the' shore and some distance inland.

The villagers came running when they saw us. A drum began beating some place, and to its beat we were marched up a narrow street and to a hut near the biggest hut. We were thrust into this, a gate of bamboo bars was lashed to the entrance, and we sat against its back wall while the villagers took turns looking in at us. As a whole, they were a good-looking people, the average of beauty being much higher than that seen in the East End of London, for instance. The women wore only long cloth skirts, though necklaces of shells hung around their necks and their long hair was decorated with flowers. The prepubescent children were stark naked.

Presently, food was brought to us. This consisted of delicious baked fish, roasted pygmy antelope, unleavened bread, and a brew that would under other circumstances have been too sweet for my taste. I am not ashamed to admit that Holmes and I gorged ourselves, devouring everything set before us.

I went to sleep shortly afterward, waking after dusk with a start. A torch flared in a stanchion just outside the entrance, at which two guards stood. Holmes was sitting near it, reading his Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, With Some Observations Upon the Segregation of the Queen. "Holmes," I began, but he held up his hand for silence. His keen ears had detected a sound a few seconds before mine did. This swelled to a hubbub with the villagers swarming out while the drum beat again. A moment later we saw the cause of the uproar. Six warriors, with Reich and Von Bork among them, were marching toward us. And while we watched curiously the two Germans were shoved into our hut.

Though both were much younger than Holmes and I, they were in equally bad condition-probably, I suppose, because they had not practiced the good old British custom of walking whenever possible. Von Bork refused to talk to us, but Reich, always a gentleman, told us what had happened to his party.

"We too heard the noises and that horrible cry," he said. "We made our way cautiously toward it, until we saw the carnage in a clearing. There were five dead men sprawled there, and six running in one direction and four in another. Standing with his foot on the chest of the largest corpse was a white man clad only in a leopard-skin. He was the one uttering that awful cry, which I would swear no human throat could make."

"Der englische Affenmensch," Von Bork muttered, his only contribution to the conversation that evening.

"Three of the men had arrows in them; the other two obviously had had their necks broken," Reich continued. "Von Bork whispered to me the wild man's identity, and so I whispered to my men to fire at him. Before we could do so, he had leaped up and pulled himself by a branch into a tree, and he was gone. We searched for him for some time without success. Then we started out to the east, but at dusk one of my men fell with an arrow through his neck. The angle of the arrow showed that it had come from above. We looked upward but could see nothing. Then a voice, speaking in excellent German, with a Brandenburger accent yet, ordered us to turn back. We were to march to the southwest. If we did not, one of us would die at dusk each day until no one was left. I asked him why we should do this, but there was no reply. Obviously, he had us entirely at his mercy-which, I suspected, from the looks of him, he utterly lacked."

"He claims that German officers murdered his wife," Holmes said.

"That's a lie!" Reich said indignantly. "More British propaganda! We are not the baby-bayoneting Huns your propaganda office portrays us as being!"

"There are some bad apples in every barrel," Holmes replied coolly.

Reich looked as if something had suddenly disturbed him. I thought it was a gas pain, but he said, "So, then, you met Greystoke! He told you this! But why did he desert you, leave you to fall into the hands of these savages?"

"I don't know," Holmes said. "Please carry on with your story."

"My first concern was the safety and well-being of my men. To have ignored Greystoke would have been to be brave but stupid. So I ordered the march to the southwest. After two days if became evident that Greystoke intended for us to starve to death. All our food was stolen that night, and we dared not leave the line of march to hunt, even though I doubt that we would have been able to shoot anything. The evening of the second day, I called out, begging that he let us at least hunt for food. He must have had some pangs of conscience, some mercy in him after all. That morning we woke to find a freshly killed wild pig, one of those orange-bristled swine, in the center of the camp. From somewhere in the branches overhead his voice came mockingly. 'Pigs should eat pigs!'

"And so we struggled southwestward until today. We were attacked by these people. Greystoke had not ordered us to lay down our arms, so we gave a good account of ourselves. But only Von Bork and I survived, and we were knocked unconscious by the flats of their axes. And marched here, the Lord only knows for what end."

"I suspect that the Lord of the Jungle, one of Greystoke's unofficial titles, knows," Holmes said glumly.

9

If Greystoke did know, he did not appear to tell us what to expect. Several days passed while we slept and ate and talked to Reich. Von Bork continued to ignore us, even though Holmes several times addressed him. Holmes asked him about his health, which I thought a strange concern for a man who had not killed us only because he lacked the opportunity.

Holmes seemed especially interested in his left eye, once coming up to within a few inches of it and staring at it. Von Bork became enraged at this close scrutiny.

"Get away from me, British swine!" he yelled. "Or I will ruin both of your eyes!"

"Permit Dr. Watson to examine it," Holmes said. "He might be able to save it."

"I want no incompetent English physician poking around it," Von Bork said.

I became so indignant that I lectured him on the very high standards of British medicine, but he only turned his back on me. Holmes chuckled at this and winked at me.

At the end of the week, we were allowed to leave the hut during the day, unaccompanied by guards. Holmes and I were not restrained in any way, though the Germans were hobbled with shackles so that they could not walk very fast. Apparently, our captors decided that Holmes and I were too old to give them much of a run for their money.

We took advantage of our comparative freedom to stroll around the village, inspecting everything and also attempting to learn the language.

"I don't know what family it belongs to," Holmes said. "But it is related neither to Cornish nor Chaldean, of that I'm sure."

Holmes was also interested in the white china of these people, which represented their highest art form. The black figures and designs they painted upon it reminded me somewhat of early Greek vase paintings. The vases and dishes were formed from kaolin deposits which existed to the north near the precipices. I mention this only because the white clay was to play an important part in our salvation in the near future.

At the end of the second week, Holmes, a superb linguist, had attained some fluency in the speech of our captors. "It belongs to a completely unknown language family," he said. "But there are certain words which, degenerated though they are, obviously come from ancient Persian. I would say that at one time these people had contact with a wandering party of descendants of Darius. The party settled down here, and these people borrowed some words from their idiom."

The village consisted of a hundred huts arranged in concentric circles. Each held a family ranging from two to eight members. Their fields lay north of the village on the slopes leading up to the precipices. The stock consisted of goats, pigs, and dwarf antelopes. Their alcoholic drink was a sort of mead made from the honey of wild bees. A few specimens of these ventured near the village, and Holmes secured some for study. They were about an inch long, striped black and white, and were armed with a long venom-ejecting barb. Holmes declared that they were of a new species, and he saw no reason not to classify them as Apis holmesi.

Once a week a party set out to the hills to collect honey. Its members were always clad in leather clothing and gloves and wore veils over their hats. Holmes asked permission to accompany them, explaining that he was wise in the ways of bees. To his disappointment, they refused him. A further inquiry by him resulted in the information that there was a negotiable, though difficult, pass through the precipices. It was used only for emergency purposes because of the vast number of bees that filled the narrow pass. Holmes obtained his data by questioning a child. Apparently, the adults had not thought to tell their young to keep silent about this means of exit.

"The bee-warding equipment is kept locked up in their temple," Holmes said. "And that makes it impossible to obtain it for an escape attempt."

The temple was the great hut in the village's centre. We were not allowed to enter it or even to approach it within fifty feet. Through some discreet inquiries, and unashamed eavesdropping, Holmes discovered that the high priestess-and-queen lived within the temple. We had never seen her nor were we likely to do so. She had been born in the temple and was to reside there until she died. Just why she was so restricted Holmes could not determine. His theory was that she was a sort of hostage to the gods.

"Perhaps, Watson, she is confined because of a superstition that arose after the catastrophe which their myths say deluged this land and the great civilisation it harboured. The fishermen tell me that they often see on the bottom of this lake the sunken ruins of the stone houses in which their ancestors lived. A curse was laid upon the land, they say, and they hint that only by keeping the high priestess-cum-queen inviolate, unseen by profane eyes, untouched by anyone after pubescence, can the wrath of the gods be averted. They are cagey in what they say, so I have had to surmise certain aspects of their religion."

"That's terrible!" I said. "The deluge?"

"No, that a woman should be denied freedom and love."

"She has a name, but I have never overheard it. They refer to her as The Beautiful One."

"Is there nothing we can do for her?" I said. "I do not know that she wants to be helped.

You must not allow your well-known gallantry to endanger us. But to satisfy a legitimate scientific interest, if anthropology is a science, we could perhaps attempt a look inside the temple. Its roof has a large circular hole in its center. If we could get near the top of the high tree about twenty yards from it, we could look down into the building."

"With the whole village watching us?" I said. "No, Holmes, it is impossible to get up the tree unobserved during the day. And if we did so during the night, we could see nothing because of the darkness. In any event, it would probably mean instantaneous death even to make the attempt."

"There are torches lit in the building at night," he said. "Come, Watson, if you have no taste for this arboreal adventure, I shall go it alone."

And that was why, despite my deep misgivings, we climbed that towering tree on a cloudy night. After Von Bork and Reich had fallen asleep and our guards had dozed off and the village was silent except for a chanting in the temple, we crept out of our hut. Holmes had hidden a rope the day before, but even with this it was no easy task. We were not youths of twenty, agile as monkeys and as fearless aloft. Holmes threw the weighted end of the rope over the lowest branch, which was twenty feet up, and tied the two ends together.

Then, grasping the rope with both hands, and bracing his feet against the trunk, he half-walked almost perpendicular to the trunk, up the tree. On reaching the branch, he rested for a long time while he gasped for breath so loudly that I feared he would wake up the nearest villagers. When he was quite recovered, he called down to me to make the ascent. Since I was heavier and several years older, and lacked his feline muscles, having more the physique of a bear, I experienced great difficulty in getting up. I wrapped my legs around the rope — no walking at a ninety-degree angle to the tree for me — and painfully and gaspingly hauled myself up. But I persisted — after all, I am British — and Holmes pulled me up at the final stage of what I was beginning to fear was my final journey.

After resting, we made a somewhat easier ascent via the branches to a position about ten feet below the top of the tree. From there we could look almost directly down through the hole in the middle of the roof. The torches within enabled us to see its interior quite clearly.

Both of us gasped when we saw the woman standing in the centre of the building by a stone altar. She was a beautiful woman, surely one of the daintiest things that ever graced this planet. She had long golden hair and eyes that looked dark from where we sat but which, we later found out, were a deep grey. She was wearing nothing except a necklace of some stones that sparkled as she moved. Though I was fascinated, I also felt something of shame, as if I were a peeping tom. I had to remind myself that the women wore nothing above the waist in their everyday attire and that when they swam in the lake they wore nothing at all. So we were doing nothing immoral by this spying. Despite this reasoning, my face (and other things) felt inflamed.*

[*The parentheses are the editor's. Watson had crossed out this phrase, though not enough to make it illegible. Editor.]

She stood there, doing nothing for a long time, which I expected would make Holmes impatient. He did not stir or make any comment, so I suppose that this time he did not mind a lack of action. The priestesses chanted and the priests walked around in a circle making signs with their hands and their fingers. Then a bound he-goat was brought in and placed on the altar, and, after some more mumbo-jumbo, the woman cut its throat. The blood was caught in a golden bowl and passed around in a sort of communion, the woman drinking first.

"A most unsanitary arrangement," I murmured to Holmes.

"These people are, nevertheless, somewhat cleaner than your average Londoner," Holmes replied. "And much more cleanly than your Scots peasant."

I was about to take umbrage at this, since I am of Scots descent on my mother's side. Holmes knew both this and my sensitivity about it. He had been making too many remarks of this nature recently, and though I attributed them to irritability arising from nicotine withdrawal, I was, to use an American phrase, getting fed up with them. I was about to remonstrate when my heart leaped into my throat and choked me.

A hand had come from above and clamped down upon my shoulder. I knew that it wasn't Holmes' because I could see both of his hands.

10

Holmes almost fell off the branch but was saved by another hand, which grasped him by the collar of his shirt. A familiar voice said, "Silence!"

"Greystoke!" I gasped. And then, remembering that, after all, he was a duke, I said, "Your pardon. I mean, Your Grace."

"What are you doing up here, you baboon!" Holmes said.

I was shocked at this, though I knew that Holmes spoke thus only because he must have been thoroughly frightened. To address a high British nobleman in this manner was not his custom.

"Tut, tut, Holmes," I said.

"Tut, tut yourself," he replied. "He's not paying me a fee! He's no client of mine. Besides, I doubt that he is entitled to his title!"

A growl that lifted the hairs on the back of my neck came from above. It was followed by the descent of the duke's heavy body upon our branch, which bent alarmingly. But Greystoke squatted upon it, his hands free, with all the ease of the baboon he had been accused of being.

"What does that last remark mean?" he said. At that moment the moon broke through the clouds. A ray fell upon Holmes' face, which was as pale as when he had been playing the dying detective. He said, "This is neither the time nor the place for an investigation of your credentials. We are in a desperate plight, and . . . "

"You don't realise how desperate," Greystoke said. "I usually abide by human laws when I am in civilisation or among the black blood-brothers of my ranch in East Africa. But when I am in my larger estate, that of Central Africa, when I am in the jungle, where I have a higher rank even than duke, where, to put it simply, I am the king, where I revert to my primal and happiest state, that of a great ape . . . "

Good Lord! I thought. And this is the man Holmes referred to as inarticulate!

". . . then I obey only my own laws, not those of humanity, for which I have the greatest contempt, barring a few specimens of such . . . "

There was much more in this single statement, the length of which would have made any German philosopher proud. The gist of it was that if Holmes did not explain his remark now, he would have no chance to do so later. Nor was the duke backward in stating that I would not be taking any news of Holmes' fate to the outside world.

"He means it, Holmes!" I said.

"I am well aware of that, Watson," he answered. "His Grace is covered only with a thin veneer of civilisation."

This phrase, I remembered, was one used often by the American novelist to describe his protagonist's assumption of human culture.

"Very well, Your Highness," Holmes said.

"It is not my custom to set forth a theory until I have enough evidence to make it a fact. But under the circumstances . . . "

I looked for Greystoke to show some resentment at Holmes' sarcastic use of a title appropriate only to a monarch. He, however, only smiled. This, I believe, was a reaction of pleasure, of ignorance of Holmes' intent to cut him. He was sure that he deserved the title, and now that I have had time to reflect on it, I agree with him. Though a duke in England, in Africa he ruled a kingdom many times larger than our tight little isle. And he paid no taxes in it.

"Watson and I were acquainted with the ten-year-old son of the sixth duke, your reputed father," Holmes said. "That boy, the then Lord Saltire, is not you. Yet you have the title that should be his. You notice that I do not say the title should rightly be his. You are the legitimate inheritor of the late duke's titles and estates. Titles and estates, by the way, that should never have been his or his son's."

"Good Lord, Holmes!" I said. "What are you saying?"

"If you will refrain from interrupting, you will hear what I'm saying," he responded sharply. "Your Grace, that American novelist who has written a highly fictionalised novel based on your rather . . . ahem . . . non-conventional behaviour in Africa, came closer to the truth than anybody but yourself, and a few of your friends, I presume, realise. Watson tells me that in the novel your father, who should have been the seventh duke, was marooned on the shores of western Africa with his wife. There you were born, and when your parents died, you were adopted by a tribe of large intelligent apes hitherto unknown to science. They were strictly a product of a romantic imagination, of course, and the apes must have been either chimpanzees or gorillas, both of which du Chaillu has reported seeing in West Africa. Neither, however, exists at ten degrees south latitude, which is where the novelist said you were born and raised. I would place your birth further north, say somewhere near or in the very country, Gabon, which du Chaillu visited."

"Elementary, my dear Holmes," Greystoke said, smiling slightly again. I warmed to him somewhat, since it was evident by his remark that he was acquainted with my narratives of the adventures of Holmes and myself. A man who read these, and with evident pleasure, couldn't be all bad.

"If it is elementary," Holmes said with some asperity, "I am still the only man complex enough to have grasped the truth."

"Not all of it," Greystoke replied. "That Yank writer was quite correct in his guess that the tribe that raised me was unknown to science. However, they were not great apes but a sort of apemen, beings halfway on the evolutionary ladder between Homo sapiens and the ape. They had speech, which, though simple, was still speech. And that is why I did not become incapable of using language, as all other feral humans so far discovered have been incapable. Once a child passes a certain age without encountering human speech, he is mentally retarded."

"Really?" Holmes said.

"It does not matter whether or not you believe that," the duke said.

"But the Yank had your uncle inheriting the title after his brother died and your parents were declared dead. Then your uncle, the sixth duke, died, and your cousin, the lad Watson and I knew as Lord Saltire, became the seventh duke. So far, the Yank's account was in agreement with the reality. It is the next event which, in his romance, departed completely from reality."

"And that was?" Greystoke said softly. "Consider first what the Yank said happened. In his novel the jungle man found out that he was the rightful heir to the title. But he kept silent about it because he loved the heroine and she had promised to marry his cousin and considered herself bound by her promise. If he revealed the truth, he would strip her of her title of duchess and, worse, of the fortune which the cousin possessed. She would be penniless again. So he nobly said nothing.

"But according to Watson, a great reader of fiction, the Yank wrote a sequel to the first romance. In this the cousin gets sick and before dying confesses that he saw the telegram about the fingerprints, destroyed it, and ignobly kept silent. Fortunately, the girl had put off the marriage, so there is no question of her being a virgin, which is an important issue to the housemaids and some doctors who read this type of literature. Our hero becomes Lord Greystoke and everybody lives happily forever after — until the next adventure.

"I believe that in reality you did marry the girl on whom the novelist based his character. But that is pure nonsense about the jungle man's assumption of the title. If that had happened in reality, do you think for a moment that the resultant publicity would not have been world-wide? What a story — the heir to an English title appearing out of the African forest, an heir not even known to exist, an heir who has been raised by a band of missing links. Can you imagine the commotion, the curiosity, inflaming the world? Can you imagine what a hell the heir's life would be, no privacy, reporters trailing him at every step, an utter lack of privacy for not only him but his wife and his family?

"But we know that no such thing happened.

We do know that an English peer who had led an uneventful life, except for being kidnapped when ten, at maturity goes to Africa and settles down upon a ranch. And after a while strange tales seep back to London, tales of this peer reverting to a jungle life, wandering through central Africa clad only in a loincloth, eating raw meat, killing lions with only a knife, breaking the necks of gorillas with full-nelsons, and consorting with apes and elephants. The man has suddenly become a combination of Hercules, Ulysses, and Mowgli. And Croesus, I might add, since he seems to have a source of great wealth hidden some place in deepest Africa. It is distributed through illegal channels, but word of it reaches Threadneedle Street and New Scotland Yard, of course.

"I wonder," he added after a pause, "if this valley could be where the gold comes from?"

"No," Greystoke said. "That is a long way off. This valley is mostly lake, rich only with fish life. Once it was a wealthy, even grand, land with a civilisation to rival Egypt's. But it was flooded when a natural dam caved in after an earthquake, and all its works and most of its people were drowned. When the water is clear you can see at noon the roof-tops and toppled pillars here and there. Today, the degenerate descendants of the survivors huddle in this miserable village and talk of the great days, of the glory of Zu-Vendis."

"Zu-Vendis !" I exclaimed. "But . . . "

The duke made an impatient sound and said, "Carry on, Holmes."

"First, allow me to ask you a question. Did that Yank somehow hear an account of your life that was not available to the public? A distorted account, perhaps, but still largely valid?"

Greystoke nodded and said, "A friend of mine with a drinking problem, while on a binge, told a fellow some things which seem to have been relayed to the Yank. The Yank included parts of this account in his novel."

"I surmised such. He thought he had the true story of your life, but he didn't dare present it as anything but fiction. For one thing, he could be sued. For another, your passion for vengeance is rather well known.

"In any event, his story of how you came into your title, though fictional, still contains the clue needed to determine the true story.

"Here, as I reconstruct it, is what happened.

You knew that you were the true heir. You wanted the title and the girl and everything, though I suspect that without the girl you would not have cared for the other."

Greystoke nodded.

"Very well. Your cousin's yacht had been temporarily put out of commission, not wrecked and sunk, as was depicted in the novel. You had met the party from the yacht; they were stranded on the shore near your natal cabin. All that nonsense in the second novel about your girl being abducted by little hairy men from the hidden city of treasure deep in the heart of Africa was just that, nonsense."

"If it had been true," Greystoke said, "the abductors would have been forced to travel a thousand miles through the worst part of Africa, abduct my wife, and travel back to their ruins. And then, when I rescued her, she and I would have had to travel another thousand miles back to the yacht. Under the circumstances this would have taken several years, and the time for that allowed in the novel just did not suffice. Besides, it was all imagination. Except for the city itself and the degenerates who inhabit it."

"That high priestess who fell in love with you . . . ?" I said.

"Carry on, Holmes," he said.

"After your cousin died, your girl and your friends told you what a lack of privacy you and your family would have from then on. So you all decided to carry out a fraud. Yet, it was not really a fraud, since you were the legitimate heir. You looked much like your cousin, and so you decided to pass yourself off as him. When the yacht returned to England, for all anyone knew, it had made a routine voyage from England and around Africa and back again. Your friends coached you in all you needed to know about the friends and acquaintances you would meet. The servants at your ancestral estate may have detected something a little strange about you, but you probably had an excuse trumped up. A temporary fit of amnesia, perhaps."

"Correct," Greystoke said. "I used that excuse often. I was always running into somebody about whom I'd not been instructed. And occasionally I'd do something very un-British."*

[*This disclosure definitely invalidates some of my speculations and reconstructions in my biography of Greystoke. These will be corrected in a future issue. Lord Greystoke himself had admitted that Holmes' theory is correct. See "Extracts from the Memoirs of Lord Greystoke," Mother Was A Lovely Beast, Philip Jose Farmer, editor, Chilton, October 1974.]

"Lord, the mystery of the century!" cried Holmes. "And I can't say a word about it!"

"How do I know I can trust you?" Greystoke said.

At these words my mounting anxiety reached its peak. I had wondered why Greystoke was so frank, and then the sickening certainty came that he did not care what we had learned because dead men cannot talk. The only hope I had was that Greystoke had not murdered his cousin after all. Perhaps he was a decent fellow under all that savagery. This hope collapsed when I considered the possibility that he might not have been altogether frank. What if he had murdered his cousin?

Though I felt that it was dangerous to pursue this subject, I could not restrain my curiosity. "Your Grace," I said, "I hope that you won't think I'm too inquisitive. But . . . just what did happen to your cousin? Did he die as described in the second novel, die of a jungle fever after making a deathbed confession that he had cheated you out of your birthright and your lover? Or . . . ?"

"Or did I slit his throat?" Greystoke said.

"No, Dr. Watson, I did not kill him, though I must admit that the thought of doing so did cross my mind. And I was glad that he died, but, unlike so many of you civilised creatures, I felt no guilt about being glad. Nor would I feel any regret, shame, or guilt in putting anyone out of the way who was a grave threat to me or mine. Does that answer your question?"

"More than sufficiently, Your Grace," I said, gulping. He may have been lying, but my hopes rose again when I reflected that he did not have to lie if he intended to kill us.

"You have implied that you have read Watson's narratives," Holmes said. "Admittedly, they are somewhat exaggerated and romanticised. But his portrayal of our moral character is quite accurate. Our word is our bond."

Greystoke said, "Hmmm!" and he frowned.

He fondled the hilt of the huge knife in his scabbard, and I felt as cold as the moon looked. As dead, too.

Holmes seemed to be more meditative than frightened. He said, slowly, "We are professional men, Your Grace. If we were to take you as our client, we could not disclose a word of the case. Not even the police could force it from us."

"Ah!" Greystoke said, smiling grimly. "I am always forgetting the immense value civilised people put upon money. Of course! I pay you a fee and your lips are shut forever."

"Or until such time as Your Grace releases us from the sacred bonds of confidentiality."

"What would you consider a reasonable fee?" "The highest I ever earned was in the case of the Priory School," said Holmes. "It was your uncle who paid it. Twelve thousand pounds."

He repeated, savouring the words, "Twelve thousand pounds."

Quickly, he added, "Of course, that sum was my fee. Watson, as my partner, received the same amount."

"Really, Holmes," I murmured. "Twenty-four thousand pounds," the duke said, still frowning.

"That was in 1901," Holmes said. "Inflation has sent prices sky-high since then, and the income tax rate is ascending as if it were a rocket."

"For Heaven's sake, Holmes!" I cried. "I do not see the necessity for this fishmarket bargaining! Surely . . . "

Holmes coldly interrupted. "You will please leave the financial arrangements to me, the senior partner and the true professional in this matter."

"You'll antagonise His Grace, and . . . "

"Would sixty thousand pounds be adequate?" Greystoke said.

"Well," Holmes said, hesitating, "God knows how wartime conditions will continue to cheapen the price of money in the next few years."

Suddenly, the knife was in the duke's hands.

He made no threatening moves with it. He merely looked at it as if he were considering cleaning it.

"Your Grace is most generous," Holmes said quickly.

Greystoke put the knife back into the scabbard.

"I don't happen to have a cheque on me," he said. "You will trust me until we get to Nairobi?"

"Certainly, Your Grace," Holmes murmured.

"Your family was always the most openhanded in my experience. Now, the king of Holland . . . "

"What is this you said about Zu-Vendis?" I broke in, knowing that Holmes would take a long time to describe a case some of whose aspects still rankled him.

"Who cares?" Holmes said, but I ignored him. "As I remember it, an Englishman, a great hunter and explorer, wrote a book describing his adventures in that country. His name was Allan Quatermain."

Greystoke nodded and said, "I've read some of his biographical accounts."

"I thought they were novels," Holmes said.

"Must we discuss cheap fiction . . . " His voice trailed as he realized that Greystoke had said that Zu-Vendis was a reality.

Greystoke said, "Either Quatermain or his agent and editor, H. R. Haggard, exaggerated the size of Zu-Vendis. It was supposed to be about the size of France but actually covered an area equal to that of Liechtenstein. In the main, however, except for the size and location of Zu-Vendis, Quatermain's account is true. He was accompanied on his expedition by two Englishmen, a baronet, Sir Henry Curtis, and a naval captain, John Good. And that great Zulu warrior, Umslopogaas, a man whom I would have liked to have known. After the Zulu and Quatermain died, Curtis sent Quatermain's manuscript of the adventure to Haggard. Haggard apparently added some things of his own to give more verisimilitude to the chronicle. For one thing, he said that several British commissions were investigating Zu-Vendis with the intent of finding a more accessible means of travel to it. This was not so. Zu-Vendis was never found, and that is why most people concluded that the account was pure fiction. Shortly after the manuscript was sent out by one of the natives who had accompanied the Quatermain party, the entire valley except for this high end was flooded."

"Then poor Curtis and Good and their lovely Zu-Vendis wives were drowned?" I said.

"No," Greystoke said. "They were among the dozen or so who reached safety. Apparently, they either could not get out of the valley then or decided to stay here. After all, Nylepthah, Curtis' wife, was the queen, and she would not want to abandon her people, few though they were. The two Englishmen settled down, taught the people the use of the bow, among other things, and died here. They were buried up in the hills."

"What a sad story!" I said.

"All people must die," Greystoke replied, as if that told the whole story of the world. And perhaps it did.

Greystoke looked out at the temple, saying,

"That woman at whom you two have been staring with a not-quite-scientific detachment . . . " "Yes?" I said.

"Her name is also Nylepthah, She is the granddaughter of both Good and Curtis."

11

"Great Scott!" I said. "A British woman parading around naked before those savages!" Greystoke shrugged and said, "It's their custom."

"We must rescue her and get her back to the home of her ancestors!" I cried.

"Be quiet, Watson, or you'll have the whole pack howling for our blood," Holmes growled. "She seems quite contented with her lot. Or could it be," he added, looking hard at me, "that you have once again fallen into love?"

He made it sound as if the grand passion were an open privy. Blushing, I said, "I must admit that there is a certain feeling . . . "

"Well, the fair sex is your department," he said. "But really, Watson, at your age!"

("The Americans have a proverb," I said. "The older the buck, the stiffer the horn.")*

[*The parentheses are the editor's, indicating another passage crossed out by Watson.]

"Be quiet, both of you," the duke said. "I permitted the Zu-Vendis to capture you because I knew you'd be safe for a while. I had to get on up-country to check out a rumour that a white woman was being held captive by a tribe of blacks. Though I am positive that my wife is dead, still there is always hope. Mr. Holmes suggested that the Germans might have played a trick on me by substituting the charred body of a native girl. That had occurred to me previously. That I wear only a loincloth doesn't mean that I am naked of intelligence.*

[*Apparently, Watson forgot to describe Holmes' comment. Undoubtedly, he would have inserted it at the proper place in the final draft.]

"I found the white girl, an Englishwoman, but she was not my wife . . . "

"Good heavens!" I said. "Where is she? Have you hidden her out there?"

"She's still with the sultan of the tribe," he said sourly. "I went to much trouble to rescue her, had to kill a dozen or so tribesmen getting to her and a dozen on the way out. And then the woman told me she was perfectly happy with the sultan and would I please return her. I told her to find her own way back. I detest violence which can be avoided. If only she had told me beforehand . . . . Well, that's all over."

I did not comment. I thought it indiscreet to point out that the woman could not have told him how she felt until after he had fought his way in. And I doubted that she had an opportunity to voice her opposition on the way out.

"I drove the Germans this way because I expected that they would, like you, be picked up by the Zu-Vendis. Tomorrow night, all four of you prisoners are scheduled to be sacrificed on the temple altar. I got back an hour ago to get you two out."

"That was cutting it close, wasn't it?" Holmes said.

"You mean to leave Von Bork and Reich here?" I said. "To be slaughtered like sheep? And what about the woman, Nylepthah? What kind of life is that, being confined from birth to death in that house, being denied the love and companionship of a husband, forced to murder poor devils of captives?"

"Yes," said Holmes. "Reich is a very decent fellow and should be treated like a prisoner of war. I wouldn't mind at all if Von Bork were to die, but only he knows the location of the SB papers. The fate of Britain, of her allies, hangs on those papers. As for the woman, well, she is of good British stock and it seems a shame to leave her here in this squalidness."

"So she can go to London and perhaps live in squalour there?" Greystoke said.

"I'll see to it that that does not happen," I said. "Your Grace, you can have back my fee if you take that woman along."

Greystoke laughed softly and said, "I couldn't refuse a man who loves love more than he loves money. And you can keep the fee."

12

At some time before dawn, Greystoke entered our hut. The Germans were also waiting for him, since we had told them what to expect if they did not leave with us. The duke gestured for silence, unnecessarily, I thought, and we followed him outside. The two guards, gagged and trussed-up, lay by the door. Near them stood Nylepthah, also gagged, her hands bound before her and a rope hobbling her. Her glorious body was concealed in a cloak. The duke removed the hobble, gestured at us, took the woman by the arm, and we walked silently through the village. Our immediate goal was the beach, where we intended to steal two boats. We would paddle to the foot of the cliff on top of which was the bamboo boom and ascend the ropes. Then we would cut the ropes so that we could not be followed. Greystoke had come down on the rope after disposing of the guards at the boom. He would climb back up the rope and then pull us up.

Our plans died in the bud. As we approached the beach, we saw torches flaring on the water. Presently, as we watched from behind a hut, we saw fishermen paddling in with their catch of night-caught fish. Someone stirred in the hut beside which we crouched, and before we could get away, a woman, yawning and stretching came out. She must have been waiting for her fisherman husband. Whatever the case, she surprised us.

The duke moved swiftly, but too late, toward her. She screamed loudly, and though she quit almost immediately, she had aroused the village.

There is no need to go into detail about the long and exhausting run we made through the village, while the people poured out, and up the slopes toward the faraway pass in the precipices. Greystoke smote right and left and before him, and men and women went down like the Philistines before Samson. We were armed with the short swords he had stolen from the armory and so were of some aid to him. But by the time we had left the village and reached the fields, Holmes and I were breathing very hard.

"You two help the woman along between you," the duke commanded the Germans. Before we could protest, though what good it would have done if we had I don't know, we were picked up, one under each arm, and carried off. Burdened though he was, Greystoke ran faster than the three behind him. The ground, only about a foot away from my face since I was dangling like a rag doll in his arm, reeled by. After about a mile, the duke stopped and released us. He did this by simply dropping us. My face hit the dirt at the same time my knees did. I was somewhat pained, but I thought it indiscreet to complain. Holmes, however, displayed a knowledge of swear words which would have delighted a dock worker. Greystoke ignored him, urging us to push on. Far behind us we could see the torches of our pursuers and hear their clamour.

By dawn the Zu-Vendis had gotten closer.

All of us, except for the indefatigable duke, were tiring swiftly. The pass was only half a mile away, and once we were through that, the duke said, we would be safe. The savages behind us, though, were beginning to shoot their arrows at us.

"We can't get through the pass anyway!" I said between gasps to Holmes. "We have no equipment to keep the bees off us! If the arrows don't kill us, the bee-stings will !"

Ahead of us, where the hills suddenly moved in and formed the entrance to the path, a vast buzzing filled the air. Fifty thousand tiny, but deadly insects swirled in a thick cloud as they prepared to voyage to the sea of flowers which held the precious nectar.

We stopped to catch our breath and consider the situation.

"We can't go back and we can't go ahead!" I        said. "What shall we do?"

"I still live !" the duke cried. This, I thought, was an admirable motto, but it was of no help at all to us. Greystoke, however, was a practical man. He pointed at the nearby hill, at the base of which was the white clay used by the Zu-Vendis to make their fine pots and dishes.

"Coat yourselves with that!" he said. "It should be somewhat of a shield!" And he hastened to take his own advice.

I hesitated. The duke had stripped off his loincloth and had jumped into the stream which ran nearby. Then he had scooped out with his hands a quantity of clay, had mixed it with water, and was smearing it over him everywhere. Holmes was removing his clothing before going into the stream. The Germans were getting ready to do likewise, while the beautiful Nylepthah stood abandoned. I did the only thing a gentleman could do. I went to her and removed her cloak, under which she wore nothing. I told her in my halting Zu-Vendis that I was ready to sacrifice myself for her. Though the bees, alarmed, were now moving in a great cloud toward us, I would make sure that I smeared the clay all over her before I took care of myself.

Nylepthah said, "I know an easier way to escape the bees. Let me run back to the village."

"Poor deluded girl!" I said. "You do not know what is best for you! Trust me, and I will see you safely to England, the home of your ancestors. And then . . . "

I did not get a chance to promise to marry her. Holmes and the Germans cried out, causing me to look up just in time to see Greystoke falling unconscious to the ground. An arrow had hit him in the head, and though it had struck a glancing blow, it had knocked him out and made a large nasty wound.

I thought we were indeed lost. Behind us was the howling horde of savages, their arrows and spears and axes flying through the air at us. Ahead was a swarm of giant bees, a cloud so dense that I could barely see the hills behind them. The buzzing was deafening. The one man who was strong enough and jungle-wise enough to pull us through was out of action for the time being. And if the bees attacked soon, which they would do, he would be in that state permanently. So would all of us.

Holmes shouted at me, "Never mind taking advantage of that woman, Watson! Come here, quickly, and help me!"

"This is no time to indulge in jealousy, Holmes," I muttered, but nevertheless I obeyed him. "No, Watson," Holmes said, "I'll put on the clay! You daub on me that excellent black dirt there along the banks of the stream! Put it on in stripes, thus, white and black alternating!"

"Have you gone mad, Holmes?" I said.

"There's no time to talk," said Holmes. "The bees are almost upon us! Oh, they are deadly, deadly, Watson! Quick, the mud!"

Within a minute, striped like a zebra, Holmes stood before me. He ran to the pile of clothes and took from the pocket of his jacket the large magnifying glass that had been his faithful companion all these years. And then he did something that caused me to cry out in utter despair. He ran directly toward the deadly buzzing cloud.

I shouted after him as I ran to drag him away from his futile and senseless act. It was too late to get him away from the swiftly advancing insects. I knew that, just as I knew that I would die horribly with him. Nevertheless, I would be with him. We had been comrades too many years for me to even contemplate for a second abandoning him.

He turned when he heard my voice and shouted, "Go back, Watson! Go back! Get the others to one side! Drag Greystoke out of their path! I know what I'm doing! Get away! I command you, Watson!"

The conditioning of our many years of association turned me and sent me back to the group. I'd obeyed his orders too long to refuse them now. But I was weeping, convinced that he was out of his mind, or, if he did have a plan, it would fail. I got Reich to help me drag the senseless and heavily bleeding Greystoke half into the stream, and I ordered Von Bork and Nylepthah to lie down in the stream. The clay coating, I was convinced, was not an adequate protection. We could submerge ourselves when the bees passed over us. The stream was only inches deep, but perhaps the water flowing over our bodies would discourage the insects.

Lying in the stream, holding Greystoke's head up to keep him from drowning, I watched Holmes.

He had indeed gone crazy. He was dancing around and around, stopping now and then to bend over and wiggle his buttocks in a most undignified manner. Then he would hold up the magnifying glass so that the sunlight flashed through it at the Zu-Vendis. These, by the way, had halted to stare open-mouthed at Holmes.

"Whatever are you doing?" I shouted.

He shook his head angrily at me to indicate that I should keep quiet. At that moment I became aware that he was himself making a loud buzzing sound. It was almost submerged in the louder noise of the swarm, but I was near enough to hear it faintly.

Again and again Holmes whirled, danced, stopped, pointing his wriggling buttocks at the Zu-Vendis savages and letting the sun pass through the magnifying glass at a certain angle. His actions seemed to puzzle not only the humans but the bees. The swarm had stopped its forward movement and it was hanging in the air, seemingly pointed at Holmes.

Suddenly, as Holmes completed his obscene dance for the seventh time, the swarm flew forward. I cried out, expecting to see him covered with the huge black-and-white-striped horrors. But the mass split in two, leaving him an island in their midst. And then they were all gone, and the Zu-Vendis were running, away screaming, their bodies black and fuzzy with a covering of bees. Some of them dropped in their flight, rolling back and forth, screaming, batting at the insects, and then becoming still and silent.

I ran to Holmes, crying, "How did you do it?"

"Do you remember your scepticism when I told you that I had made an astounding discovery? One that will enshrine my name among the greats in the hall of science?"

"You don't mean . . . ?"

He nodded. "Yes, bees do have a language, even African bees. It is actually a system of signals, not a true language. Bees who have discovered a new source of honey return to the hive and there perform a dance which indicates clearly the direction of and the distance at which the honey lies. I have also discovered that the bee communicates the advent of an enemy to the swarm. It was this dance which I performed, and the swarm attacked the indicated enemy, the Zu-Vendis. The dance movements are intricate, and certain polarisations of light play a necessary part in the message. These I simulated with my magnifying glass. But come, Watson, let us get our clothes on and be off before the swarm returns! I do not think I can pull that trick again. We do not want to be the game afoot."

We got the duke to his feet and half-carried him to the pass. Though he recovered consciousness, he seemed to have reverted to a totally savage state. He did not attack us but he regarded us suspiciously and made threatening growls if we got too close. We were at a loss to explain this frightening change in him. The frightening part came not so much from any danger he represented as from the dangers he was supposed to save us from. We had depended upon him to guide us and to feed and protect us on the way back. Without him even the incomparable Holmes was lost.

Fortunately, the duke recovered the next day and provided the explanation himself.

"For some reason I seem to be prone to receiving blows on the head," he said. "I have a thick skull, but every once in a while I get such a blow that even its walls cannot withstand the force. Sometimes, say about one out of three times, a complete amnesia results. I then revert to the state in which I was before I encountered white people. I am once again the uncivilised apeman; I have no memory of anything that occurred before I was twenty years old. This state may last for only a day, as you have seen, or it may persist for months."

"I would venture to say," Holmes said, "that this readiness to forget your contact with civilised peoples indicates an unconscious desire to avoid them. You are happiest when in the jungle and with no obligations. Hence your unconscious seizes upon every opportunity, such as a blow on the head, to go back to the happy primal time."

"Perhaps you are right," the duke said.

"Now that my wife is dead, I would like to forget civilisation even exists. But I must see my country through this war first."

It took less than a month for us to get to Nairobi. Greystoke took excellent care of us, even though he was impatient to get back into action against the Germans. During the journey I had ample time to teach Nylepthah English and to get well acquainted with her. Before we reached the Lake Victoria railhead I had proposed to her and been accepted. I will never forget that night. The moon was bright, and a hyena was laughing nearby.

The day before we reached the railhead, Greystoke went up a tree to check out the territory. A branch broke under his feet, and he landed on his head. When he regained consciousness, he was again the apeman. We could not come near him without his baring his teeth and growling menacingly. And that night he disappeared.

Holmes was very downcast by this. "What if he never gets over his amnesia, Watson? Then we will be cheated out of our fees."

"My dear Holmes," I said, somewhat coolly, "we never earned the fee in the first place. Actually, we were allowing ourselves to be bribed by the duke to keep silent."

"You never did understand the subtle interplay of economics and ethics," Holmes replied.

"There goes Von Bork," I said, glad to change the subject. I pointed to the fellow, who was sprinting across the veldt as if a lion were after him.

"He is mad if he thinks he can make his way alone to German East Africa," Holmes said. "But we must go after him! He has on him the formula for the SB."

"Where?" I asked for the hundredth time.

"We have stripped him a dozen times and gone over every inch of his clothes and his skin. We have looked into his mouth and up . . .  "

At that moment I observed Von Bork turn his head to the right to look at a rhinoceros which had come around a tall termite hill. The next moment, he had run the left side of his head and body into an acacia tree with such force that he bounced back several feet. He did not get up, which was just as well. The rhinoceros was looking for him and would have detected any movement by Von Bork, After prancing around and sniffing the air in several directions, the weak-eyed beast trotted off. Holmes and I hastened to Von Bork before he got his senses back and ran off once more.

"I believe I now know where the formula is," Holmes said.

"And how could you know that?" I said, for the thousandth time since I had first met him.

"I will bet my fee against yours that I can show you the formula within the next two minutes," he said, but I did not reply.

He kneeled down beside the German, who was lying on his back, his mouth and his eyes open. His pulse, however, beat strongly.

Holmes placed the tips of his thumbs under Von Bark's left eye. I stared aghast as the eye popped out.

"It's glass, Watson," Holmes said. "I had suspected that for some time, but I saw no reason to verify my suspicions until he was in a British prison. I was certain that his vision was limited to his right side when I saw him run into that tree. Even with his head turned away he would have seen it if his left eye had been effective."

He rotated the glass eye between thumb and finger while examining it through the magnifying glass. "Aha!" he exclaimed and then, handing the eye and glass to me, said, "See for yourself, Watson."

"Why," I said, "what I had thought were massive haemorrhages due to eye injury are tiny red lines of chemical formulae on the surface of the glass — if it is glass, and not some special material prepared to receive inscriptions."

"Very good, Watson," Holmes said. "Undoubtedly, Von Bork did not merely receive an injury to the eye in that motor-car crash of which I heard rumours. He lost it, but the wily fellow had it replaced with an artificial eye which had more uses than — ahem — met the eye.

"After stealing the SB formula, he inscribed the surface of this false organ with the symbols. These, except through a magnifier, look like the results of dissipation or of an accident. He must have been laughing at us when we examined him so thoroughly, but he will laugh no more."

He took the eye back and pocketed it. "Well, Watson, let us rouse him from whatever dreams he is indulging in and get him into the proper hands. This time he shall pay the penalty for espionage."

Two months later we were back in England.

We travelled by water, despite the danger of U-boats, since Holmes had sworn never again to get into an aircraft of any type. He was in a bad humour throughout the voyage. He was certain that Greystoke, even if he recovered his memory, would not send the promised cheques.

He turned the glass eye over to Mycroft, who sent it on to his superiors. That was the last we ever heard of it, and since the SB was never used, I surmise that the War Office decided that it would be too horrible a weapon. I was happy about this, since it just did not seem British to wage germ warfare. I have often wondered, though, what would have happened if Von Bork's mission had been successful. Would the Kaiser have countenanced SB as a weapon against his English cousins?

There were still three years of war to get through. I found lodgings for my wife and myself, and, despite the terrible conditions, the air raids, the food and material shortages, the dismaying reports from the front, we managed to be happy. In 1917 Nylepthah did what none of my previous wives had ever done. She presented me with a son. I was delirious with joy, even though I had to endure much joshing from my colleagues about fatherhood at my age. I did not inform Holmes of the baby. I dreaded his sarcastic remarks.

On November 11, 1919, however, a year after the news that turned the entire Allied world into a carnival of happiness, though a brief one, I received a wire.

"Bringing a bottle and cigars to celebrate the good tidings. Holmes."

I naturally assumed that he referred to the anniversary of the Armistice. My surprise was indeed great when he showed up not only with the bottle of Scotch and a box of Havanas but a bundle of new clothes and toys for the baby and a box of chocolates for Nylepthah. The latter was a rarity at this time and must have cost Holmes some time and money to obtain.

"Tut, tut, my dear fellow," he said when I tried to express my thanks. "I've known for some time that you were the proud father. I have always intended to show up and tender my respects to the aged, but still energetic, father and to the beautiful Mrs. Watson. Never mind waking the infant up to show him to me, Watson. All babies look alike, and 1 will take your word for it that he is beautiful."

"You are certainly jovial," I said. "I do not ever remember seeing you more so."

"With good reason, Watson, with good reason!"

He dipped his hand into his pocket and brought out a cheque.

I looked at it and almost staggered. It was made out to me for the sum of thirty thousand pounds.

"I had given up on Greystoke," he said. "I heard that he was missing, lost somewhere in deepest Africa, probably dead. It seems, however, that he had found his wife was alive after all, and he was tracking her into the jungles of the Belgian Congo. He found her but was taken prisoner by some rather peculiar tribe. Eventually, his adopted son, you know, the Lt. Drummond who was to fly us to Marseilles, went after him and rescued his parents. And so, my dear fellow, one of the first things the duke did was to send the cheques! Both in my care, of course!"

"I can certainly use it," I said. "This will enable me to retire instead of working until I am eighty."

I poured two drinks for us and we toasted our good fortune. Holmes sat back in the chair, puffing upon the excellent Havana and watching Mrs. Watson bustle about her housework.

"She won't allow me to hire a maid," I said. "She insists on doing all the work, including the cooking, herself. Except for the baby and myself, she does not like to touch anyone or be touched by anyone. Sometimes I think . . . "

"Then she has shut herself off from all but you and the baby," he said.

"You might say that," I replied. "She is happy, though, and that is what matters."

Holmes took out a small notebook and began making notes in it. He would look up at Nylepthah, watch her for a minute, and record something.

"What are you doing, Holmes?" I said.

His answer showed me that he, too, could indulge in a pawky humour when his spirits were high.

"I am making some observations upon the segregation of the queen."

THE END

EDITOR'S COMMENTS:

The reference to the speed of the Handley Page was really in knots, not miles per hour. The editor has converted this to make it more intelligible to the reader.

The use of the word "queer" by Mycroft has been criticized as not being realistic. Some Sherlockians have maintained that an Englishman in 1916 would not have known the word in its referent of "homosexual." However, that is the word Watson uses when he quotes Mycroft. So we must believe that some Englishmen, at least, were aware of this American term. Or, possibly, Watson's memory of the conversation was faulty. Since Watson had spent some time in the States, and had, like Holmes, picked up some Americanisms, he may have used this word because it was part of his everyday vocabulary.

The vulgarism "a*****e" needs one more asterisk. That is, it does if Watson was quoting the English term, which Holmes probably did utter. If Holmes was using the American word because he was speaking about an American, then the number of asterisks is accurate. We'll never know.

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