Originally published in the August, 1935 issue of G-8 and His Battle AcesTM
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Copyright © 1935 by Popular Publications Inc. Copyright renewed © 1963 and assigned to Argosy Communications, Inc.
All rights reserved. Licensed to Vintage New Media
G-8 and His Battle Aces is a trademark of Argosy Communications, Inc.
THE HEADLESS STAFFEL
As Told by G-8 to Robert J. Hogan
"Make peace at once-- or I will destroy your armies. The Wizard." H.Q. was
mildly puzzled at this strange message. But G-8 had already seen the
Wizard's black ship, had seen men die like flies beneath its wings. And he
knew horror would soon rule the Front lines unless he accepted that
challenge, flew alone into a trap of scarlet death!
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CHAPTER ONE
The Black Raider
G-8 and the only commander he knew faced
each other across a desk in the general's private
office at Paris H.Q.
"You are rather close-mouthed at times,
G-8," the general was saying. "I know it's
because you don't like to get me steamed up
about things that might not amount to anything.
So I called you down today to see if you had any
secrets up your sleeve that I ought to know before
we make preparations for a new move."
G-8 smiled back at him.
"Well, general," he said, "I feel it isn't any
use bothering you with a lot of my weird ideas
until I am sure they are important. But the truth is,
that right now things are very peaceful-- too
peaceful."
The general nodded his head slowly up and
down and his smile broadened.
"You aren't happy unless things get tough,
are you G-8? That is, I mean you don't go in
much for the easy side of life."
"I think you're wrong, sir," G-8 countered. "I
like to take life as easy as anyone, but it does
make me a bit itchy when things go too quietly."
"Yes, I know," the general said, becoming
serious again. "When the enemy quiets down, it
makes us wonder what devilment they are
preparing. At any rate, here's my idea.
"We have just held a meeting of the high
commanders of the Allied forces and have
decided that it's high time for an offensive in the
Chatalon sector. We are planning on a
concentration of troops-- gradually, mind you, so
that the enemy won't suspect. In this offensive,
we are depending a great deal on help from both
the British and American air forces. Have you
patrolled the Chatalon area recently?"
G-8 shook his head.
"No, sir, I haven't," he said. "Not in the last
few days."
"Well, I wish you would take a turn over the
area just to see if anything is happening there."
He settled back in his chair as if to terminate
the interview.
"Right," G-8 nodded. He saluted and turned
to the door.
"And for heaven's sake," the general
finished, "see if you can keep from digging up a
lot of trouble this time, will you?"
"I'll certainly try," G-8 laughed.
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G-8 and His Battle Ace
TM
THE HEADLESS STAFFEL August, 1935
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2
G-8 strode out of the building, spoke to the
guards at the street entrance. Then he opened
the door of his powerful roadster and climbed in.
The motor purred leisurely and he drove down the
boulevard toward Le Bourget.
Now and then, he waved a greeting to some
gens d'armes he knew. He turned in to the field
and drove the roadster into the storage end of the
last hangar there.
When he entered his apartment, he found
Nippy perched on the back of an overstuffed chair
in the living room. Bull was sitting in his favorite
position, straddle-legged on a small straight chair,
with his hands and chin perched on the top of it.
"Listen, squirt," G-8 heard him growl, "you're
crazy. Why, that-- "
Nippy turned his head quickly as he heard
G-8 coming in. Bull stopped talking.
"Well," Nippy demanded, "what did the old
man want you for this time?"
"Oh, nothing in particular," G-8 said, tossing
his uniform cap on the table. "They're planning an
offensive up on the Chatalon sector that we're
holding with the British. The general thought I
might know something about the situation on the
other side of the lines."
"And I suppose," Bull growled, "you told him
that you expected at any moment to find the sky
filled with a huge ghost that grasps planes and
crushes them in its hands."
The slightest trace of a smile appeared at
the corners of G-8's mouth.
"No, I didn't tell him anything like that," he
admitted. "But I did tell him that maybe it was
about time for some voodoo doctor to start raising
dead Germans from the grave."
"Y-y-you did?" stammered Bull, suddenly
taken off guard. "S-s-say, listen, that isn't any
joke. That voodoo stuff-- "
G-8 broke into a laugh.
"Forget it, Bull," he advised. "You started to
ride me when I came in, so I had to get back at
you. The fact of the matter is, the bigwigs have
had a consultation of war and decided to start an
offensive in the Chatalon area."
"So," Nippy grinned, "he wants you to go
over on the other side and take a look around to
see what the Heinies are doing. Is that it?"
G-8 smiled.
"That's it," he said, "but don't get excited. I'm
taking this job myself."
"Say, listen," Bull exploded. "That isn't fair.
Nippy and I haven't had any action in almost a
week. What do you want us to do, die of dry rot?"
"Oh, you'll have some action when this
offensive comes off," G-8 assured them. "I want
you to stay here to take any reports that might
come in."
At that moment, Battle, who had entered
unnoticed, through the kitchen door, beamed and
bowed.
"Sir," he said, "speaking of an offensive, we
have had something offensive here. You have not
been getting eggs lately for your breakfast with
your ham, sir. I hope you don't mind, sir. The
supply sergeant has been beastly overbearing
about it, sir. I spoke to him about the eggs he's
giving us twice, sir. The only ham they are fit to
eat with, sir, is that special breed of very bad
actors-- ham actors, sir."
G-8 chuckled.
"That's a good one, Battle. "You're coming.
The only ham that rotten eggs are fit to eat with is
ham actors."
"Yes, sir," Battle beamed, "thank you, sir.
Right between the eyes, sir, eh? I wish you would
speak to the mess sergeant about it, sir."
"He'll speak to him about it," Bull growled.
"Don't you let a little thing like rotten eggs bother
you, G-8. And, boy, when they start taking away
my eggs, there's going to be a real war."
G-8 reached for his helmet and goggles. He
pressed the button on the wall beside the door
and signaled for his Spad to be warmed.
When he heard the blast of the Hisso motor
outside on the tarmac, he gave a short nod to
Nippy and Bull.
"Well," he said, "take it easy; stick around
and listen for any news that might come in. I'll be
back some time this afternoon."
With that, he went out and climbed into the
plane. The motor warmed quickly. He checked
the instruments and controls. Then the mechanics
took the blocks from in front of the wheels, and he
thundered down the tarmac.
FIFTEEN minutes later, he was flying over
the Front at an altitude of five thousand feet.
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G-8 and His Battle Ace
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THE HEADLESS STAFFEL August, 1935
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3
He could see the enemy side of the lines
very plainly. There was nothing below to indicate
any special action or intensive concentration.
Suddenly something caught his attention and
held it. It was a mere speck, far to the west--
almost over the Chatalon area. It was a plane.
He was quite sure of that, but he couldn't tell
whether it was Allied or German.
He brought out his powerful binoculars and
stared through them. Even then, it still remained
just a tiny plane, so small that he could not
distinguish any marks on it. The haze that hung in
the sky didn't help clear his vision.
He divided his attention between what little
activity there was on the German side of the lines
and that flying speck. It was moving at a higher
altitude than he. At length, it drew his interest so
strongly that he gave up watching the ground and
concentrated his whole attention on the winged
speck.
Then something else came within his vision.
Three other tiny specks flying much higher than
the first, and directly above it. The distance was
so great that he could watch both the lower plane
and the three others at the same time.
As though at a signal from their leader, he
saw the flight of three planes turning tip down for
the lone ship below. Even now he had no way of
telling which were German and which were Allied.
He pushed on the throttle for more speed.
The Spad leaped ahead. He was flying with the
stick between his knees and the binoculars held
firmly in both hands. Yes, those three planes were
certainly attacking that lone plane below them.
He dropped his glasses so that he could see
the ground under where the planes had met and
hazarded a guess as to the altitude. If his guess
were correct, that lone plane was flying at
somewhere between ten and twelve thousand
feet altitude and the flight of three was diving at it
from an altitude of beyond fifteen thousand feet.
G-8 understood now. The three had been
hiding behind a cloud. Beyond all doubt, that lone
plane was a German observation ship and these
three other ships, probably pursuits, were most
likely either British or American piloted.
The three had almost reached the single
plane. G-8 wasn't paying attention to anything but
the coming clash. Something told him the coming
dogfight would be most interesting to watch.
Perhaps-- he stopped thinking along that line
abruptly. The three planes had reached the level
of their victim and the dogfight was on.
But something strange was happening.
Suddenly one of the attacking planes plunged
nose first; a second and third followed him in
quick succession. Two were spinning. The third
was racing down that ten thousand feet for the
ground in a headlong dive.
The lone plane that had been attacked
continued on its course for a minute or so. G-8
thought, as he watched it through the binoculars,
that it slowed up during that time, but he wasn't
sure. The distance was still too great.
Now he saw the plane make a great turn and
head back to the north-- no, it was going on
toward the northwest, flying farther and farther
away from him.
The master spy was suddenly torn between
two decisions. He couldn't make up his mind
whether to follow that lone plane or to continue
straight ahead to the Chatalon area. Now he
wished he had brought Nippy and Bull along with
him. He could have sent his two battle aces to
chase the lone plane while he himself went to the
Chatalon area and tried to learn what had been
going on there.
In another minute, he reached a decision.
That lone plane was going down rapidly, far
behind the German lines. The chances were
strongly against his being able to follow it
because it was so far away and besides, when he
got down into the ground haze that was covering
the German front, it would be most difficult to pick
out. He decided to keep on the way his nose was
pointed.
He had marked the spot where the three
planes had fallen. He tore for it, wide open.
Minutes passed. He was getting nearer and
nearer, cutting through the ground haze at four
hundred feet altitude. He stormed down over
Yank trenches and then over the British trenches
that joined them.
Suddenly, he spotted the wreckage of the
first plane about a mile behind the immediate
front lines. He circled just above it. His eyes
narrowed as he got a fleeting glimpse of the
wreckage and he frowned in perplexity. That was
funny; there were no marks on the plane to
indicate whether it was British, American or
German. Much of the plane itself seemed to be
gone-- vanished.
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G-8 and His Battle Ace
TM
THE HEADLESS STAFFEL August, 1935
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4
He spotted the second wreck still farther
behind the Allied lines and circled that at one
hundred feet altitude. It seemed much the same
as the first.
About half a mile ahead, he saw men
running from different points that converged on a
blasted wooden area. He reached it and circled
for the third time. Just above the stubby trunks of
trees, a quarter of a mile south of a field not too
badly blasted by gun fire. He cut his Hisso and
slipped in to land. As his wheels touched, men
hurried toward him. They were British Tommies.
A lieutenant was among them.
"I say," he demanded, "did you see it?"
G-8 cut his switch and climbed out of the
cockpit.
"You mean the dogfight?"
"Well, yes, sir," said the lieutenant, "if that's
what you call it, sir. This blasted ground haze cut
us off from any direct view of it. I say, it's ghastly,
you know."
"What's ghastly about it?"
"Oh, then, you didn't see it," said the
Britisher, "and you haven't seen the wrecks. Of
course you couldn't know."
They were walking rapidly toward the wood
where the last plane wreckage lay.
"I say," the Britisher hurried on, "I can't
understand it. A good bit of the plane seems to be
gone-- at least the covering is nowhere to be
found and the very fuselage itself seems to be
vanishing."
G-8 nodded.
"How about the pilot? What happened to
him?"
The Britisher shook his head.
"That's the awful part of it, sir," he said.
"There doesn't seem to be very much of him left."
CHAPTER TWO
Vanishing Men
WHEN the British officer made that crack,
G-8 shot a quick glance at him. His eyes were
narrowed like the eyes of a man who had just
heard something that was unbelievable.
They were plodding through the blasted
woods now.
"Sorry," G-8 said, "but I don't get you. Mind
explaining just what you mean?"
"I don't blame you," the British officer
responded. "It's too impossible to even dream of,
but I tell you I saw it myself. It's just as I tell you,
sir. There didn't seem to be much left of the pilot.
Part of him has disappeared."
In spite of the stout heart inside the master
spy and regardless of the fact that he had
encountered weird adventures before, that fazed
G-8. He was aware of a cold chill playing
handsprings up and down his spine. He opened
his mouth to deride the Britisher. On second
thought, he closed it again and remained silent.
"I tell you, sir," the British officer continued in
a husky voice, "it's ghastly. None of us can
understand it. It sort of has us by loose ends, you
know. Leaves you a bit jittery on the pins."
"Yes," G-8 nodded, tight-lipped, "I can
imagine. Here's the wreck right ahead of us. I can
see a group of men around it."
That was true. They reached the outer layer
of a four-deep crowd of men. A British major
seemed to be in charge; he had hold of
something and was tugging at it. G-8 let out a cry
of alarm.
"Hey, stop! Don't do that! Don't touch it!"
The major showed his nervousness plainly.
He jumped and whirled around.
"Oh, I say," he exclaimed, "you gave me a
bit of a start. And why, may I ask, shouldn't I
touch this? I'm in command here."
G-8 shook his head.
"I don't know," he said, "it's just a hunch.
Take my advice and don't touch it. You'll be
playing safer."
The major stared hard at him. G-8's
commanding eyes were burning back at him.
"But I say, isn't this a bit unusual? An
American captain giving orders to a British
major?"
For the moment, however, the major had
obeyed G-8. He had let go of the ugly-looking
object that he had been hauling out of the wreck.
G-8 stepped before him.
"I know," he said, "it's a bit unusual for an
American captain to go about giving orders to a
British major. As a matter of fact, I really didn't
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G-8 and His Battle Ace
TM
THE HEADLESS STAFFEL August, 1935
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5
consider it an order. I gave it more as a warning.
No offense meant, old man."
Then he smiled and the major somehow
couldn't resist that smile.
"Oh, it's quite all right, old chap," he said,
"but I must admit you have me a bit curious. Do
you know something about this?"
G-8 seemed to only half hear him. He shook
his head slowly.
"No," he staid rather abssently, "nothing
definite. You see, I've been put on the job to
investigate this thing and I've just had a hunch
that we shouldn't touch any of these wrecks-- not
any part of them. Please don't consider this an
order, major. Merely take it as a suggestion. I
wish you would call off your men. Ask them not
to touch any part of the plane and, if you don't
mind, would you dispatch a messenger at once to
each of the other two crashes with the same
message? Maybe it would help you understand,
if I introduced myself. I'm known to Intelligence
as G-8."
The major's eyes widened.
"Oh, I say. That's a bit different, you know.
Oh, quite!"
He wheeled to his men.
"Get away from that thing and don't touch it
under any circumstances. You, Sergeant Hawkins
and you, Corporal Campbell, run as fast as ever
you can to the other two wrecks and give my men
there the same orders. Go at once!"
The men ran off and disappeared through
the blasted tree trunks.
While all this had been happening, G-8 had
stood with his eyes glued on the strange
wreckage. There was little left of the plane. The
center was gone entirely as though it had been
suddenly eaten away by some magic potion. The
metal fittings, wires, motor, and wheels were still
there, lying in a little heap.
On either side were what remained of
crumpled wings. Beyond was the tail of the
fuselage and some few members of the tail
group. The entire fabric, however, had vanished
and the wood was receding-- just simply
disappearing as though a swift fire were
consuming it-- but there was no flame and no
smoke.
G-8 stared now at the ghastly object that the
major had pulled from the front of the wreckage.
It was a horrible sight. All that remained of the
pilot-- just a pair of legs as far up as the hips,
cloyed in British flying boots. The breeches were
gone, and even as G-8 watched, those legs were
growing smaller, shortening as if some invisible
power were eating them from the hips down.
FOR a moment, the master spy closed his
eyes and shook his head vigorously. No, this
thing wasn't possible.
The top of the legs had disappeared almost
to the knees when he opened his eyes. It was no
dream; it was a stern reality. His quick eyes
shifted to the major.
"I don't think," he said, "that you'll have to
worry about disposing of the wreckage. It will
take care of itself."
He turned to the other British officer who had
come up with him.
"Let's take a look at the other two wrecks,"'
he suggested.
The major started with them. G-8 faced him
again.
"I don't think you had better come along," he
ventured. "I would like to make another
suggestion if you don't mind. It might be well to
wash your hands in something, you and all the
other men who have touched any part of this
plane."
The major suddenly turned a little whiter.
"You don't mean," he demanded, "that you
think we might go like the pilot here in the plane?"
G-8 shook his head.
"I don't know. I would take every precaution
if I were you. Perhaps you had better wash with--
let me see, now-- maybe the quickest thing you
could get would be baking soda. That at least is
alkaline. It's just a hunch, though."
The major nodded quickly, a frightened look
in his eyes.
"Yes, sir," he said, "at once."
Then he turned and shouted orders to his
men as G-8 and the other British officer moved
off toward the next wreck.
"I say," ventured the lieutenant beside him
in a hushed voice, "It's just as I said isn't it? It's
ghastly, what?"
G-8 nodded. "Worse than that," he said
through tight lips.
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THE HEADLESS STAFFEL August, 1935
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They reached the second wreck after several
minutes of walking across country and found
things much the same except that there was less
left of the plane and only the feet of the pilot were
visible.
G-8 shuddered a little at that sight.
"Come on," he said, "we've seen all we can
here. Let's take in the third one, then I'll go back
to the ship."
"But I say," exclaimed the British lieutenant,
"what can we do about it all? It's so blasted
baffling. We can't even fight it."
G-8's teeth clenched.
"We've got to find some way," he said, "and
don't ask me how, because I'm almost as
stumped as you are."
They reached the third wreckage. There was
even less left of that than there had been of the
second. The pilot had vanished entirely; not even
his feet were left.
G-8 spoke to some of the Britishers standing
about the wing-tip and tail structure, which was all
that was left of this crash.
"Did you see the pilot-- I mean any part of
him?"
"Yes, sir," stammered a cockney corporal,
"so 'elp me, I did. I was the first one to get 'ere,
sir. I tried to pull him out of the wreckage by one
of his 'ands.
"You don't need to believe me, sir, but his
arm came off at the shoulder when I pulled hard
on it. Then I saw that his 'ead was gone entirely.
That's the truth, sir, so 'elp me. You see, sir, I
came up and I saw his arm 'anging over the side
of the cockpit and I thought perhaps he might be
alive, so I took 'old of him, like this, sir, and-- "
Up to now, the cockney Englishman's hands
had been behind him. He brought them in front of
him now to show G-8 how he had taken hold of
the dead pilot. Suddenly, he stopped short and
stared at them. A wild scream of terror leaped
from his lips.
"My hands," he cried, "I haven't got any
hands! They're gone!"
At that, the British officer beside G-8 leaped
forward. G-8 wheeled on him and pushed him
back before he could touch the cockney.
"Don't touch him," he yelled. "Don't anybody
touch him!"
But before he could get the words out, two
big Britishers, privates who were probably in the
corporal's squadron, leaped forward, one on
either side. The corporal was falling; it looked as
though he were about to faint.
G-8 struck out right and left with all his
might. The two privates whirled back. One
caught himself before he fell; the other landed on
his ear.
The corporal was on the ground now,
writhing, but apparently more from fright than
from pain. He had spoken the truth. His hands
were off at the wrists. Only the stubs remained
and still no blood poured out from the ends of the
veins and arteries.
Another big Britisher squared himself before
G-8.
"You're not going to stop us from trying to
save him, blast you," he yelled.
The fellow was as big as Bull Martin; G-8
moved like lightning. His left fist shot forward and
caught the big chap in his middle, which was
rather paunchy. The Britisher grunted and
doubled forward from the blow. As his chin came
down, G-8's right came up with perfect aim and
plenty of speed behind it.
Smack!
The head of the big fellow snapped back. His
eyes glazed. He rocked back on his heels and
then collapsed on the ground.
Now G-8 squared himself before the others
who had formed a menacing half-circle about
him. All nerves were taut. These Britishers, the
most nonchalant of all the Allied soldiers, had
suddenly gone mad with fear for their corporal
and, at the same time, for themselves.
It seemed almost as if tiny yellow flames
darted from those usually mild eyes of the master
spy, and his voice cracked out like a whiplash.
"NOW, listen," he snapped above the wails
of the writhing corporal at his feet. "There's
nothing that can be done for your corporal. I do
know that he can infect the rest of you if you
touch him, just as he was infected when he
pulled the arm off the dead pilot."
G-8 took the Colt automatic from its holster
at his side.
"I don't like to do this," he went on more
calmly, "but if one of you makes a move to touch
him, I'll blow your head off."
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G-8 and His Battle Ace
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THE HEADLESS STAFFEL August, 1935
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He waited for a tense moment to see how his
words were taken. The men were white-faced
and their eyes blazed with a fanatic terror, but
none of them made any advance.
"Listen, old man," he said softly, "it's tough
luck-- but I'm afraid you're finished." He stopped,
looked up at the soldiers. "There might be a
chance," he said suddenly. "Get to the nearest
camp kitchen and bring back all the baking soda
you can. Hurry!"
The corporal on the ground stared at him
through pleading eyes.
"You think sir," he begged, "that it might--
save my life?"
"I don't know," G-8 said. "I'm going to try.
It's all I can think of. Remember, it's just a wild
guess. While they're gone, I want you to try to
quiet down."
The corporal lifted his arm as he lay there.
"Lord!" he yelled at the top of his voice, "my
arms are almost to the elbow now!"
G-8 clenched his teeth.
"Yes," he nodded, "I see. Now I want you to
tell me something. You don't feel any pain, do
you? Tell me just how you do feel. You will have
this satisfaction, at least, corporal. If you answer
all my questions as honestly as possible, you may
be the means of saving others from death."
That seemed to soothe the tortured brain of
the Englishman.
"I'll try to be brave, sir," he stammered
huskily, and then, "No, sir, there isn't any pain.
Queer, isn't it, sir? My arms feel numb, sir, just as
my leg did two years ago when I got a bit of a
shrapnel wound and they put dope in it to stop the
pain."
"Do you feel weak?" G-8 asked. "Do you
feel queer any other place beside your arm?"
The corporal was lying flat on his back now.
He made a move to sit up. It was a pitiful effort
because from that position, he couldn't seem to
rise without the use of his arms which were off
now to the elbows.
"No, sir," he said, "I can't say that I do feel
queer anywhere else except that I'm a bit scared,
sir. You see-- I don't want to die, sir."
"Of course not," G-8 said, "but we all have to
go some day. Have you any feeling in your legs?''
"Oh, yes, sir," responded the corporal,
"quite. See, I can move both of them."
He did move them to demonstrate.
"O.K.," G-8 nodded, "better lie still. And your
brain seems to be all right?"
"Yes, sir," nodded the other.
There was the pounding of running feet. Men
came racing up-- the same British Tommies who
had gone at G-8's order for the baking soda. Two
of them carried a large-sized box of baking soda
apiece. G-8 tore the receptacles open instantly.
He scattered the contents over the end of each
stubby arm without touching any member of the
corporal's body. Then he sat watching.
"You think," gasped the corporal, "that it's
going to save me?"
"Don't know yet," G-8 answered. "It seems to
be lessening the action a little."
But as he watched, his hope vanished. The
eating process of this mysterious substance had
slowed a little, but when it got past the place
where the white, alkaline soda was piled, it
continued on up the arm as rapidly as before.
The corporal raised his head. He looked
about.
"Oh, Tommy," he breathed to one of the big
fellows near him.
The big private knelt down beside him.
"Don't touch him," G-8 warned.
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G-8 and His Battle Ace
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THE HEADLESS STAFFEL August, 1935
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8
"I won't," Tommy promised.
"Listen," the corporal said, "I'm going to die.
Tell Amy to go marry some other bloke and be
happy, will you, Tommy? That's a good fellow."
The big fellow sniffled and his eyes filled with
tears. He nodded.
"Righto," he finally choked. "I will."
The corporal's arms were eaten off to the
shoulders and the deadly substance was working
in toward the vital parts of his body. He had
closed his eyes.
Then G-8 asked one more question.
"Is there any more pain than there was
before, corporal?" he asked.
The corporal opened his eyes. They were a
little glazed. He shook his head very slowly. Then
he closed his eyes again. It seemed as though he
were going to sleep, no more pain than that.
G-8 got up from beside him, took a long
breath.
"Well, at least the lack of pain is something
to be thankful for," he said. "Apparently, his mind
is getting dull. He seems to be going to sleep
quite easily."
And as though that had been a question, the
corporal nodded his head slowly. A few minutes
later, his body went limp as the eating process
worked past his shoulders and into his vitals.
G-8 gave the men some parting advice.
"The easiest thing to do," he suggested,
"and the safest, will be to leave him right there
and cover him up with earth. He's gone now."
CHAPTER THREE
The Wizard
THE men were doing just that when he
turned away with the British lieutenant. "Oh, I
say," the Britisher gasped huskily, "we've got to
do something about it."
"Yes," said G-8, "we've got to do something."
"But," the Britisher went on fearfully, "we did
about everything we could think of. You put
baking soda on the stubs of his arms and it didn't
do any good."
"It helped a little," G-8 said, "for a time. But
that won't solve it. We've got to get to the root of
it. I'm going back to headquarters just as soon as
my plane will get me there. Perhaps something
has come up since I left."
They reached his plane. He started the
Hisso and let her warm up. Flinging a farewell
over his shoulder to the British lieutenant, he took
to the air. He climbed to fifteen thousand feet
over the Front and continued on until he could
see the Chateau-Thierry sector.
In all that time, he saw nothing that aroused
his curiosity-- no sight at all of that strange plane.
Nippy and Bull met him at the deadline when
he taxied up.
"Hey, listen, G-8," Bull growled, "it seems
every time you start out looking for trouble you
find it. I'll bet that if you didn't spend so much
time looking for it, we wouldn't get so much."
"Maybe not," G-8 ventured. "What have you
heard?"
"Just got a call from the Chateau Thierry
sector," Bull continued. "Captain Holly of the
artillery there says that two American planes
came down. They had attacked a German two-
seater at ten thousand feet, but the two-seater
shot them down."
"At Chateau-Thierry, eh?" G-8 asked as he
entered the apartment. "That's moving right along
the line. And I suppose he said something about
the plane and pilot vanishing after the crash."
"Jumping Jupiter!" Nippy exclaimed. "What
are you, a fortune teller?"
"I wish I were a good fortune teller," G-8
said. "I'd know more about this business than I do
now."
"A good fortune teller," Nippy scoffed.
"Listen, guy, there ain't no such thing."
"O.K., Nippy," G-8 answered. "Never
having been in the business myself, I wouldn't
know." He reached for the telephone. "What
outfit is Captain Holly with?" he asked.
"Battery B of the 118th artillery," Bull
answered.
G-8 nodded and spoke in the mouthpiece.
"Get me Captain Holly, Chateau-Thierry
sector at once," he said.
He waited for some minutes. He heard
talking and squawking on the other end of the
line. Then a voice came over the line very faintly.
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"This is Captain Holly, B Battery," it said.
"Good," responded the master spy, "this is
G-8. You called a while ago about a couple of
American planes that had crashed up there."
"Yes," said Holly.
"O.K.," said G-8, "here's a special order.
Order all men in your sector not to touch either
the planes or the pilots. If any more crash in that
sector, have your men stay away from them.
Issue those orders and then come back. I want to
talk to you some more."
"Right," said Captain Holly.
There was a pause, then he was back on the
wire.
"Now tell me just what happened," G-8
commanded.
"Well, sir," the captain began, "we were
trying to find a plane that we heard droning
around above the haze. We finally spotted it and
then we saw two other planes diving at it. These
planes came down on the two-seater-- and kept
on going. They crashed right near my battery.
There wasn't anything so strange about that, but
when we reached the wrecks, we saw the planes
were partly gone. Perhaps you won't believe me,
but they seemed to be eaten up."
"I know," G-8 hurried on. "Each plane was
eaten up including a good part of the pilot. Is that
right?"
"Why, yes," stammered the captain in
astonishment, "but how did you know?"
"Oh, I just saw it happen over in the
Chatalon area," G-8 told him, "Now look here. Did
you see that two-seater? If it was flying at ten
thousand feet, how did you know that it was a
two-seater?"
"I saw it as well as anyone," the captain
replied. "I could tell by the shape of it. At least, it
looked like a German two-seater. It was larger
than the two American planes. They turned out to
be 18-meter Nieuports-- at least they looked like
that as nearly as we could tell from what was left
of them."
"For an artilleryman you seem to know quite
a lot about planes," G-8 commented.
"Yes," admitted Holly. "You see, I trained for
flying, but couldn't quite make the grade on
certain plane maneuvers and was transferred to
the artillery."
G-8 nodded, a little grimly.
"Probably that was better for you than if you
had gone on to be a pilot," he said. "Probably the
other way you would still be a shavetail instead of
a captain."
"I'm sure of it," the captain came back. "All
of my buddies in the training squadron are still
second lieutenants."
"Then you're sure," G-8 went on, "that this
was a two-seater and you're positive it was a
German plane? Did you see any markings on it,
any black crosses, for instance?"
"No," said Holly. "We've been doing
considerable fighting here and the smoke haze on
the ground is fairly thick. I'm quite sure, however,
that it was a German two-seater and that it was
painted black."
"Did you see it leave the front?" G-8 asked.
"Yes. As soon as it sent the two Nieuports
down, it made a big circle and then went back
toward the northeast."
"H'm, that's funny," G-8 ventured. "You're
sure it wasn't the northwest?"
"Of course," said the captain, "I don't know
where it went when it got out of sight, but I'm
positive that it was heading for the northeast."
"Right," G-8 said, "and thanks very much for
your report."
HE hung up the receiver for a moment. Then
he called the general in Paris. He shook his head
while he was waiting for a through connection.
"No use worrying the old boy any more than
we have to until we know more about it," he said,
half to himself. "Hello, general, G-8 speaking. I
have a special order that I would like you to put
through all along the Front. Make it effective for
the British, American, and French the length of
the lines."
"Yes," the general's voice came back.
"Under no circumstances, is anyone to touch
a plane that crashes behind our lines until further
notice."
The general hesitated.
"That's rather an odd order," he ventured.
"I know it," G-8 said. "I'll explain as soon as I
know a little more about it. Something has just
happened over on the Chatalon area that I don't
like the looks of. Will you give that order,
general?"
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"But suppose one of our planes crashes
behind the lines and it's possible to save the pilot
from burning to death?"
"Let's hope that they all burn," G-8 said,
"because the pilots will be dead when they crash."
"But look here-- "
"I'd rather not say anything more until I've
more complete information," G-8 said firmly.
The general took a long breath.
"Oh, very well, if that's the way you want it."
"I do," answered G-8. "Thank you, sir."
Nippy and Bull were standing close beside
him, waiting for him to finish.
"Say, listen," Bull demanded after he had
hung up the receiver. "What is this crazy story,
anyway that Captain Holly was telling us?"
Instead of answering, G-8 called to the
English manservant, "Oh, Battle, how about a
little lunch?"
"Say," Nippy demanded, "Jumping Jupiter,
what are we waiting for? Let's go after this thing,
whatever it is."
"I'm waiting for reports," G-8 said. "And
while we're waiting for lunch, I'll tell you what
happened over the Chatalon sector."
He told them briefly what he had seen. He
saw the scowl on big Bull Martin's face deepen
with perplexity. Nippy was nodding slowly. At
length, he grinned at Bull.
"Say, you big ox," he challenged, "I told you
that G-8 didn't go looking for trouble unless he
was pretty sure of finding it."
"Yeah," Bull growled, "but there isn't any
sense to this stuff-- planes and men getting eaten
up and that sort of thing." After a brief, uncertain
pause, he went on. "But if this really is happening,
what are we going to do about it?"
"That," G-8 said, "is what I'm waiting to find
out.
They were half finished with their noon meal
when another phone call came. The voice on the
other end of the line was faint, but G-8 managed
to pick up the words.
"This is Major Blake speaking," said the
voice. "We're in a rest camp back of Verdun. I
received orders from the high commander to
notify you if anything strange happened."
"And," G-8 demanded, "did you get the
orders also about not touching any planes that
crashed on our side of the lines?"
"Yes," said the major, "that's what I wanted
to talk to you about. Three American planes just
crashed about a mile and a half north of here.
We were watching the dogfight from the ground.
I have a very powerful pair of binoculars and I
saw these three planes dive on a two-seater.
They dived down and came up under it and then
all three of them plunged. It was almost as
though they had been struck by lightning. When
we found the wrecks, part of the planes and pilots
had disappeared. It looked as though they had
been eaten away."
"Yes," G-8 nodded, "and could you tell me
this, major? Could you see any markings of
identification on the two-seater?"
"There were no markings. The ship was
painted black. I'm not very good at recognizing a
plane from its silhouette but several of my men
are positive that it was a German two-seater. It
was flying very high."
"How long ago did this happen?" G-8 asked.
"The fight took place about an hour ago.
We've just been up at the wreckage and had time
to return."
"Did you," G-8 asked, "see any small objects
leave the plane during the fight-- I mean like tiny
planes leaving the mother ship?"
"No," answered the major, "I can't recall
anything like that and I didn't hear my men say
anything about it."
"O.K.," said the master spy, "that's all.
Thanks very much. If anything else comes up,
don't hesitate to call me."
He hooked the receiver and lighted a
cigarette, nodding very slowly.
"That's just what I wanted to find out," he
said. "It may be that there are several of these
black observation planes without any markings,
but it seems to me it's more likely the job of one
plane, and that one plane goes back to Germany
after each raid to fuel up."
"Well, Jumping Jupiter," Nippy demanded,
"what are we waiting for?"
"We're waiting," G-8 explained, "until we can
make sure of the direction of the plane's
movement. I want to know just about where I can
encounter it when I'm ready."
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"Holy Herring," Bull exploded, "you're not
going to leave us home again, are you?"
"I'm not sure," G-8 ventured. "I'm trying to
figure that out."
He paced up and down, smoking a cigarette.
A little later he stopped at the small phonograph,
wound it furiously and placed the needle on his
favorite record. Then, as the strains of "Raggin'
the Scale" belched and squawked from the
instrument, he continued his pacing and smoking.
Suddenly he stopped and went to the telephone.
He called the great air base at Toul.
"THIS is G-8 speaking," he said. "I want to
give special orders from the general. Order all
planes from Toul, Nancy, and Colombey-les-
belles to watch for a two-seater flying over the
lines at about ten thousand feet. Tell them not to
attack but to return at once to their drome and
report. What's that?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's too late. There's a
dogfight going on right now between here and the
lines. Five Spads are attacking a lone two-seater.
Maybe that's the ship. It's flying at about ten
thousand feet. Just a minute and I'll take a look
through the glasses."
G-8 groaned and nodded. "O.K."
He waited breathlessly and then the same
voice came over the wires.
"It's too late, sir. The five Spads are all
down. The two-seater is turning around and
heading back toward the northeast."
G-8 took a long breath.
"You're sure of the direction?"
"Yes," the voice replied. "It looks as if it's
headed for the upper end of the Vosges
mountains."
"O.K.," G-8 snapped. "Remember the orders.
No more planes from your area are to attack that
two-seater. They probably won't get the chance,
anyway. You'd better go out personally and make
sure that none of your men touch any of the five
Spads-- not even a wing-tip."
"But sir, I don't-- " the other started to say.
"Orders," G-8 snapped and hung up.
He left the phone, lighted another cigarette,
and paced up and down the floor until he had
finished it. The jazzy tune on the phonograph had
turned once more to the phone. This time he
called the general.
"General," he asked, "do you remember
once some months ago I borrowed a complete
suit of armor from the historical museum in
Paris?"
"Yes, I remember very well."
"O.K., then," G-8 hurried on. "Listen, sir, I
want another one as soon as possible."
He heard the general groan.
"Good heavens, what do you want now with
one of those antiques?" he demanded. "Do you
want to stop bullets with it like you did before?"
G-8 shook his head. "No, it doesn't have to
be bullet-proof-- " A loud, puffing sound from the
wireless receiver at the other end of the room
interrupted him. Nippy leaped for it.
"Wait," G-8 shouted, "I may have some
information for you, sir. Something's coming from
somewhere by wireless."
"I'll hold the wire," the general said.
G-8 waited tensely by the phone. He saw
Nippy place the ear-phones on his head, then
start scribbling frantically on a piece of paper. The
expression on his face became more and more
puzzled as he wrote.
"Great Scott! My wireless man is picking up
something, too," the general exclaimed. "Wait for
it."
At the same time, Nippy jerked the phones
from his head and ran to G-8 with the paper.
"Jumping Jupiter, here's something that
doesn't make sense at all, G-8," he said. "Cast
your orbs over this one."
G-8 read it aloud into the mouthpiece:
I HEREBY COMMAND ALL WARRING NATIONS,
INCLUDING GERMANY, AUSTRIA, FRANCE, ITALY,
HUNGARY, BELGIUM, ENGLAND, AND THE UNITED
STATES OF AMERICA, TO CEASE COMBAT AT ONCE.
MAKE PEACE AND YOU WILL BE SPARED. CONTINUE
FIGHTING AND I WILL KILL EVERYONE OF YOU SO THAT
PEACE MAY REIGN ON THIS EARTH.
THE WIZARD.
"That's right, that's exactly what I have here,"
the general said. "What do you make of it?"
A baffled look came over the face of the
master spy. He shook his head in a slow,
dejected negative movement.
"I haven't the least idea, but see what you
can do about getting me that armor at once,
general."
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"Just a minute," protested the general.
"Yes, sir?"
"Hold the wire a minute. Yes, I think you had
better come down to my office. We can probably
get your armor quicker that way and besides, I
want to talk to you. Things are getting a little
beyond my comprehension.''
"Yes, sir!" G-8 nodded, "I'll be right down,
sir."
He hung up the phone and turned to Nippy
and Bull.
"I'm on my way to the general's office again,"
he announced. "Hold your shirts until I get back,
will you?"
Nippy looked at him seriously for a moment.
"Say, listen, G-8," he asked, "what are we, a
couple of office boys? Aren't we going with you
this time?"
G-8 shook his head.
"I can't see any need for it," he said. "On the
other hand, I think you two are needed here to
pick up phone or wireless messages. This is
getting to be a tight situation. A few minutes ago
we thought we were fighting the Germans and
now it seems as if we're fighting some mysterious
person who calls himself the wizard."
"You really think," Nippy asked, "that the
message is straight? It came over from a
powerful station. We ought to be able to trace the
general location of this bird's hangout."
"You mean from radio strength?" G-8 asked.
"Yes. We can find out where the messages
came in strongest and weakest. They naturally
came in strongest from the area nearest the point
from which they were sent."
G-8's eyes widened a little.
"That's an idea that hadn't come to me yet,"
he admitted. "It's worth trying out, anyway." He
slapped on his uniform cap and started for the
door. "Be seeing you," he said. "You know where
to get me if anything turns up."
CHAPTER FOUR
Ace in Armor
G-8 FOUND the general pacing the floor of
his office. "Well," he demanded, not unkindly, "do
you bring any more bad news?"
G-8 forced a reassuring smile.
"No, sir," he said. "I haven't heard any more,
have you?"
The general shook his head.
"No," he said, "nothing more except that the
order from this person who calls himself the
wizard has been coming in from every part of
France, relayed various wireless stations." He
took a long breath. "What do you make of this,
G-8? And what's all the rest of this stuff that
you've been keeping from me?"
"I don't suppose," G-8 ventured, "that there is
any use trying to soft-pedal it any longer. You
see, I thought I might be able to figure out a
solution before I had to tell you the whole horrible
story, but now I'm stumped even more than
before."
He related then, what he had learned up to
date.
"I checked various points along the front," he
finished. "The plane, or planes, seem to be
attacking from west to east."
"You think, then," the general guessed, "that
it's the work of one plane instead of several?"
"There's one thing that makes me think so.
You see, if there were several planes committing
these horrible murders they would strike at
different points at the same time; but as near as I
can find out the time has varied sufficiently so
that one plane could strike, for instance, at
Chatalon, return to its drome, fuel up, come back
to Chateau-Thierry, and strike again. Then it
could return in a northeasterly direction, stock up
a supply of gasoline and oil, strike at Verdun;
return for fuel and then hit Toul. That's exactly
what happened."
The general groaned,
"Good heavens!" he said, "and all this has
been going on and I didn't know it. How many
planes has this mystery ship accounted for up to
date?"
"Between twelve and fifteen, according to
reports," G-8 answered.
"We can't have this going on," the general
barked. "Why, they'll snuff out our entire Allied air
forces at this rate. It's appalling. Can't something
be done?"
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"I don't know," G-8 countered. "I'm doing all I
can just as fast as possible.
As soon as I can get that suit of armor, I'm
going out to see what I can learn about this
business first hand."
"But," demanded the general, ''what earthly
good can a suit of armor do you?"
"That's one thing I did learn at Chatalon,"
G-8 said. "The whole plane gradually
disappeared, eaten away by this strange creeping
death, except the metal parts. The fabric went
faster than anything else, then the wood."
The general shuddered.
"It's the most ghastly thing I ever heard of,"
he responded.
"Yes, I agree with you," G-8 admitted, "but
as you say, we've got to get to the root of it.
We've got to stop it. I figure that if this creeping
death stuff doesn't eat metal, then I'll be
reasonably safe in a suit of armor."
"You mean," demanded the general, "that
you are deliberately going over and let this
mystery plane attack you?"
"I can't figure any other way," G-8 answered,
"not if I'm going to really find out what happens.
By the way, have you the messages as they
came in from the various parts of France?"
The general nodded.
"Yes, they're right here on my desk. There
must be twenty-five or thirty of them. After the
first half dozen arrived, I just let them pile up."
A knock sounded on the door. The general
boomed. "Come in!"
An orderly entered with several slips of paper
in his hand.
"Here's more wireless messages," he
announced.
"Put them on the desk with the others," the
general commanded.
The orderly did so and went out.
G-8 ran swiftly through the pile, picked out a
half dozen messages from various points.
"What are you going to do?" the general
asked curiously.
"Something that Nippy thought of," G-8 told
him. "If we check on several of these stations we
may get a fair idea of the direction from which the
message came-- provided, of course, they were
all sent from the same station."
He made several calls along the line, picking
a half dozen wireless stations that ran from the
Chatalon area all the way over to the Vosges
mountains at the end of the eastern front. Each
time he asked for a report on the strength of the
reception of the message from the Wizard.
Finally, he finished and turned to the general.
"I think that simplifies one question," he
announced. "The farther east the stations are the
stronger the messages. That would mean that the
sending station must be located somewhere near
the western end of the front, perhaps in the
Vosges mountains. There are a great many
places over there for a hideout."
"Yes," the general agreed, "that's very true.
But tell me this, G-8, do you believe that there is
such a person as the Wizard?"
G-8 didn't answer that question at once. He
lighted a cigarette while he thought it over
seriously, then he shook his head.
"It's possible that there is an individual who
calls himself the Wizard; and it's also possible
that the Wizard is merely a fictitious character.
For instance, Herr Doktor Krueger might be the
Wizard."
"But," demanded the general, "that doesn't
make sense. Why would any German send such
a message. The order commands all warring
nations to stop fighting-- not just the Allies."
"Yes," G-8 admitted, "I thought of that, too.
But look at the thing from another angle. Suppose
you were trying to trick the Germans into a
complete surrender. If we demanded them to
surrender immediately or we would kill them all
with this new death substance that we have, they
wouldn't surrender any more than we would.
They'd probably all die first, rather than give in
under those conditions. But suppose that we
made it look as though there were someone who
had the power to kill all warring nations."
"By Jove!" the general exclaimed. "I've been
thinking since this order came in what a bright
idea it would be for everybody to suddenly lay
down arms and come to peaceful terms. It made
me realize what a ridiculous thing war is."
"Exactly," G-8 said. "You see, when the
enemy demands our surrender, we go mad and
grit our teeth and say, 'Why, you so-and-so, we'll
fight until we're all dead before we'll surrender
under those terms.' On the other hand, if they put
the idea across that all countries must surrender
or be killed, then it puts us all in the same boat
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and makes us feel almost like friends again,
fighting a common enemy."
"But what good would that do the Germans?"
the general asked.
"It could do them a lot of good," G-8 said.
"There would be a big pow-wow and we would all
begin to sign papers and treaties and that sort of
thing and then about the time that we threw down
our arms, the Germans would come down on us
in a surprise attack all along the line like a ton of
bricks and put the finishing touch on the war."
The general nodded his head very slowly in
the affirmative.
"You are right," he admitted. "You are
perfectly right. I don't believe for one minute that
there is any such person as this Wizard."
"The trouble is," G-8 warned, "we can't be
too sure. I've been wrong quite a few times."
The general paced up and down the floor
again.
"Have you any idea," he demanded, "what
this eating substance might be? A liquid or a
disease that strikes with a sudden and fatal fury?
Or what?"
"I've got only one guess along that line," G-8
answered, "and that's this: You remember my
telling you about the British corporal whose hands
and arms were eaten off. Well at the time I made
a wild guess that he was the victim of acid-- some
new and very powerful acid. I know from what
little experience I've had in chemistry that an acid
is neutralized by an alkali, so I sent some men to
the nearest kitchen for baking soda. That's the
commonest alkali I know of. I poured the soda
over the soldier's arms and the eating action
slowed up considerably until it passed the baking
soda."
"But look here," the general said. "I know
something about chemistry too, or that is, I used
to. Isn't it true that an acid in the process of
eating into membrane gives off a chemical
reaction in the form of smoke or gas?"
"Of course," G-8 agreed. "But you never
heard of an acid that would eat so rapidly and
completely into everything but metal, have you,
general?"
"No, I haven't," the general admitted.
"Well, then," G-8 went on, "if we don't know
any more than that about the acid, how do we
know what its reaction is? What I'm getting at is
this: why couldn't this strange acid give off an
odorless, invisible, reactionary gas that was
immediately absorbed by the air itself, thereby
leaving no clue of a chemical action having taken
place?"
"I suppose it's possible," sighed the general.
"However," G-8 hurried on, "all this is mere
supposition. We know very little definitely. What I
want to do now is get that suit of armor from the
museum before it's too late."
"Very well," the general agreed. "I will do
what I can."
He sat down at the desk and wrote a short
note.
"There," he said, handing it to G-8, "I think
that will get you what you want, although I don't
imagine you will have a very welcome reception
at the museum. You remember what happened
last time."
G-8 smiled.
"I'll never forget. I'll have to do some tall
talking to get the old man who's manager of the
place to let me take another suit of armor."
TWENTY minutes later he was in a private
office of the museum, meeting the cold stare of a
little Frenchman with white hair and a white,
flowing mustache. His dark, beastly eyes flashed
at G-8.
The master spy put on his best smile as he
confronted him and handed him the note.
"You remember me, perhaps, monsieur?"
he said. "I am the one they call G-8. I am bringing
a note from the general."
"Oui, oui!" the little man nodded
emphatically without smiling back. "Of course I
remember you. How could I forget you? Mon
Dieu, after taking the best suit of armor in all
Europe and then leaving it for the pigs of
Germans to put up in their museum! I tell you, I
received a very insolent note from them thanking
me for the rare gift."
After that little speech, he glanced at the
note. His eyes blazed. He raised his voice in a
squeal of alarm.
"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" he screeched, "and
now, after losing one suit of armor, you want
another! Is it not enough that you take the best
we have in the museum without coming back for
more? I cannot let this go on. I am here to
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protect the museum. It is my life and now you
come to steal and pilfer my precious pieces."
G-8 was trying hard to keep from laughing.
The little curator was fairly hopping up and down
in his rage. It was easy for the master spy to see
that he wasn't going to get anywhere by
pampering the man. He straightened to his full
height and his face took on its grimmest look.
"You have," G-8 snarled, "an order in your
hand from the high commander. He tells you to
give me anything I wish from the museum. Do
you know what it means if you refuse? It means
instant death before the firing squad. We are at
war. This is no time to worry about the
sacredness of your museum pieces if they can be
of help to the Allies."
The little old man wilted. His hands were
shaking violently.
"Tres bien," he muttered. "I am ordered to
do it. You shall have your armor, monsieur,
anyone you pick out. But I will tell you this: If you
lose this suit of armor, I will kill myself. I cannot
stand the disgrace of it, monsieur."
Then, in a choking voice, he finished, "Go
and help yourself. I follow the orders. Viva la
France."
G-8 suddenly felt sorry for the little old man.
He patted him on the shoulder.
"Don't worry this time," he consoled. "I will
find some way to leave this armor in France if I
have to jump out of the plane myself. Everything
is going to be O.K."
He left the old man feeling a little better and
sauntered through the great, vaulted chambers of
the museum. He walked from one exhibition of
armor to another until he found a half-armor that
came down to the waist, with helmet and neck
gussets to match. He stood up in front of it. Yes,
that would be just about the right size.
He lifted it, finding it surprisingly light. Taking
it off the form that it rested on, he slipped it over
his head like a stiffly starched shirt, helmet and
all. He was even more surprised when he found
how easily it went on. It was plenty big for him,
but that didn't matter. It simply made it easier for
him to get on and off in a hurry and that, mainly,
was what he had in mind.
He tried taking it off now. With his hands
raised straight over his head, it slipped off very
easy. With one rapid push upward, helmet, neck
protectors, breast-work, and sleeves came off all
in one piece.
That done, he tucked it under his arm and
started out. He saw the moist eyes of the old
man upon him as he passed him in the hall. He
smiled and called a farewell to him.
"Don't worry, monsieur, your armor will be
returned to you,'' he said.
Then he went outside, tossed the armor in
the seat of the roadster, climbed in back of the
wheel and drove to Le Bourget.
Nippy and Bull stared at him in the late
afternoon light as they saw that suit of armor
under his arm.
"Say, listen," Bull growled, "you haven't gone
nuts, have you?"
"Maybe," G-8 smiled, "who can tell? You
thought I was going nuts once before when I wore
armor."
Bull and Nippy were feeling the metal.
"But listen," Nippy said, "this stuff isn't strong
enough to stop bullets."
"It's metal," G-8 said, "and that's all I need.
You remember me telling you that the only thing
this eating substance doesn't seem to hurt is
metal?"
The two Battle Aces stopped short and
stared at him.
"What are you going to do now?" they
chorused.
"I'm going over to look for the black two-
seater," G-8 answered. "Have any reports come
in?"
"Nothing," said Nippy. "What do you know,
outside of the fact that the museum is short
another suit of armor?"
G-8 couldn't help smiling at that.
"I think," he said, "that we've tracked down
the general location of the powerful wireless that
sent out that order from the Wizard."
"You have!" Bull exclaimed. "Holy Herring!
Let's get at him. Where is he?"
"Not as easy as that," G-8 ventured. "We
know only the general location. I checked
everything from the general's office as you
suggested, Nippy. We found that the farther east
the reports come from, the louder had been the
buzz of the wireless receivers. At Colmar the
notes were very loud and strong."
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"Jumping Jupiter!" Nippy cried. "This guy is
probably up in the Vosges mountains."
"That's about what I figured at first," G-8
nodded. "On the other hand, he might be in the
Black Forest or almost anywhere east of Metz."
"But Metz," Bull frowned, "is on the German
side of the lines."
"Sure," admitted G-8, "how do we know that
this bird isn't a German?"
"Yes," said Bull slowly, trying to grasp the
idea, "but the Wizard ordered all warring nations
to surrender."
"Listen, you big ox," Nippy chirped, "if you
talked less, people might think you're brighter
than you really are. This could be just a German
trick, you know."
"I've been trying to figure it out from all
angles," G-8 said. "Now I've done enough
figuring. I'm going out and get some action."
Nippy and Bull jumped at the opportunity.
They went for their helmets and goggles, just as
G-8 pressed the button on the wall for his own
plane to be warmed; he shook his head.
"I still think you had better stay here in case
of emergency."
Nippy stood stock still. "Say listen, chief," he
pleaded, "we might just as well be a couple of
telephone operators."
"You will see plenty," G-8 promised, "before
we get much farther along. You see, I found only
one suit of armor like I was looking for, so that
lets you two out. I don't want to take any chances
of losing you."
THE blast of the Hisso on G-8's Spad roared
out in the afternoon air. Nippy and Bull, with
dejected faces, walked with him to the warming
plane. G-8 raised the armor above his head, held
up his arms and slipped it over his torso. Then he
dropped the visor of the steel helmet and grinned
through it. Nippy broke out in a short laugh.
"What a comic valentine you would make,"
he chuckled.
"I hope I continue to look as funny as this,"
G-8 nodded. "I'll bet some peasant back of the
lines would get a scare if he found my Spad
crashed and half eaten up and only this armor
where my body ought to be."
"Yeh," Bull nodded without smiling. "Ha! Ha!
Ha! That would be funny. You think of the craziest
things, G-8. Well, take it easy, and if you want us
to change the baby's feeding time or rock Battle
to sleep or anything, just send us word. We don't
seem to be good for anything else."
"You will be," G-8 promised. "Don't worry
about that."
He climbed into the cockpit, tested the
controls, signaled the mechanic to pull fix blocks
from before his wheels, and then, with a
deafening drone, the Spad shot out across the
airdrome and rose in the air.
G-8 set his compass on a true course for
Colmar, one of the points at the most extreme
end of the eastern front. He sat back and let the
Hisso roar on while he tried to figure out certain
things in his own mind.
He had not decided on any definite plan. He
was simply going to fly over the lines until dark,
searching for that strange black plane.
He began to let his imagination run wild on
the subject. This Wizard was perhaps a real,
flesh-and-blood human being who had suddenly
gotten the idea that with this strange acid he
could conquer the world. There had been plenty
of men with similar ideas since civilization began.
Most of them had had mental defects. They had
all considered themselves greater than they really
were and they had all had their weak points. In
any event, G-8 must find this Wizard, must
discover his weak point and play upon it for his
destruction.
The smoke haze of the Front became visible
now. He passed over the great airbase at Toul.
Ahead lay Colmar and on beyond that the jagged
peaks and ridges of the Vosges mountains rose
against the horizon. He took out his powerful
binoculars and raised them before his eyes.
Through those glasses, he studied the skies,
watching for some moving form with wings-- a
black form, a black two-seater without markings
of identification.
Suddenly, a new plan came to him. In all of
the attacks that he had heard of or witnessed,
Allied ships had plunged on the black plane from
higher altitudes. Why not, then, reverse the
procedure? Why not drop down to five thousand
feet and hurl along at that height, watching for the
black two-seater from above?
He dropped the nose of his plane and
stormed down until his altimeter registered five
thousand feet. But he wasn't actually five
thousand feet above the ground now, for he was
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flying over higher country. There was, perhaps,
only three thousand feet separating him from the
American lines below. His hand reached for the
throttle and he pulled it back halfway.
The afternoon sun was getting low. Time
counted more than speed. He didn't want to use
up all of his gas and have to land at some
American or French field to refuel. He wanted to
keep on flying without stopping until dark.
As enemy archie guns began grunting up at
him from the north, he was forced to break into a
zigzag course to throw'em off aim. The mountains
of the Vosges loomed up before him, jagged
peaks, mountains with rocky tops and wooded
sides. He climbed a little to avoid them at a safe
altitude and droned on.
No other winged thing was in sight. His
hopes were sinking rapidly. Perhaps he had
come out too late to pick a fight with that black
stranger. Well, he would stick it out until
darkness.
Now the Vosges were behind him and he
was almost on the Swiss border. The saw-toothed
spires of the Alps rimmed the horizon ahead of
him. The lines ended.
With a sickly feeling of defeat, he made a
great circle over the Swiss border and started
back. Now he swung over the German lines and
behind them to the north, but still there were no
planes in sight.
He crossed the northern end of the Vosges
mountains. The sun was getting very low in the
west. It was hard for him to see in that blinding
light. But his eyes constantly searched the sky
above and suddenly his search was rewarded.
Three winged shapes came out of the
northeast. He brought out his binoculars and
stared through them; black crosses on each were
visible. Moreover, he recognized them as
Fokkers.
He searched again frantically for that black
plane, but it was nowhere to be seen. Like a
hunter who, out for big game and failing to find it,
begins to take pot shots at smaller animals, he
decided to tackle the three Fokkers.
He pushed his throttle open wide and the
Spad leaped ahead. The three Boche pilots
seemed to spot him; they pointed their blunt
snouts directly at him. The three Fokkers and the
lone Spad with the armored ace in its cockpit
stormed at each other.
The three-mile space that had separated
them shrank rapidly to two-- one-- a half mile.
G-8 was crouched over his stick and glaring
across his sights at those three enemy planes. An
old motto of daring pilots kept racing through his
brain, "Make them turn out, make them turn out!"
He crouched still lower and stuck to his
direction. He could see the faces of all three
pilots clearly now-- at least he could see the
upper parts of their faces as they glared through
their gun sights.
Then suddenly, just as it seemed they were
about to crash head-on, the Jerry leader jumped
up in his cockpit. His eyes had glanced from G-8
to the sky above. His face took on a horrible
expression of fright and with a flashing movement
of his arm he pointed upward.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Headless Flyer
FROM that time on, things happened so
swiftly that it seemed to the master spy enough
was taking place to fill a hundred years of time. A
million tangled thoughts flashed through his mind
with the speed of electricity. Why was this
German pilot doing this thing? His first thought
was that perhaps it was a trick to distract his
attention. But then he realized that the German
was standing in his cockpit, a perfect target for G-
8's deadly Vickers guns. The Boche had
apparently made that move in all sincerity; he had
done it so spontaneously that he hadn't even
thought of the consequences.
All these thoughts raced through G-8's mind
while his Spad, flying at one hundred forty miles
an hour, advanced only ten or fifteen feet-- a
space of time that would be difficult to calculate
even in the smallest split seconds.
But in it he made up his mind. There was
something above him that was menacing,
something not menacing only to him, but to the
Germans as well; for even as the Jerry leader
leaped up in his cockpit to point with one hand, he
moved his controls with the other. His Fokker
zoomed up in a screaming chandelle. The other
two Fokkers started to follow.
G-8 lashed his controls in his own cockpit.
He had to move very quickly to prevent crashing
into those turning Fokkers. Since they were
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climbing, he dropped his Spad's nose and dove.
At the same time he turned in his seat and stared
upward.
His movements, hampered by the armor that
covered his head, neck, and upper part of his
body, were necessarily slow, but the sight that
met his eyes sent a chill up his spine-- a chill not
so much of fright as of horror and astonishment.
There, above him and tearing down straight
for him in a power dive, was a jet black plane, the
plane of the black raider. But it wasn't the plane
itself that caused him to catch his breath, rather, it
was the figure in the rear cockpit.
The front cockpit held a begoggled pilot who
sat over his stick, glaring across his sights at the
master spy. But the figure behind him--
G-8 saw the shoulders and arms of a man.
But no head. There was nothing there but a neck.
The head had been severed just under the jaw.
G-8 could see the oozing blood as it covered the
ghastly wound and lay in blotches and little
rivulets down the sides of the neck.
But in spite of the fact that the man had no
head, he was alive. He was sitting there in the
cockpit and was leaning forward a little. On the
blood-smeared stub of his neck a falcon stood
poised, its beady eyes glaring down at the master
spy and its talons smeared in blood.
The right arm of the headless man was held
uplifted and crooked. On it stood two more
falcons, braced against the wind. The headless
man's left arm was out straight at G-8. A fourth
falcon was poised on that left arm with wings
partly raised, just about to take off.
Now G-8 saw that the falcon was diving. He
rose from the arm of the headless man and shot
up over the top wing of the plunging, black raider
plane. G-8 shot the controls over again. He knew
that falcon was coming for him. And he noticed
something on the falcon's legs, just above the
crop and in the same position where spurs grew
on a fighting cock-- small glass vials tied securely
in place.
The Spad moved over, but it moved all too
sluggishly to suit G-8, for now the falcon had
folded its wings and was plunging like a bullet for
him.
The black two-seater winged over toward the
German planes that were screaming for altitude.
The headless man shifted his left arm and pointed
toward the three Fokkers. The falcons on his right
arm lifted their wings and shot out. Just as they
cleared the top wing, the fourth falcon, with the
blood-smeared talons, leaped from the stubby
neck of its headless master and followed the
other two.
Every muscle in the master spy's body was
at taut as steel. Even before the falcon which
was hurtling at him struck, he knew what to
expect. Those little glass vials held the deadly
acid that would eat into the vitals of plane and
man until there was little left.
The first falcon had changed its course. In
spite of G-8's quick maneuver the bird was still
riding with him. The Yank was doing some very
fast thinking. He knew now how this whole thing
worked-- at least he thought he did. These falcons
were trained to dive at the planes, to strike either
at the individual or at the ship itself. The eating
process would begin when the vials broke.
The master spy had learned what he'd come
for. There was no longer any reason for waiting.
His main concern now was to get away before it
was too late.
True, he was wearing armor now. It would
probably protect him to some extent, but would it
protect him enough? When those vials were
broken by the striking falcon, the liquid would, in
all probability, spray about. If so much as a drop
hit him, he was finished. He knew that much.
Yet it wasn't the fear of his personal safety
that drove him to try to escape. It was the fear
that he might be called upon to die before he had
succeeded in solving the problem.
He leveled off, gaining in that maneuver on
the falcon. He saw the falcon spread his wings
and glide above him. Now the bird was folding
his wings again, ready for a dive at the cockpit.
A strange feeling of inferiority came over G-
8 as he sat in the cockpit of the fastest type of
fighting plane on the Front. Here was a man
trying to fight against a bird, a winged thing of
prey that for thousands of years had known flight,
had learned the most intricate problems of not
only winged transportation, but winged combat as
well.
IN THAT moment of suspense, G-8 felt his
weakness more than he had ever felt it before.
There were times when even the master spy in
his quiet, unassuming way had thought that he
wasn't so bad as combat pilots go. He'd proved it
many times against the enemy. But this was
different.
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He was combating the most natural air
fighter of the world, the trained fighting falcon.
And the falcon was making a monkey out of him.
Suddenly, he saw the black raider flip over
and plunge for him. It was just at the moment he
had leveled off and was trying to avoid that
falcon. The bird seemed in no hurry to strike and
soared up on spread wings.
Now G-8 saw the headless man in the rear
cockpit of the black raider. He was gesticulating,
waving his hands wildly. Except for the gruesome
fact that he didn't have a head, he might have
been shouting at the falcon. He was moving to
the edge of the cockpit, climbing out. It was the
most ghastly sight G-8 had ever seen.
He shot the controls over hard. The Spad
moved, but not quickly enough. The black raider
leveled off just above his cockpit. Then the
headless form came plunging down toward him
feet first.
Desperately, the master spy tried to swing
his ship out of line of that leaping body.
Pung!
There came a sound like the boom of a great
drum as the feet of the headless one crashed into
the turtleback covering of the Spad, three or four
feet behind the cockpit. For a moment, the
headless man struggled there. Then, from a
pocket of his coat, he drew a glass tube filled with
liquid.
G-8 saw him raise it to strike, but he was
ready for this now. He had his automatic out. He
whirled in his cockpit, swung the Colt full on the
striking figure.
There was no time to take aim, and at that
close range, it wasn't necessary. His trigger finger
flexed twice and the big gun bellowed.
Blam! Blam!
He saw his bullets tear into the shoulders
and barrel-like chest. The arm that had held the
glass tube suddenly went limp.
The tube slipped from lifeless fingers,
bounced with a light thud on the fuselage. Then
the slipstream caught it, still intact, and whirled it
back.
The headless figure tumbled off the other
side and plunged down, down into space.
G-8 whirled and stared upward at the falcon.
With folded wings, it was diving for him like a tiny
meteor. For a moment, he paused. That last
incident had left him sluggish and slow of thought.
Suddenly, an idea flashed into his mind,
something that might save him. That would be a
terrific dive for the earth, a dive with all the
power of the Hisso full on. At least he could beat
the falcon down because that bird of prey, while it
would dive like a plummet with folded wings,
would have only its own weight and the pull of
gravity to draw it. G-8, on the other hand would
have not only the weight of the plane with the
gravity pulling him down, but he also had the
great Hisso running wild and the prop to draw him
at greater sow.
He made an instant decision. He dropped
the nose of his Spad straight for German ground
far below. He pushed on the throttle for all the
speed his Hisso would give him. Down, down, he
shot like a plunging meteor.
He turned and watched the falcon. The bird
of prey had folded its wings and was tearing
down, straight for him. Only time could tell what
would happen.
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He shifted his gaze and stared in the
direction that the three Fokkers had taken. This
was the first chance he had had to see how they
were faring. They were a little way off, but he
could make out the three falcons pursuing them.
As he watched, he saw one Fokker flip over
in a desperate half-roll. The falcon following it
poised for a moment then, when the pilot pulled
up again, folded its wings and shot downward,
straight for the cockpit.
G-8 saw the Fokker pilot turn and stare just
at the wrong time. The falcon had almost reached
him. Its wings spread a little. It looked as though
the bird was going to land in the cockpit. Then it
bashed itself into the face of the pilot and for a
split second, falcon and pilot seemed to both
disappear under the cowling.
The Fokker went into a series of wild
gyrations and plunged for the earth.
NO MORE time to watch! He was getting
close to the ground. He turned and stared back at
the falcon that was following his tail. A desperate
hope welled up in him. He had gained quite a lot
in that dive but the ground wasn't more than five
hundred feet below now, and he was hurling at it
at twice his normal flying speed. He must either
pull out or crash.
He hoped to pull out. The Spad shuddered
and groaned with the terrific strain. He was flying
level again, not more than five hundred feet over
the trees. He made a sharp bank and screamed
back toward his own side of the lines. Then he
saw that the falcon was gaining on him once more
with terrific speed.
The bird was merely a speck, but was
growing larger. G-8 was hedge-hopping over the
German front lines now-- No-Man's Land-- then
Yank lines. The dough-boys in the trenches
stared up at him, watching that terrific fight
between man of the air and the most natural
fighter ever known, the little falcon.
The falcon was within a hundred feet now.
Desperately, G-8 swung away. The falcon
changed its course instantly and before G-8 could
change again, the falcon was down at him.
Now G-8 zoomed and the stick came back in
his lap. At the same time, the falcon shot up.
When the Spad reached a point where its speed
was slowed, the bird slammed at him. It came
now like a striking demon, talons out-stretched,
wings lifted so that they shot him over in the first
quarter of a loop. He was five-- four-- one foot
away from the armored head and shoulders of the
master spy.
G-8 had watched that German pilot get it at
close range. He knew what was coming and was
prepared to guard against it. The falcon swung
around so that the vial on each leg would strike
the head, neck, or shoulders of the master spy.
G-8 turned his face at the moment of
striking. As the falcon smacked against the armor
on the side of his head, the force was so great
that it knocked him against the side of the cockpit.
He heard a thump. That must be the falcon's
body dropping to the turtle-back of the Spad.
Instantly, he put his plan into operation. He
let go of the stick and let the Spad run wild. He
knew the armor he wore must be smeared with
some of the liquid from the glass vials. At any
moment it might filter through the joints to his
clothing-- and that would mean the beginning of
the end.
He shot the armor, breast plates, shoulder
plates, metal helmet, and neck protector all at
once over his head, hurled them out of the
cockpit. Then he tore off the steel gloves and
threw those over the side, too. He moved ahead
to the very edge of the seat. Some of the liquid
might have run down the metal and dropped to
the cockpit under him.
He turned about to move the controls and
get his bearings. He saw the steel gloves and the
armor crash just back of the Yank lines. He
thought he saw the remains of the falcon plunging
down, but he wasn't sure.
He yelled to the men below on the ground,
"Don't touch that armor! Don't touch anything that
dropped from my plane!"
Then, as he moved the controls again to turn
toward Le Bourget, he was aware of a sickly
feeling at the pit of his stomach. The controls
didn't work. Frantically he slashed the stick and
rudder around. He was over No-Man's-Land now,
and the Spad was climbing at a gentle angle.
Whirling, he stared behind him.
He saw what had happened. The covering
was already off of the fuselage, the fabric was
gone from the elevators and the rudder. The acid
had begun its deadly work. He was already over
German trenches and the Spad was slipping off
on the right wing. He let go of the controls. They
were no good to him now. He had nothing left but
his throttle.
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In that moment of suspense, he had
presence of mind enough to examine the knob
and lever at the side which slowed or increased
the speed of his motor. He couldn't see any
evidence that the liquid from the vials had
touched it.
He pulled back the throttle halfway. The
motor took on a deeper note and, at the same
time, his nose dropped slowly. Apparently it was
impossible to turn the plane. It was obvious that
he must land in Germany-- or, rather, crash there.
The territory ahead was blasted and torn up
from countless American shells. Tree trunks were
sticking up jaggedly and here and there ruins of
buildings that once had sheltered human beings.
Perhaps he could go on balancing the Spad
with his throttle until he got farther behind the
lines. But something happened that snatched that
hope from him. His Hisso began to sputter and
vibrate. There was nothing to do but go down.
He throttled the Hisso back still more and the
nose dropped rather sharply. He was fifty feet off
the ground and heading for an open space, pock-
marked with shell holes, about a mile from the
German front.
Twenty-five feet-- ten feet!
He reached up and cut the switch, then he
threw his arms over his face to protect himself.
Crrrrrrrash!
The Spad stopped, but he seemed to be
going on. The whole universe was whirling about
him. Then he had a smashing sensation as
though he had suddenly been hurled against a
stone wall. Inky blackness shut him in and he
knew no more.
CHAPTER SIX
Prisoners
NIPPY and Bull watched their chief climb
into the air and turn toward the northeast. Bull
shook his head angrily like a critter of the same
name.
"Holy Herring!" he muttered as he and Nippy
walked to the door of their quarters. "What's G-8
trying to do, put us on the shelf or just keep us out
of the way?"
"Don't be crazy," Nippy shot back. "He isn't
trying to do anything that isn't for the best."
He eyed the sky where G-8's Spad was
merely a speck now.
"Just the same," he nodded, "I'm getting sick
and tired dying of dry rot. We haven't been up
there in a battle since Hector was a darn small
dog."
He stopped and stared into the fireplace
thoughtfully for a moment.
"Say listen," said Bull, "there isn't any reason
why we would be in danger if we followed him at,
maybe, about sixteen or eighteen thousand feet,
is there? G-8 said himself that the black two-
seater flies at about ten thousand feet. I don't see
why we would be in danger if we flew at about
fifteen thousand feet."
"Sure, that's right," Nippy agreed.
"What do you say," Bull suggested, "that we
get our crates warmed up and take off after G-8?"
Nippy hesitated a moment, then he grinned
and nodded.
"O.K.," he said, "we may get the deuce from
the chief for it, but I can't see what harm it will do.
Let's go."
"Wait a minute, not so fast," Bull protested.
"You ring for the planes to be warmed up and I'll
see about getting a bite to eat." He raised his
voice and called, "Battle, oh Battle! How about a
couple of ham sandwiches?"
Battle stuck his head cautiously through the
kitchen door.
"Did you call, sir?" he asked.
"Yes," said Bull, "how about some grub,
some food, stuffing for the bread basket? We're
going to shove off directly. A ham sandwich
wouldn't go bad on the way."
"Very well, sir," Battle bowed, "but I say, sir.
Didn't the master give you orders to stay here?"
"That's none of your business," Bull
exploded.
He saw Battle hesitate.
"Besides," he added, "G-8 didn't say we
couldn't follow him. He said we couldn't go with
him."
"Yes, sir," Battle agreed. "Very well, sir. In
that case, I will have your sandwiches ready in
two jerks of the fuzz on a sheep's south end going
north, sir."
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Ten minutes later the Battle Aces were
climbing into their cockpits. They flew wing-tip to
wing-tip, and took the same course that G-8 had
taken-- a straight course toward Colmar-- but they
didn't fly on the same level. They continued to
climb until their altimeters read sixteen thousand
feet. It was cold up there, bitter cold. They pulled
the collars of their flying suits close about their
necks and stuck chins and noses down into the
fur to keep from freezing.
They scanned the air in front of them like G-
8 had done some minutes before. They saw the
front line to the west; they could pick it out easily
because of the zigzag trenches and the smoke
haze. They plugged on, keeping an eye open for
any winged objects that might be moving between
them and the ground.
The air seemed vacant of ships. Far to the
east, they saw the jagged line of the Vosges
mountains as G-8 had seen it. G-8's plane was
far out of sight now, but they might sight him if he
stopped long enough for a dogfight.
As they came near the western end of the
Vosges range, Nippy pointed back into Germany
and Bull nodded. Turning slowly, they made their
way over the front.
They saw the mushroom of smoke and then,
later, below them, another mushroom explosion.
German archie guns were grunting up, but they
couldn't reach them. They were too high. Nippy,
with a characteristic gesture, grinned down and
thumbed his nose.
Suddenly, Bull swung over; with expert flying
judgment, he came just close enough so that he
could waggle his wings and touch tips with
Nippy's plane. The terrier ace shot him a quick
glance.
Bull was pointing excitedly down to the east.
Nippy stared and then made a quick gesture with
a free hand, a motion pointing down. Bull shook
his head and pointed up, Nippy stared again and
then he got out his binoculars, which brought what
they had seen ten times nearer.
He saw five planes. Three of the planes had
black crosses on them and were flying in
formation toward the south. Headed north and
flying directly at the three Fokkers was a Spad.
Through his binoculars, Nippy recognized the
armor and ancient steel helmet that G-8 had put
on before his take-off.
But the thing that struck terror to his heart
was the fifth plane. It was black, a two-seater
with no insignia. The figure in the rear cockpit was
ghastly. It looked like a man with his head cut off
and a bird was perched on the broody stub of his
neck.
Again, Nippy pointed down, but Bull didn't
see him. He was staring through his own
binoculars. The black plane was plunging
headlong at G-8 and the three Fokkers.
Then Nippy caught Bull's eye and pointed
down again frantically. Bull nodded, but he held
up his hand in a signal to take it easy. They
weren't supposed to be here and they must not
gum up G-8's plans, now that he was where he
could get the information that he was after. They
started down at a gradual angle and watched as
they dived.
Things were happening down there. They
saw G-8 slam over and down, saw the three
Fokkers zoom, saw birds leave the ghastly figure
in the back cockpit of that two-seater.
Each bird chose a plane for himself. One
took after G-8 and the other three after the
Fokkers.
G-8 was apparently fighting to escape the
bird. Suddenly the falcon seemed to change its
tactics; it spread its wings and soared upward.
Suddenly, the black two-seater plunged
down. They saw the headless man leap over the
side and land with a crash on G-8's Spad.
Nippy's hands were shaking so with
excitement that he could hardly keep his glasses
still enough to follow the movement. Then he saw
the headless figure roll off the fuselage and
plunge downward.
THE two Battle Aces saw G-8 dive now in a
terrific power plunge. He was headed for his lines
and would probably make it all right. Yes, he did.
It looked as if he were going to land.
Nippy and Bull's attention was centered now
on the three Fokkers and on the black, raiding
two-seater. The Fokkers were having trouble
now. One of them was going down and another
was poised to plunge. The third was trying to fight
off the attacking falcon.
Nippy swung around and glanced at G-8
again. Yes, the ace was preparing to land behind
his own lines. He would be O.K. then.
Catching Bull's eye, he pointed to the two-
seater, then to his own guns. Bull nodded. They
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slammed down on that two-seater with screaming
Hissos.
The two-seater had turned and was turning
back into Germany, climbing as it went. Now it
was zooming to the east, toward the Vosges
mountains, but it was still behind the German
lines.
Down, down, those two Battle Aces tore.
They were glaring across their sights, their hands
poised on their triggers.
The enemy pilot kicked over his crate, stuck
the nose in the air, and hung on his prop.
Tac-tac-tac!
It was a German plane; they were sure now
because they recognized the chatter of Spandau
guns. But the pilot was nervous; he was shooting
at long range.
Nippy and Bull split up, one to the right and
one to the left. They swung out in a wide turn,
then banked sharply and came in on either side of
the black raider just as it nosed down for more
speed.
Nippy swung his nose to the left and glared
across his sights again. He had the pilot caught
dead to rights.
The black raider had just started a roll when
he tramped down on his triggers. Bull cooperated
with him. Their tracers crossed in the front cockpit
this time. The pilot keeled over forward. That
movement of his body must have pushed the
stick ahead, for the raider suddenly dived. It
hurtled through space toward a wooded area on
the slopes of the Vosges mountains, behind
enemy lines.
Nippy and Bull followed the plane until they
saw it crash at the edge of the woods. They saw
Germans running toward it from the nearest
artillery station.
Nippy roared down over them. He cut his
motor for a moment and yelled at the top of his
voice, "Keep away from that plane.''
Then Bull, coming in behind him, throttled
back his motor and yelled Nippy's warning,
repeating it again in German.
The Germans stopped and stared up at
them. Two or three raised their rifles and began
shooting. Nippy waved a salute as if to say,
"O.K., you buzzards, we'll answer that one."
Then he whipped over in a tight chandelle
and raced down with stammering Vickers. He
heard Bull's guns chatter beside him and shot a
glance at the big fellow. Bull was pointing
frantically toward the west.
Nippy stared, then his heart leaped up in his
throat. Perhaps two or three miles away a Spad
was going down into Germany-- at least the front
end of it was a Spad, but the rear didn't look like
anything. In fact, the rear end seemed to be
gone.
Instantly, he kicked over. Bull was beside
him. They pushed on their throttles for all the
speed they could get and roared toward the Spad.
They both recognized it as G-8's. But G-8
had seemed about to land back of his own lines
when they had last sighted him.
As they came closer Nippy realized the
terrible truth. That falcon must have been
carrying the deadly liquid when it struck G-8. He
had taken off the suit of armor so that the liquid
didn't filter through on him, but it had sprayed
over the rear of the plane.
They saw the plane crash. They were still a
mile or more away. A form catapulted out of the
cockpit, struck the ground with what seemed
terrific force, and lay still.
Nippy and Bull screamed down over the
wreckage, circled just above it. They couldn't tell
whether G-8 was dead or simply knocked
unconscious. As yet, no Germans had reached
him.
Bull started to land, but Nippy cut across in
front of him.
"Don't try to land there," he yelled. "You'll
crack up like G-8 did. Come on back."
Angrily, Bull followed the terrier ace. They
romped down on a level field nearly a mile away.
The two Battle Aces leaped from their
cockpits and ran headlong across the countryside
toward the place where G-8 had fallen. There was
no thought of capture. The only idea in their
minds was to get to their chief.
They broke through what remained of a
hedge at the edge of a shell-torn area. By now,
plenty of Germans had reached the wrecked
plane; the field fairly swarmed with them. Lugers
were out in a flash and aimed at Nippy and Bull.
"Don't touch that wreckage," Bull bellowed
at the top of his voice.
Then, in spite of the Luger muzzles facing
them at a distance of fifteen yards, he ducked
low. His head was down and he was charging like
an ugly bull gone mad.
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Nippy saw what was coming. He had his
usual presence of mind about him and he was
faster on his feet than Bull. He darted ahead of
him and kicked his leg out in front of the big
fellow's feet. Bull tripped and fell headlong. He
was trying to struggle up when three Germans
stuck Lugers in his ribs.
"You aren't going to get anywhere that way,"
Nippy cracked. "You're not bucking a line of
football players now. These guys with Lugers
don't play under any rules."
Bull glared about him.
"Listen, you Heinies," he bellowed, "we've
got to get to the chief. We have to know whether
he's dead or not. And tell your birds to keep away
from that plane if they don't want to die."
An arrogant German Leutnant, one of those
whose Lugers was stuck in his ribs, prodded him.
"You need not worry, mein Freund," he said.
"You are our prisoner. We give the orders, now."
EVERYTHING was a wild jumble to G-8 as
his senses began to return. It was as though men
had been pounding him with clubs, as though they
had been pounding every muscle of his body, for
he ached with pain. His head throbbed pitifully.
He heard a babble of voices about him. He
was so completely confused that he couldn't
remember where he had been when he was
knocked unconscious, and his brain was working
too sluggishly, even now, to tell him what those
men with the guttural voices were babbling about.
Was it German? He couldn't decide. He thought
he heard someone shouting his name. He lapsed
back into semi-consciousness and all the sounds
faded into a distant murmur.
Then, slowly, his brain became brighter.
"Ach, he is coming around," he heard a
German voice say. But the voice sounded far off.
"You think he'll live?" asked another voice,
also in German.
"I think so," said the first. ''I find nothing of
broken bones or serious injuries, unless he is
badly hurt internally. We can not tell as yet."
"Ach du Lieber!" exclaimed a panting voice.
"What has happened to his plane? It has all
disappeared except for the motor and the metal
parts. Perhaps he will begin to disappear too.
Ach nein, that must not be. We must save him."
Then, out of that babble of German voices,
another voice came faintly.
"G-8, are you all right? Are you O.K.? This is
Bull."
A guttural command sounded, "Swine, be
silent! I have told you we give the orders here."
That, too, sounded far off.
G-8 was fighting for full consciousness now.
He could remember things quite clearly. He had
been shot down. No, he hadn't. The Spad's tail
had been eaten away by the fluid. Oh, yes, he
had torn off the armor and dropped it in France
before the acid could filter through the cracks. He
was glad of that. No doubt the armor would be
picked up behind the Allied lines and would
eventually be returned to the museum where it
belonged.
Something had been the matter with his
ship's tail. He couldn't turn the plane toward his
own side of the lines. The rudder and flippers
didn't work. Oh, yes, the tail had been eaten off
and there were no rudder or flippers.
He had cut his switch and loosened his belt.
The world whirled about him as he catapulted
through the air.
Now he was regaining consciousness. He
must be lying right where he had fallen. How his
head did ache! But the German who had
examined him had said that there were no broken
bones. At least that was something.
Consciousness was returning swiftly now.
He recognized the voice of Bull.
"All right," Bull was yelling, "shoot if you want
to. I'm going to find out whether G-8 is all right."
G-8 was struggling to full consciousness
now. He heard an argument, then, strangely
enough, Nippy's voice,
"That's straight, Leutnant," Nippy was
pleading. "Take us to G-8 so we'll know if he is
O.K., and then we will go along with you
peacefully. Won't we, Bull?"
"Right," the big fellow growled.
"Das ist gut," said a German medical officer
who was bending over him. He smiled down at
G-8 in a surprisingly friendly fashion.
A young German sergeant stepped up and
spoke in broken English. Apparently, he was an
interpreter.
"You feel not so bad, ja?" he said.
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G-8 pushed himself up to a sitting posture
with his hands.
"Not so bad and not so good," he replied in
German.
The medical officer nodded.
"Jawohl, you are badly bruised. You have
had a bad tumble, mein Freund. But inside your
stomach and your chest, you feel no pains there?"
G-8 felt himself in the mentioned quarters
and shook his head.
"No," he said, "I thinly I am O.K. there. But
my arms and back and legs feel as though I'd
gotten a good clubbing."
Then he noticed an Oberst who had just
come up behind the medical officer.
"Gut," said the Oberst, "I think we will have
need of you, mein Freund."
G-8's eyes widened for a moment, then other
recollections came to him. He remembered
figuring all along that because the black raider
was of German make the headless man was an
enemy. But what he had seen on the Front a little
while before had changed all his suspicions.
Those striking falcons had attacked Fokkers as
well as his Spad.
Through the crowd gathered about G-8, a
small group was pushing its way. He saw a
Leutnant and two husky German soldiers coming
first. Then he spied Nippy and Bull behind them
and after that, more guards. They all carried
drawn Lugers.
WITH the help of the German medical
officer and the Oberst, G-8 got to his feet. He
saw relief spread across the faces of his two
Battle Aces.
"Holy Herring!" Bull exclaimed. "We thought
for sure you were done for, G-8, when we saw
your plane go down. We came to help get you
out of this mess, but the Heinies beat us to it."
"I thought," G-8 demanded, "that I told you
two to stay back at the field."
Nippy grinned sheepishly.
"That's what you meant, but actually you
ordered us not to go along with you. We didn't go
along with you; we followed you."
G-8 nodded slowly and the corners of his lips
twitched upward in the beginning of a smile.
"Yes," he said, "I see. Nice work, fellows.
Where do we go now?"
The German interpreter turned quickly to the
Oberst and translated to him what had been said.
"Perhaps," he said, "if you will come with me
and will speak German, we will get along better. I
have an idea that I would like to talk over with
you. That is, of course, after you have received a
fitting reception at the airdrome of the 18th staffel
just north of here. You are to be the guests of
honor there.
"You realize, of course, that you are
technically prisoners of war. However, I can
assure you of one thing. In spite of the fact that
you are all known as spies and are therefore
subject to a firing squad, you will not be shot-- at
least not tomorrow morning. Your fate will rest on
quite a number of things."
He held his hand out to G-8.
"I assume," he said, "from what I have heard
that you are G-8, the clever American spy and
these are your two assistants. My name is Oberst
von Hoffler."
They shook hands.
"You see," von Hoffler explained, "I have just
come from the Front. The general in charge of
this area has seen what happened up there. He
has put me in charge of this affair to act in any
way that I see fit. I believe that I have an idea
which will be of advantage to all of us. Do you
feel strong enough to walk about a mile, Herr G-
8?"
"I think," G-8 said, "it will do me good-- sort
of limber up the bruised muscles, you know."
"Then, let us go," said the Oberst. "There is
a car waiting."
He glanced at the men about him. The
guards who had accompanied Nippy and Bull
prepared to follow. The Oberst hesitated, eyeing
them speculatively.
"I think," he said, "it would be better if we
four go alone."
G-8 frowned.
"You mean," he demanded, "that you are
trusting us not to pull anything funny when we are
alone with you, Herr Oberst," He smiled. "You
know, we have a reputation for being desperate at
times."
The Oberst smiled back at him.
"Jawohl," he said, "I know that, but I also
believe that you three gentlemen are men of your
word. Come, let us go."
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A little astonished, G-8 and his two Battle
Aces followed him through the ever-growing mass
of German soldiers. They walked across fields
that had been blasted by gun fire, heading
generally toward the northeast.
"Look here," remarked G-8 when they were
out of hearing of the other Boche soldiers, "I don't
like to be too inquisitive, but this is something
rather unusual. Besides, you know, we haven't
given our word that we won't try to escape."
The Oberst smiled again.
"I realize that," he said, "but you will give
your word, I am sure, when I tell you that we are,
as the mariner might put it, all in the same boat.
My plan will be of as much advantage to the
Allies as it will be to the Germans. When I am
not with you, you will be treated as prisoners. But
when you are in my company, we will all be
equals, striving for the same end."
G-8's mind flashed back to the three German
planes that had been sent down by the falcons.
He nodded.
"Say, wait a minute," Bull growled. "Let me
get this straight. We are captured, but now this
Oberst says we aren't prisoners as long as we are
with him."
"Shut up, you big ox," Nippy snapped, "and
you won't show so much ignorance. Remember
seeing those three Fokkers go down?"
"Sure," nodded Bull, "but-- "
"That makes it look," Nippy went on, "as
though this black plane with the headless guy and
his canaries is just as much an enemy to
Germany as to the Allies.
"This Oberst has the idea that we can solve
the problem if we work together on it."
Bull shook his head.
"Nope," he said, skeptically, "I don't believe
it. It doesn't sound reasonable. There's a catch in
it, somewhere."
THEY reached the car. It was a large
German staff car of expensive make; a uniformed
driver sat in the front seat.
They climbed into the rear. Nippy perched
on one of the side seats and turned half around
so that he could be in on the conversation.
"I can imagine it seems rather strange," the
Oberst began, "to be asking you to help the
Germans in this problem. I may as well tell you
some of the plan I have in mind. Within the past
hour some strange things have been happening
at the 18th staffel. It was my thought that
perhaps you, who are to be guests there at the
evening mess, could learn much more than one
of our Intelligence."
The three Yanks stared at the Oberst in
astonishment. Even G-8, who had experienced
many strange things, was surprised.
"Am I to understand," he asked, "that you
wish us to spy on your own men?"
"That," said the Oberst, "is very nearly
correct. This is the reason: Those three Fokkers
that the black raider sent dawn were from the l8th
Jadgstaffel. One of our Intelligence Offizers, Y-9,
formerly a pilot of the 18th, was immediately
rushed to the drome. Since then I have received
word of strange things going on there."
"Just what are these strange things?" G-8
demanded.
"That," said the Oberst, "is what I would
rather you would find out for yourself."
"Jumping Jupiter!'' Nippy exclaimed. "Maybe
I'm crazy, but it sounds as though you want us to
spy on one of your Intelligence officers."
The Oberst nodded gravely.
"I am very sad to admit it, but that is exactly
the situation. You will accept the mission?" He
said that last to G-8.
"With pleasure,'' G-8 nodded. "But first, I
would like to get an idea of what we might run
into."
"Well," said the Oberst, "The commanding
Offizer of the 18th Hauptmann Kaltzstein, was
reported to have committed suicide just after Y-9
arrived. The rest I will leave up to you."
It had been dark for some time when the
Oberst's staff car drew up before the mess of the
18th Jadgstaffel. He finished his instructions.
"You will be given a party in your honor by
the staffel members," he said. "Here are Mauser
pistols, one for each of you. Slip them into your
pockets where you can get at them readily."
G-8, Nippy, and Bull, still more surprised
than ever, took the guns the Oberst pressed into
the hand of each and slipped them into their
inside pockets.
"Just a minute," G-8 whispered. "I want to
get this straight. You have an idea that your
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Intelligence agent, Y-9, is responsible for the
death of the Hauptmann Kaltzstein?"
Oberst von Hoffler nodded in the darkness.
"That's one thing I wish you would
investigate. Then, if it is true, perhaps you will be
able to find the reason for his doing it."
A group of flying officers were coming out of
the mess. The Oberst called them over to the car.
"Here," he announced, "are the captured
flyers which you heard were coming."
A short, stocky German officer pushed his
way through the others to the side of the car.
Apparently, he hadn't heard what the Oberst had
said.
"I am Y-9," he announced at once. "What is
wanted here?"
The Oberst drew himself up with a great
show of importance.
"I am Oberst von Hoffler," he snapped back.
"These three are my prisoners. You will be
interested to know that they are the American
spy, G-8, and his two assistants. I believe their
names are-- " He hesitated.
"Herr Weston and Herr Martin," G-8
supplied.
There was a short-nod from Y-9. The other
half-dozen flying officers stood about him in
silence.
The Oberst turned to his car. As he did so,
he said to Y-9--
"You will, of course, render all the courtesies
due three prisoner pilots. They will have the
freedom of the airdrome until the dinner in their
honor is over. They will be under guard,
however, so that they will not escape."
Y-9 stepped forward instantly. It was easy to
see that he was a quick, alert, keen-minded man.
"Eine minute, bitte," he snapped. There
seemed to be suspicion in his face as he stopped
the Oberst. "Why is it," he went on, "that you
bring these men up alone? If they are G-8 and
his two assistants they are very dangerous spies."
The Oberst turned on him.
"If you doubt my ability to take care of my
own prisoners, Herr Y-9," he barked, "take the
matter up with His Excellency, my commanding
Offizier. You will admit, however," he added
caustically as he climbed into the back of the car,
"that I brought them here. I don't need help to do
my work."
Then he spoke to G-8. "I will be back at
eleven," he announced. "have a good time and
get as drunk as you like."
With that parting shot, he gave orders to his
driver and the car moved away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Killer's Drome
Y-9 GLARED after the car as it moved from
sight through the darkness. Then he turned to G-
8, Nippy, and Bull.
"Well," he said in perfect English, "we might
as well go in. I still can't understand how the
Oberst would assume the responsibility of
handling such dangerous spies like you and your
assistants alone."
G-8 smiled easily and bowed.
"We thank you for the compliment," he said.
"As one spy to another, it is gratifying to know that
our work has been appreciated. But you see, in
spite of the rumors that have gone abroad about
us, each of us is a man of his word. Therefore,
since we could not escape anyway, we gave our
word not to try. And in addition to that, we
learned that Oberst von Hoffler is a very able
guard."
Y-9 hesitated a moment, then he nodded,
grunting something and turned toward the mess.
"Come," he said.
G-8 followed him into the building while
Nippy and Bull trailed just behind. The Boche
pilots strung out in the rear.
The mess of the 18th Jadgstaffel was much
the same as other staffel messes that G-8 had
been in. The walls were hung with trophies of the
chase-- insignia that remained on torn pieces of
fabric, broken propellers, Vickers and Lewis guns
that had been battered in crashes.
G-8's eyes flashed over the men assembled
there. Y-9 seemed to be all too matter-of-fact.
There was nothing genial about him. He acted as
though he wanted to get this bit of formality over
as quickly as possible. Still, G-8 had the feeling
that he didn't dare be too abrupt.
Places were being set hurriedly by the
waiters. There was a bottle of champagne at each
plate.
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He counted the pilots; there were fourteen in
all.
Now the round of introductions and hand-
shakings began. G-8 studied the men as they
came up one by one. He tried to guess their
length of service by their actions. Six, he
guessed, were old-timers. They were hard-looking
Germans, these six. They sat at the end of the
table where Y-9 occupied the end seat of honor.
The other eight pilots were of a different
stamp. They were younger, very nervous; there
was something eager and wistful about them.
They sat down now. The eight younger
pilots, grouped at the other end of the table, acted
jittery.
Then the first formality came. Y-9 filled his
glass with the champagne. He stood up, held the
glass high, and in a loud, rasping voice that
echoed against the board walls of the hall, he
proposed the toast.
"To our three fallen comrades who have just
left us. Hoch!"
Every man at the table, including G-8, Nippy,
and Bull, rose to his feet. Glasses came up in a
salute to the dead. Then, as one man, they
drained their glasses. There was a nervous clatter
of chairs as the men sat down again, all save Y-9.
He filled his glass and held it high once more.
"To our three guests; to our valiant enemies.
Hoch!"
G-8, Nippy, and Bull remained seated this
time. The others were standing again. They drank
to the three prisoners of war. Then, once more
they sat down. Now they began eating.
G-8 and his two Battle Aces were drinking
very lightly, but Bull, as usual, was eating plenty.
As the meal progressed, G-8 studied Y-9
closely. He was shrewd and clever, the master
spy decided, a German secret service agent who
knew most of the answers-- if not all of them.
G-8 was thinking of the Hauptmann who had
committed suicide after Y-9's arrival.
When the time was ripe and the
conversation had lulled, he turned to Y-9, who
was sitting at his elbow. "You are, I presume, the
commander of the Jadgstaffel, Herr Y-9?" he
asked.
"Why do you ask that?" the other
demanded.
G-8 gave a good imitation of being surprised
by the sudden retort.
"Naturally," he said, "since you occupy the
usual seat of the Hauptmann, I judged that you
were the commander."
"Then," snapped Y-9, "why did you ask?"
"Well, it happens that I know quite a bit
about the customs in a Jadgstaffel. It seemed
unusual to me that an Intelligence officer should
be also in command of a staffel."
Y-9 shifted his eyes for a second. A trace of
annoyance crossed his face, then he forced
himself to smile.
"Of course," he said. "I didn't think it
necessary to bother you with details. The truth of
the matter is that the former Hauptmann had
been under a great nervous strain recently.
When we started investigating the mysterious
downing of his three Fokkers, his nerves must
have snapped. The poor fellow shot himself just
as I was leaving his office."
G-8 shook his head sadly. "Poor fellow! It is
a wonder that more men don't do those things in
this war." Then, after a pause, he added, "Have
you considered the possibility that he might have
been murdered?"
When he asked that question, his eyes were
full on the German Intelligence agent. He saw a
slight movement of the agent's stout body as
though he had suddenly jumped inwardly; his
eyes narrowed before he could control them.
"What do you mean by that?" he demanded.
"I WAS just thinking," the master spy
admitted, "that someone might have shot him--
let us say-- through the window. You said you had
just left his office? How long had you been gone
when you heard the shot?"
"Why come to think of it," Y-9 confessed, "I
was just going down the front steps."
"That's exactly what I mean," G-8 hurried
on. "No, here is what I am thinking. Do you
suppose it is possible that someone in your camp
is connected with this black raider plane?"
Y-9 cocked his head sidewise, then nodded
slowly.
"I must confess, Herr G-8, that I hadn't
thought of that. But what makes you suspicious?"
G-8 laughed.
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"Habit, I guess," he said. "Since I have been
in the American Intelligence, I suspect everything
the least bit unusual. Now, it isn't usual for a
commanding officer to commit suicide just
because he loses three men. By the way, have
you examined the Hauptmann's gun for finger
prints?"
Y-9 laughed.
"Really, Herr G-8, are you not letting your
imagination run away with you? After all, you are
a prisoner and beyond all doubt, you and your two
assistants will be shot very soon. I should think
you would be spending your time in prayer rather
than in worrying about the suicide of an enemy
Offizier who was an enemy of yours."
"Yes,"said G-8, "but it's much more pleasant
to try to reconstruct a crime than to spend what
little time I have wondering where I am going
after the firing squad is through with me. I assume
then, that you have not looked for fingerprints on
the gun?"
"Of course, not," snorted Y-9. Then he
laughed. "Besides," he added, "even the lowest
soldier in our army knows that fingerprints are a
definite evidence. Anyone who would commit
such a crime would naturally wear gloves in
handling the gun. Do you not think so, Herr G-8?"
G-8 pretended to be in deep thought. He
nodded slowly.
"I have no doubt of it, now that you mention
it." He shrugged. "You see, I get many ideas that
mean little, but it is rather good sport to work at
them all-- good practice you might say."
There was a lapse in the conversation, then
Y-9 turned to the master spy.
"I don't know," he said, "whether you
understand my exact position in this matter or
not."
G-8 waited for him to go on.
"You see," Y-9 continued, "when these three
planes were downed by the black ship I was
immediately sent here to investigate. I have
complete charge. I assume from what I know of
your record that you have probably been placed
in charge of a similar investigation on your side of
the lines."
"Yes," G-8 admitted, "but instead, I was
brought down on this side of the lines and now,
being a prisoner, I am a bit helpless in the
matter."
Y-9 nodded. "But even so I believe you
know more about the Wizard than I do. If you
would give me your information it would help both
sides-- for the Wizard is our enemy as well as
yours. You are the only man who has been
attacked by the black plane and lived. How is the
liquid spread? I heard reports that it is carried by
birds."
"By falcons," G-8 corrected. "And if you think
it is any fun fighting, one of those birds you don't
know what you are in for. Those falcons know
more in two minutes about air maneuvers than we
will ever know."
"Just how is it worked?" Y-9 asked. "Would
you mind telling me?"
G-8 considered for a moment, then shook his
head.
"Not in the least," he said.
He recounted his experience frankly,
explain-ed about vials fastened to the birds' legs.
"But," he finished, "the most ghastly part of
all to me at least, is that the master of these
falcons is a man without any head."
"Gott im Himmel!" exclaimed Y-9. "A man
without any head! Why, that is an impossibility.
How can he see? How can he live? Ach, mein
Freund, I am afraid you have been dreaming."
"Dreaming, nothing!" Bull growled. "We saw
that, too."
"I'll say we did," Nippy chimed in, "and more
than that, we saw this headless man jump out of
the black raider and land in the back of G-8's
fuselage, just behind his cockpit."
Y-9 looked from one to the other in
astonishment.
G-8 was laughing now.
"It's all quite true," he said. "The headless
man probably got angry when the falcon didn't
attack at once, so he jumped himself."
Y-9 laughed, a little derisively.
"Ach Himmel! That sounds ridiculous. The
disappearing fluid and where it comes from-- I am
much interested in that. But the headless man-- "
HE SHOOK his head again. Then suddenly
he stopped short and grew rigid. It seemed that
his brain was getting a new slant on the picture;
or, perhaps, it was going back to another thought
which he had had earlier in the evening.
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"Tell me this, Herr G-8," he asked suddenly.
"This one who calls himself the Wizard; do you
believe he holds the power to rule the world if he
wishes?"
"Unless something is done to stop him," G-8
confessed, "I am afraid he has a mighty good
chance to clamp down on all the warring nations
and kill them off if they do not make peace with
each other."
"You think that this is what he is after?" Y-9
asked.
"I don't know," G-8 confessed.
Y-9 filled his glass again with champagne.
He sipped it slowly as the bubbles came up out of
the stem.
"Ach du Lieber!" he suddenly exploded.
"Headless men to terrify the world and falcons
trained to deliver death! It is more convincing
than I had even ho-- than I had even expected to
encounter."
He pushed back his chair.
"Bitte," he said, "you will excuse me. I have
some special investigations which must be made
at once."
G-8's mind was working fast. While
watching the German Intelligence agent, he had
seen his gloves tucked in the belt of his uniform.
Now he wanted those gloves very much. As Y-9
rose from the table, therefore, G-8, with his hand
on Nippy's knee, was tapping out a rapid code
message to the terrier ace:
WE ARE PUTTING ON A LITTLE SHOW OF MAGIC.
BEFORE Y-9 LEAVES, GET HIS GLOVES.
"Bitte, Herr Y-9," G-8 announced in a loud
voice. "But you must wait for our part of the
festivities. You know we have with us a famous
magician. My friend, Nippy Weston, has been on
the stage with his magic. If you will be so kind as
to wait a few minutes, we will entertain you with
some tricks that will astound you."
Y-9 hesitated, then smiled.
"I have a message to deliver to my men.
Then after that, a few minutes of magic and I
must leave."
He turned and faced the pilots.
"You all know," he began, "of the great
danger which we face from this man who calls
himself the Wizard. I would not be the one to
advise you to ask for transfers to other branches
of the service-- But stop and consider for a
moment. How would you like to be sprayed with
this death liquid, have your arms and legs and
entire body eaten away so that there is nothing
left? It is a horrible thought, nicht wahr?
"I am going now to my office at Intelligence
headquarters. From there, I shall be glad to make
applications for transfers for all of you who wish.
I would particularly advise transfers for you eight
younger men. Ever since I came here this
afternoon you have seemed nervous. It would be
practically suicide for you to go out and fight
against something which would give you no
chance. It is my guess that this first black raider
was used merely to test the deadly liquid. Since it
proved such a success, in spite of the fact that it
was shot down, the Wizard will undoubtedly send
out many such planes.
"You see before you, on my left, a man from
the other side of the lines who is also a great spy,
the one who is known as G-8. He is the only man
who has been attacked by the black raider and
still lives to tell the story of the horrible things he
saw. When headless men come to attack with
liquid that will eat us body and soul, then it is time
to stop fighting and go to our homes.
"I advise that you eight inexperienced men
come with me to be transferred; that would be
quicker. The six older men I would request to stay
here to assist in carrying out my orders."
G-8 had watched Y-9 carefully as he spoke.
His game was clever; there could be no doubt
about that. At times, he seemed perfectly sincere
in his desire to solve the mystery of the black
raider. But why was he demanding that the eight
younger pilots be transferred from the field.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Y-9
G-8 THOUGHT he ought to do something
about those younger pilots being scared. Their
faces were deathly white and they showed signs
of coming down with a bad attack of the jitters.
But just as he was trying to figure out a plan, Y-9
finished and turned to him.
"Now," he said, "we are ready for the tricks."
G-8 stood up and turned to Nippy.
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"It is my great pleasure, mein Herren," he
announced, "to introduce to you Herr Nippy
Weston, a famous magician. We need, perhaps,
a pack of cards and a few little things of that
sort?''
"Jawohl," Nippy agreed, rising beside him, "a
pack of cards and I will help myself to other things
I may need from the table. And I must have a
cape for one special trick. But perhaps
someone's big overcoat will do."
One of the larger pilots, a veteran, took down
his overcoat that was hanging on the wall behind
his seat and handed it to Nippy. Someone else
handed him a pack of cards.
"Now," Nippy said, "if you will all turn your
backs, I will make a few preparations. Remember,
you will enjoy this trick more if you don't look;
until I am ready. Every magician is entitled to a
little time to prepare for his show."
The men turned their backs. Nippy threw the
coat over his shoulders; it hung down so that it
dragged on the ground.
He had stepped back now, and was standing
next to Y-9 where everyone could see him plainly
when they turned around. He gathered up certain
things from the table which he needed.
"Now you may turn," he called out. "The
show is about to begin."
The men faced him and took their seats
once more.
Nippy, with the long coat drawn over his
shoulders, held his arms through the front of it.
He held the pack of cards in one hand. With a
deft movement, he ran through the pack. There
was a clatter of card against card.
"Now," he said, "I am going to ask someone
to guess what the top card in the pack is."
"The ace of clubs," somebody called.
Deftly, Nippy picked the top card from the
pack, or at least he appeared to. There, before
them all, was the ace of clubs. There were
several selections. Nippy never missed once in
picking the card that was called from the top of
the pack. He had other card tricks that astounded
and pleased the German pilots. Then he turned to
Y-9.
"I am afraid, mein Freund," he said with
mock seriousness, "that you are not only a traitor
to your country, but a thief as well. You have
certain things concealed about your person,
things which you have stolen from the table. Now
in this pocket, you have two complete sets of
silverware."
With a jangling sound, Nippy brought out the
mentioned cutlery from the German's right-hand
coat pocket.
"Wait!" he went on, "what is that which
bulges under your coat? Let me see."
At the same time, he was diving under Y-9's
coat. Everyone was laughing. Even Y-9 was
getting a big kick out of it.
Nippy brought out a plate and a couple of
saucers and a wine glass in quick succession.
Then he looked at the pilots seated about the
table. They were roaring with laughter.
"But wait, mein Herren," he continued, "you
see, Herr Y-9 has a body which he must keep well
fed. He is prepared for a time when he may not
be able to find a restaurant close at hand. I will
prove it to you."
With that, he ducked around behind the
German spy and began pulling out baked
potatoes, hunks of bread, and pickles.
Last of all, he cried, "Look what he has in his
hip pocket!" He drew out a plate with pickled pigs
feet, sauerkraut, and an almost full bottle of
champagne.
"You must have been expecting a famine,"
he said.
Then he confronted him and looked grave.
"You know, if I were in your place, Y-9, I
would feel so small that I would want to crawl
right through a knothole." Then, in a stage
whisper which everyone could hear-- "Perhaps I
can help you. Here, let me throw this coat about
you."
With that, he whispered a few words to the
German and tossed the coat over him in such a
way that it covered him from view of the others.
Holding the top of the coat with one hand, he
made magic movements with the other and
chanted some mystic words that ended with
"Hocus Pocus." Then he snatched the coat away
and the place where Y-9 had stood was empty!
The men about the table roared.
Nippy stepped to the chair beside G-8 where
he himself had been sitting. He threw the coat
over that empty space, waved his hand, repeated
the magic words and whisked the coat away
again. There stood Intelligence Agent Y-9!
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Nippy bowed, signifying that the show was
over. There was a roar of laughter and applause.
"That is very good! That is excellent!"
applauded Y-9. "I am sorry, but I must leave you
now."
He shot a significant glance at the eight
younger men.
"You men will come with me," he ordered.
"You others wait for orders."
With that, he bowed to G-8 and his Battle
Aces and strode from the room. Nippy sat down
and pushed his chair up close to the table.
One of the six remaining veterans got up a
little unsteadily and proposed a song, "to the three
Americans who would soon die."
While they were singing that, Nippy's hand
came over in G-8's lap. The master spy felt Y-9's
gloves in his palm. The singing went on for some
little time. There was more drinking, with G-8 and
his two Battle Aces getting rid of their liquid
refreshment by some other method than down
their throats.
WHEN the noise had subsided, G-8 glanced
at his watch. "It is nearly eleven," he said. "The
Oberst promised he would come to take us to
prison at eleven. Trust you won't think it strange
that my curiosity has the better of me. I am still
wondering about your Hauptmann who committed
suicide. What happened to him?"
A little drunkenly, one of the veteran German
pilots explained that the body had been left just
where it had fallen. There was no reason for
disturbing it, since they would bury him in the
morning.
"Would you men take me over so that I can
look around?" G-8 asked. "You see, as I
explained to Herr Y-9, there might be some
connection between the death of the Hauptmann
and this menace which threatens all of us."
The Germans nodded readily; they were just
intoxicated enough to agree to almost anything.
The big fellow who had furnished his coat for
Nippy's magic act laughed a little drunkenly as he
got up from his chair.
"Jawohl," he said, "let us all go. We shall
play detective."
Singing and laughing, the group made its
way to headquarters. As the big fellow burst into
the door, G8 stopped him, "Bitte, mein Herren,"
he said. "Let us stop singing for the moment. We
must pay our respects to the dead."
For answer, the man leaned against the side
of the room and chuckled.
"We do not care for treating the Hauptmann
with respect. We veterans never liked him. Ist
das nicht so, mein Herren?"
The five other old-timers nodded.
"Ja," the big fellow went on. "The
Hauptmann, he was put in over us when he did
not have the experience of any of us. Better that
Herr Y-9 should have been put in command. We
would have had a real staffel then."
G-8 pretended not to hear them.
The body of the Hauptmann was lolling in a
chair before the desk. The arms hung limply. The
story was clear to G-8. Any one of these six men
or Y-9 himself, might have thought he had
occasion to shoot the Hauptmann.
Nippy and Bull followed G-8 and, being wise,
stood between him and the drunken Germans,
shielding part of his movements.
The master spy was working fast now. There
was a bullet hole, caked with dried blood, in the
right temple of the Hauptmann's head. A small
gun lay on the floor. It was a Mauser pistol like
the one he had in his pocket. He took out his
handkerchief and picked the gun up, being careful
not to smear any possible finger-marks. He
pretended to examine it closely. In fact, he did
examine it, but not as closely as he intended
doing later.
With a deft movement, while Nippy and Bull
shielded him, he slipped the Mauser pistol that
Oberst von Hoffler had given him out of his
pocket and laid it on the floor. He wrapped the
murder pistol in his handkerchief and thrust it into
his pocket. Then he straightened and faced the
six tipsy Germans.
"Mein Herren, I find I was all wrong," he
said. "From the indications, your Hauptmann must
have killed himself. Perhaps we had better go
now. It is eleven o'clock."
The little group left the headquarters office,
swaying and singing. When they reached the
mess hall, the Oberst's car was standing outside
the door.
"Ah, you are ready?" said the Oberst. "The
festivities were a success, I hear."
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He jerked his head toward the six singing
Germans.
"A very fine time was had by all," G-8
assured him. And, in a still louder voice, "Now, I
suppose we are to be taken to prison?"
"Jawohl," answered the Oberst. "I am sorry
to say that you must go to prison now."
G-8 nodded, turned to the six Germans.
"Mein Herren," he said, "I wish to thank you
for the party tendered us. We have received most
chivalrous attention. We will not forget."
The big fellow and the others mumbled
something to the effect that the pleasure was
theirs. Then G-8, Nippy, and Bull climbed into the
tonneau beside the Oberst and the car moved
away.
"WELL, mein Herren," the Oberst began, "I
trust you have learned something?"
"Jawohl," G-8 answered. "You are perfectly
right about the 18th Jadgstaffel. Very strange
things have been going on there. I can not figure
it out entirely to my satisfaction yet. There is one
test I must make before I am satisfied."
He recounted what had happened, how Y-9
had taken the eight younger members to be
transferred to the other branches.
"Ach du Lieber!" exclaimed the Oberst. "I
can not figure why Y-9 would do such a thing. He
leaves six veterans and takes eight of the newer
men with him. He must have something in mind.
I do not know what it might be."
G-8 turned in his seat and faced the Oberst
in the darkness.
"You are quite sure, Herr Oberst, that you
are telling me the entire truth? I want to hear it
from your own lips."
The eyes of the Oberst opened in
astonishment for a second.
"To be sure, I am telling you the truth," he
nodded. "What do you mean?"
"Simply this," G-8 explained. "I want to be
positive before we go any further that to the best
of your knowledge, the German government and
this man who calls himself the Wizard are not
connected in any way."
The Oberst raised his right hand.
"You may depend upon it," he proclaimed.
"On my word of honor, G-8. If such a thing were
true, my commanding officer and I would know
about it. This one who calls himself the Wizard is
to my knowledge as much an enemy of the
Vaterland as he is of the Allies. You saw the three
Fokkers that the falcons sent down."
"Yes," G-8 admitted. "But I also saw the
black raider itself; it is a German two-seater. If
you are positive, however, that there is no
connection between the Wizard and-- let us say--
the Kaiser, then I will go on."
"I am positive," the Oberst nodded
emphatically. "I swear it, Herr G-8."
"Very well," the master spy nodded. "Then
listen to this. It is merely a hunch."
"Yes," cut in Nippy, "but generally G-8's
hunches are not far from wrong."
"Please continue," nodded the Oberst.
"There must be a special reason," G-8 went
on, "why you suspect your spy Y-9."
"There is," nodded the Oberst. "He was
under suspicion on another occasion, but nothing
was proved. It had something to do with getting
control of a great air maneuver so that he could
have the glory. He has the reputation of being
not only clever, but a schemer as well."
"Suppose," G-8 suggested, "that he took it
into his head to learn the secret of the Wizard, so
he could use it for his own ends?"
"Ach du Lieber!" protested the Oberst. "Such
a thing is unthinkable."
"Yes," G-8 admitted, "but not impossible."
"About the death of the Hauptmann the
Oberst ventured. "Did you have an opportunity to
look into that?"
"Yes," nodded G-8. "And as soon as we
reach our destination, I think we can go farther
into that matter if I can borrow a magnifying
glass. I have the pistol that killed the Hauptmann.
I exchanged it for the Mauser that you gave me
and left that lying on the floor beside his body."
"Ach, but that will do you no good," the
Oberst ventured. "Surely one as clever as Y-9 is
reputed to be would not leave any fingerprints on
the gun."
G-8 smiled.
"No," he admitted "In fact, he as much as
told me himself that he would not. He would wear
gloves. So, Herr Oberst"-- the master spy's smile
broadened-- "we have brought his gloves along!"
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The Oberst stared at him for a moment in
astonishment. Then he shook his head slowly.
"What excellent work!" he breathed. "And
we think that we have clever men in our German
Intelligence! I tell you, we have no one who will
match you and your assistants, Herr G-8. That is
why I wanted so much to have your help in this
matter."
By now the car had drawn in front of a good-
sized building in a little town a few
miles north of the German airdrome. The Oberst
nodded.
"We get out here," he announced. "This is
my headquarters. You will find all possible
facilities at your disposal, gentlemen. Let us go
in."
They climbed out and entered the building.
German guards presented arms as they passed.
G-8 glanced at his watch.
"Do you know where Y-9 would be apt to
have gone?" he asked.
The Oberst nodded.
"Perhaps," he said, "he has a temporary
headquarters in a small town about five miles
east of here. All German Intelligence agents from
the Swiss border to the northwest are ordered to
advise him at once of any mysterious actions that
may have a bearing upon this case."
"I think," G-8 advised, "the best thing we
could do is to keep an accurate check on him for
the time being. In the meantime, if you have
finger-print powder and a magnifying glass, I will
begin my work."
"By all means," the Oberst agreed.
He pulled out a drawer and from it he took a
small box.
"I think you will find everything necessary
there," he said.
G-8 took Y-9's gloves from under his coat
and began working with them, making prints on a
piece of paper.
The Oberst watched him out of the corner of
his eye as he made a telephone call.
"Y-9," he said on the phone, ". . . This is
Oberst von Hoffler, Y-9. Have there been any
recent developments? . . . I see. And what are
your plans? . . . Very good. You will wait, then,
until you receive reports."
He hung up the receiver and turned to G-8.
"Y-9 said he received some very helpful
information in questioning you gentlemen at the
mess," he announced, "but aside from that, he
has received no word."
G-8 grew thoughtful.
"You know," he said, "I would like to have
that fellow Y-9 watched constantly. Would it be
possible to let Herr Weston and Herr Martin keep
a check on Y-9? I don't want him to slip away
from us."
THE Oberst nodded gravely. "It would be
possible. But Herr Weston and Herr Martin do not
speak German as perfectly as you. They could
not pass as Germans."
"Very well," said G-8. "Suppose you issue
them a pass."
"Jawohl," the Oberst agreed slowly, "I have
such a pass with me, a blank pass which has
been signed by the general."
"Then, look," G-8 hurried on. "Fill it out to
read, 'These men are not to be stopped or
questioned by anyone. They are to be admitted
anywhere they wish.' State that they are special
agents on special detail and state also that it is of
the highest importance that they be given every
assistance in spite of suspicion against them."
"Very well. I will make it out now. I will
countersign it over the general's signature and his
chief of staff."
He wrote rapidly, then handed the pass to
G-8. The master spy took it, read it over, and
nodded with satisfaction.
"You don't have another one, do you?" he
asked.
"I have one more," the Oberst admitted.
"I think it would be better if they each had
one," G-8 decided. "They might become
separated, you know."
The Oberst took the other form from his
pocket and filled that out to conform with the first.
G-8 handed one each to Nippy and Bull.
"Now, Herr Oberst," he said, "there are a
couple of other details. They must have German
uniforms and I think it would be well, too, if they
had a wiretapping set so that they could hook into
Y-9's telephone connections and listen to all the
reports."
"Very well," the Oberst agreed. "I will see to
that at once."
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He left the room. G-8 turned to Nippy and
Bull.
"This is the first chance we have had to talk
things over alone. Do you know anything about
this mess that I don t know? Suppose you tell me
what happened around the time I was being
knocked down."
"I don't think there is much," Nippy said, "that
you don't know, G-8. Honest, we didn't mean to
go against your orders, but it seemed almost too
much to ask us to stick around Le Bourget when
you were out getting in jams."
"I'm glad you came," G-8 admitted. "You
birds seems to know instinctively when to obey
orders and when not to. But now about this black
raider. Are you sure those falcons sent the
German planes down? You are sure it wasn't a
fake?"
"Holly Herring, no!" Bull boomed. "I'll bet
there isn't any more left of those three German
planes and pilots than there was of those British
crates that you saw go down."
"What I would like to know," Nippy chirped,
"is how they worked that headless man stunt.
Boy, I could make plenty of money on the stage
with a trick like that!"
"It's a trick of some kind, of course," G-8
said.
"I wish I was the lucky guy," Nippy ventured,
"to find the body of that headless bird you shot off
the back end of your plane. If we ever get out of
this mess, I'm going to hunt for him and see how
the thing was put over."
"I don't imagine you would find anything,"
G-8 said. "In all probability, that big glass vial of
liquid that he was trying to hit me over the head
with fell beside him. I imagine his body has been
eaten up long ago. Now, how about the mission
I'm sending you on. Do you want to take it?"
Nippy and Bull both nodded eagerly.
"Surest thing you know. But what are we
supposed to do?"
At that moment, the Oberst returned. He
carried two complete German uniforms and the
other paraphernalia that G-8 had asked for.
Nippy and Bull proceeded to strip off their
American uniforms and donned the German
outfits. A few minutes later, they stood dressed as
German Leutnants.
"Now here's what I want you to do," G-8
explained. "I want you to go to Y-9's house-- you
will furnish a car and a driver who knows the
country, Herr Oberst,"
"Of course."
"Then go to this town," G-8 went on. "Keep
a constant watch on Y-9. When he leaves, get
into the car and follow him, no matter where he
goes. Keep track of him. When he does
anything that needs reporting, tap a phone wire
with this instrument and report here to us at once.
But keep him under your thumb so that you know
where he is."
Bull Martin's rugged jaw jutted out a little
more than usual.
"Don't worry," he said, "he won't get away
from us."
CHAPTER NINE
Murder Trap
THE Oberst watched G-8 closely as he
worked with the magnifying glass. "Ach du
Lieber!" he said finally. "Is that not something
new, Herr G-8? Everyone, of course, has heard
of fingerprints but I do not recall ever hearing of
glove prints."
"Neither do I," G-8 admitted without taking
his eyes from his work, "but you can't say that it
won't work just because you never heard of it
before. Look here!"
He held up the gloves and spread the
fingers.
"Look closely at the leather of these fingers
through the magnifying glass, Herr Oberst. See
how they differ. The leather on the face of each
finger has slight peculiarities that make one quite
different from the other. Very slight peculiarities, I
will admit, but nevertheless different. And you
see here the marks I have made with them on the
paper. I brought them out with the powder. Now
here you can see the prints on the handle of the
gun and on the trigger. That part of the work is
finished. I am trying to match them up now."
He worked on in silence for a few moments.
Then he suddenly straightened.
"Look, Herr Oberst! I think we have a double
and triple check on this. Do you see the folds of
the gloves inside the thumb joint? Now look here.
I will bend the thumb joint and make a print of it
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on a crushed piece of paper. Like that, see? Now
look at the print I have found on the back of the
Mauser handle."
The Oberst stared for a moment.
"They are identical!"
"They certainly seem to be," G-8 admitted
with satisfaction. "Now look again here on the
trigger. You see the print of the gloved finger?"
The Oberst nodded.
"Now I will make a similar mark with the
crooked trigger finger of the glove on this paper."
He did so, holding the paper bent around one
finger while he crooked the index finger of the
glove around it in the way he had done in pulling
the trigger. He straightened the paper out again,
held the magnifying glass first over the print on
the trigger of the pistol and then over the mark he
had made on the paper. Then he pointed to the
glove excitedly.
"They are all identical!" he exclaimed. "See
that little mark there on the surface of the leather
on the inside of the index finger? It has been
scratched. The marks are the same."
"Jawohl," nodded the Oberst, rather
dubiously. "But I can hardly believe it. Perhaps
Y-9 left that print when he was investigating the
kommandant's suicide."
"If he is as clever as you say he is, he would
have used a handkerchief in handling the gun
when he made his investigation," G-8 said. "At
best, he would have picked up the gun by the
muzzle. In any event, he would have no reason to
make his examination holding the gun with his
hand on the butt and his finger on the trigger. I
am sure you can see, mein Freund, that it would
be quite ridiculous."
The Oberst nodded.
"Jawohl," he said. Then suddenly he whirled
and raced for the phone.
"The swine! I will have him arrested at once.
With this evidence you have showed me, I will
have him tried and put before a firing squad
before morning."
G-8 shook his head negatively. "I would not
help you to do that, Herr Oberst," he said quietly.
"Regardless of being trapped, Y-9 is a clever twin.
We are going to need all the assistance we can
get in solving this menace. He may be of great
help to us."
"But what shall we do?" demanded the
Oberst. "Surely you do not mean to let him go on
so that he can carry out whatever ghastly plan he
may have in mind?"
"I do not intend to let him go too far," G-8
said. "But I would like to see him go far enough to
help us."
"What shall I do?"
"My advice would be this. Call Intelligence
headquarters. Order every agent to notify you of
any suspicious action at the same time Y-9 is
notified."
Oberst von Hoffler hesitated.
"But why?" he demanded. "You have already
sent Herr Nippy and Herr Bull to take care of that
end of it. So far as I can see, we have nothing to
do but wait here until they call."
"That is the way it would seem on the
surface," G-8 admitted, "and that is the way it will
work out if everything goes well. But something
may happen to Nippy and Bull. We can't
overlook the fact that Y-9 is clever. He may have
someone behind him who has as much authority
as you. Therefore, we have got to guard against
any slip-up."
The master spy glanced at his watch.
"Nippy and Bull should be just about arriving
at Y-9's house. That means that there is a lapse
of time between our last conversation with Y-9
and the moment that Nippy and Bull will be
listening to his phone calls through their wire-
tapping instrument, nicht wahr? It may be that
some messages have gone through in that time.
That is why I feel it would be a good idea to make
a complete check."
"Yes," nodded the Oberst. "I see. You are
very thorough. I will give the order at once."
HE lifted the receiver, put in a call to
Intelligence headquarters and issued the orders.
There was a pause, then-- "No, it was not my
idea entirely. It was suggested by one of the
cleverest spies in the war, if that satisfies you....
You will give the orders at once to all agents on
the eastern front? Very good." The Oberst hung
up the receiver.
G-8 was shaking his head.
"You should not have said what you did
about the origin of that idea," he ventured. "I am
afraid someone at headquarters might get
suspicious."
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"Ach, never fear," the Oberst assured him.
"They can not override my commander."
He produced a pack of cigarettes and passed
them to G-8. They both lighted up and sat puffing
for a few minutes. Suddenly the Oberst turned to
the master spy.
"You know, mein Herr," he said, "I have
been trying to reason out one thing. It is
concerning those older pilots of the 18th
jadgstaffel. Could you explain to me what use Y-9
will make of them?"
G-8 shook his head.
"I am afraid not," he admitted, "unless it
might be this: Y-9 will need plenty of help if he
should get control of this vanishing liquid."
Oberst's eyes popped open.
"Lieber Gott!" he exploded. "That seems
such an enormous thing to tackle! Do you mean
that-- "
He was interrupted by the jangle of the
telephone bell. He picked up the phone.
"Jawohl, this is Oberst von Hoffler.... Come
down to Intelligence headquarters at once? But
can you not tell me over the phone? ... I see....
Very well, I will be down at once."
G-8 looked at him with a puzzled expression
on his face as the receiver slammed on the hook.
"What is this?" he demanded.
"Intelligence headquarters wishes me to
come down at once," the Oberst replied.
"Something very important has come up."
"O.K.," G-8 nodded. "I will wait here to take
any calls that may come in while you are gone."
The Oberst hesitated.
"If it were not for the fact that I am not sure
how they would take it, I should be glad to have
you accompany me," he ventured.
"That is all right," G-8 assured him quickly.
"You go ahead."
The Oberst donned his hat and coat and left.
"I will be back as quickly as possible, mein
Freund," he promised.
G-8 finished the cigarette he was smoking
and lighted another. He sat at the desk for some
time, staring at the gloves before him and at the
little automatic. He got up and paced the floor
thoughtfully, lighted another cigarette.
"That's funny," he said half aloud, "calling
the Oberst down to Intelligence headquarters like
that."
He stopped and listened intently. He was
sure he heard men coming down the corridor.
Yes, footsteps were approaching the door.
Quickly, he opened the drawer of the desk, swept
the gloves into it, together with the box of
fingerprint material, and pushed it shut. His hand
flashed over the top and he picked up the little
Mauser automatic.
The footsteps coming down the hall were
light and stealthy.
He started to slip the Mauser pistol into the
pocket of his coat. Then changed his mind
suddenly and shoved it into the top of his boot.
He had just straightened when the door burst
open. Six men poured across the threshold; each
was armed with a drawn Luger.
The master spy did a good job of feigning
surprise. His eyes flashed from face to another.
"Good evening, mein Herren," he said.
"What can I do for you? I am here taking the
place of Oberst von Hoffler."
The men were still a little drunk as a result of
their party in honor of G-8, Nippy, and Bull, for
they were the six veteran pilots of the 18th staffel.
As before, the largest was spokesman.
"Do not move, Herr G-8, except as we
order," he gutturaled, a little thickly.
G-8 looked surprised. "What does this
mean? One moment you are friendly and now
you come with drawn guns."
The big fellow leered at him.
"That is our business. You are our prisoner.
We entertained you this evening as a prisoner.
Now we give you treatment as befits a spy."
Desperately, G-8 began to play for time.
How long would the Oberst be away? Would he
be able to do any good if he did return?
"But Mein Herren," G-8 said, "surely this is a
joke. We are all working for a common cause.
Herr Oberst von Hoffler has just stepped into
another office for a moment. He will soon be back
and explain everything."
The big fellow laughed again.
"He will be back," he rasped, "but not until
after you have left. And you can not fool us about
where he has gone. It was one of our assistants
who phoned and requested that he come to
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Intelligence headquarters. He will go there to find
that no one is waiting to see him. That will be a
good joke on His Highness."
"Say, look here," G-8 suddenly demanded. "I
would like an explanation of this."
"You will get your explanation," shouted one
of the other Germans. "You will get it in hell, mein
Freund."
By now, they were surrounding him. Six ugly
Luger muzzles were pointed at his middle. If he
made one move toward that little Mauser that was
stuck in his boot, it would be all over. They were
only too glad to find an excuse for killing him.
"You are going to tell us something before
we leave," the big fellow growled. "Where are
your two assistants, Herr Weston and Herr
Martin?"
G-8 eyed the big fellow steadily now.
"It would not do me any good to tell you," he
snapped. "You are going to kill me anyway, so no
matter what you do, I won't tell you anything."
"Nein!" the big fellow snarled.
He raised his left hand, which was almost as
big as a ham. With it, he struck G-8 across the
face. It was a terrific blow. The master spy reeled
back, recovered his balance. Wild anger surged
up in him. His fists clenched for a split second.
He would be willing to bet that he could
knock the big fellow kicking if he had half a
chance. But those leveled Lugers took any
chance that he might have had away, so he stood
up and took it, playing for more time. Although his
face stung brutally, he managed to force a grin.
"You do not hit quite hard enough, mein
Freund," he taunted. "I have been struck harder
than that by men half your size."
The open palm of the big German flashed
through space again. But G-8 wasn't there this
time; he had ducked to the side.
Now two of the other five pilots grasped him
and pinned his arms behind him. They held him
like that so that he could neither duck nor strike
back. He received a series of blows that sent his
head spinning. Still, when it was over and the big
fellow rasped. "Tell us where Herr Weston and
Herr Martin are," he could still smile back.
The big fellow uttered an oath. His right hand
came up in a wildly flung haymaker. G-8 couldn't
duck or side step. The blow struck with a
resounding thud and his head snapped back.
It seemed that the room about him was filled
with twittering birds and twinkling stars. Then a
fog of inky blackness enveloped him. Dimly, he
realized that he was being carried down the hall,
out of the back door into the night.
CHAPTER TEN
The Devil's Linemen
BIG BULL MARTIN settled back on the rear
seat of the car that Oberst von Hoffler had loaned
them and took a long breath.
"This is something more like it," he said. "I
was afraid we were going to get stuck with that
Oberst, but now we'll have some action. Wait
and see."
"Yeah," Nippy nodded. "Wait and see. But
don't forget, you big ox, you aren't supposed to
make any action for yourself. We'll probably get
plenty without your cooking it up. Sneaking
around the back yard of a German Intelligence
agent isn't going to be particularly healthy,
something tells me."
He paused and lifted the little black box with
the coil of wire extending out of it.
"I have been sent on a lot of funny jobs," he
went on, "but I've never been a telephone
operator. Know anything about working one of
these boxes?"
Bull shrugged.
"I guess there isn't anything to it," he said.
"It's just a regular telephone with a combination
mouthpiece and earphones. All we have to do is
to tap the wire that leads into Y-9's shanty and
then listen in."
They rode on in silence. No word came from
the driver in the front seat.
Minutes passed and then dark objects began
to loom on either side of them. They were driving
down a street, a street in a little Franco-German
town near the old border. There were no lights.
The car turned up a narrow side street, and
after going half a block, the driver pulled up to the
curb and stopped. He stepped out quickly, then
opened the door of the tonneau and bowed.
"You get out here, mein Herren," he said in
a low voice. "I will show you."
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Nippy carried the box under his arm. The
driver closed the door quietly and then turned and
walked beside them.
"Listen," Nippy hissed, "you understand we
don't want anybody who might be watching to see
that we are spotting this particular house.
Suppose we walk past it. We will take a turn
around the block, the three of us, and come back
to the car. You walk beside me and when we are
right in front of the house, you give me a good
hard nudge in the ribs with your elbow."
"Verstehen sie, jawohl," whispered the
driver.
They walked on at a leisurely gait. Nippy and
Bull were both carefully watching the houses on
their side of the street. They were all rather small
dwellings. It was plain that this street had been
inhabited by people of moderate means, German
families who loved their cottage homes.
They came to a cottage, the fourth one down
with a neatly painted fence along the front. The
house sat alone in the center of the plot, about
fifty feet back from the fence. There was an
ample garden at the sides and behind it. In the
darkness they saw shadows three or four feet
high-- shrubs, probably.
They were directly in front of the house when
the driver gave Nippy a sharp nudge with his
elbow. Not a word was spoken. They walked on
until they came to the corner and there they
turned right.
"Did you notice anyone around the place?"
Nippy asked softly.
Bull shook his head.
"No, I haven't seen a single person since we
got out of the car."
They turned down another street in silence.
Bull began to grumble.
"Holy Herring! Looks like this is going to be
too easy. I feel just like planting my fist in
somebody's face tonight."
"Cheer up," Nippy grinned. "We haven't even
started. Here's the turn now on the next street.
We are almost back to the car. Have you marked
out anything since we have been walking around
the block?"
"What do you mean?" Bull growled. "What's
the sense of that?"
"I didn't expect you to know," Nippy kidded.
"Listen, how do you think we're going to approach
that house where Y-9 has his headquarters? I
suppose maybe you think we are going to walk
up, climb right over the fence, and tap the phone
line at once."
"Well," Bull growled, "why not? I haven't
seen anybody watching."
"Certainly, you haven't," Nippy admitted.
"But that isn't saying that there isn't anybody
around. Did you notice anything about the house
where Y-9 is?"
"No," said Bull. "What?"
"All the shades were drawn," Nippy said. "I
saw a couple of glimmers of light underneath two
shades at the side. I've looked at every other
house around the block and they are all dark.
Here's what we're going to do if we can work it
out. I spotted a house right back here in this block
opposite Y-9's cottage. The back yard of the two
places ought to join. Our best bet is to go to that
house, through the garden and slip up on Y-9's
house from the rear. G-8 is putting a lot of
confidence in our work and we can't fail him."
"O.K.," Bull nodded. "It's all right with me."
They turned the last corner. They could see
the dark shadow of the car startling at the curb up
ahead of them. Nippy paused and touched the
driver's arm.
"We will leave you here," he whispered. "You
wait in the car for us. If you see any signs of a
trap toot the horn twice."
"Jawohl," nodded the driver.
Nippy and Bull stood on the corner for fully
five minutes after the driver had left them. They
leaned against a tree at the corner of a yard,
waiting and listening.
"Holy Herring!" Bull grumbled finally.
"What's the use of sticking around here? Let's get
going."
He started, but Nippy pulled him back.
"Wait," he said. "Something is coming. I
think it's a car. Come back here in the shadow of
the tree."
BULL obeyed reluctantly. Yes, it was a car.
They could hear the purr of the engine even if
they couldn't see any lights. Then they made it
out. It was driving up that back street.
The two Battle Aces stood close to the tree
as the car passed. It was an open model with the
top down, much like the one that had brought
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them. It passed the corner, drew up before Y-9's
cottage.
Nippy and Bull tensed to listen. They heard
the door slam. Then, very faintly, they heard
footsteps. Booted feet were walking up to Y-9's
gate. They could barely make out the figure
opening the gate. The car was waiting.
Nippy nudged Bull.
"Come on," he said. "we've got to get in
there. Maybe this is one message that isn't
coming over by telephone. Keep in the shadows
as much as possible."
They walked around to the back street and
stepped boldly into the yard of the house that
adjoined Y-9's cottage. As they passed it, Bull
suddenly grasped Nippy by the arm and pulled
him down into a crouched position. A sound had
come to them, a rasping sound.
"What's that?" Bull hissed in Nippy's ear.
Nippy listened for a moment. The sound
came again. Then the terrier ace shook with silent
mirth.
"I wouldn't expect you to know, you big ox,"
he whispered in Bull's ear. "You are always too
busy sleeping when somebody else is making
sounds like that. Some old nut in there is putting
on the buzzsaw act. If I didn't have you beside
me, I might think you were doing it. Come on,
let's get going."
They rose from their crouching position and
moved on. A wire fence stopped them. Nippy
felt his way cautiously around it, then pushed the
telephone instrument under the lower wire and
slid after it. Bull got down and tried it.
"Don't forget, you big ox," Nippy taunted,
"they don't build fences high enough for cattle to
walk under."
With a grunt of rage, Bull slung his legs over
the wire. One of the wires made a creaking
sound.
"Ssssssssh!" Nippy warned. "You're worse
than a bull in a china shop. If I had known you
were going to be so much trouble, I would have
left you behind."
Bull made a witty retort. "Nuts to you," he
growled under his breath.
They crouched there under the shrubbery for
a moment, waiting to make sure that the sound of
the creaking wire had not aroused anyone. Then
Nippy led the way toward the house, keeping
close to the shrubs at the border of the yard.
"See the lights shining out from between the
curtains?" he whispered. "I'll bet that Y-9 is in that
room talking with the bird that just landed. Look!
The crack gets larger and then disappears every
once in a while."
"Yes," Bull answered, "the shade is moving.''
"Sure," Nippy cracked. "And what makes it
move? It's the window; the window's open a
little. There is just enough breeze to rustle the
curtain and I think there's just enough opening in
the window so that with luck we can hear what's
going on inside. Let's go."
There was a stretch of lawn between their
position and the end of the house. They began
creeping across it, moving almost flat on their
bellies, in plain sight of the car that had brought
that visitor to Y-9.
Nippy stared hard at it, but it was so dark he
couldn't make out whether or not there was a
driver in the seat behind the wheel. If there was
and he chanced to be looking that way, he might
see them.
Finally, they gained the shrubbery just below
the window. The window shade moved restlessly.
Luck wasn't with them as much as it might be, for
the window was open only an inch or two from the
top.
Nippy laid the telephone instrument on the
ground.
"Hoist me up, Bull," he said. "I can hear
voices in there, but I can't distinguish what
they're saying."
Bull's strong hands grasped the legs of the
terrier ace and raised him up until his head was
level with the lowered top of the window. Nippy
bent down.
"O.K.," he whispered. "I can hear. Hold me
like that."
"Jawohl," said a voice. "I am sure you will
find Oberst van Hoffler is doing everything
possible. You should get along very well
together."
"Gewiss." That was Y-9's voice. "I am sure
of it. Now, about this order Oberst von Hoffler just
gave. What was that again? I didn't get it quite
straight."
"It was merely something I overheard at
headquarters as I left," the other said. "Something
to the effect that he desires to have all agents
along the eastern front notify him of any
development at the same time they notify you. I
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presume, of course, that is to facilitate his
movements to the best advantage."
"Jawohl," said Y-9, "of course. Possibly you
have heard where the Herr Oberst has placed the
American spy and his two assistants?"
"Nein, I have heard nothing of that,
although-- " The speaker stopped for a moment
as though in thought. Then Nippy heard him go
on, "Oh, yes, I do remember something else. It
seems to me the Oberst said this order was the
idea of one of the greatest spies in the war. I
remember that headquarters was wondering
whom he meant."
There was a pause while no one spoke. Then
Nippy heard Y-9 speak in the manner of one
trying to throw another off his guard.
"No doubt that was merely a manner of
speaking," he said. "I know the Oberst very well.
He is quite eccentric at times."
"No doubt," said the man from German
Intelligence headquarters. "Well, at any rate, I
must be getting back. I have brought you the
papers giving all the details in the case as
Intelligence promised. Good luck to you."
"Danke," said Y-9.
His voice faded. The men were walking to
the door.
NIPPY heard the door open and close. Then
he was flattening himself against the window,
listening to the man from Intelligence stride back
to his car. He heard Y-9 come back into the room
at the end of the house, heard him say something
that sounded like, "Gott im Himmel! The
meddlesome swine!" but he wasn't sure because
of the noise of the Intelligence offizier's car made
as it drove away. Then all was quiet, both inside
the house and out.
Presently more sounds came to him through
the crack in the window. It was the clumping of
boots on the floor. Y-9 was pacing up and down
the room. A moment later, he was muttering
something to himself that Nippy couldn't catch.
Then he was talking to someone. That would be
someone on the phone.
Nippy heard him mutter in a low voice, but
he could not catch anything except a single
phrase at the last end of the conversation, "-- and
remember, I am to get the message and no one
else."
Then he heard the instrument click on the
hook. A minute later it was lifted again and in a
louder voice Y-9 called the pilots' barracks of the
18th Jadgstaffel.
Nippy placed his ear as close to the crack in
the window as he could get it. He heard the
German spy mumbling something; he seemed to
be giving orders angrily. Instantly, Nippy dropped
his head to Bull.
"Quick! Let me down."
BuII brought him down carefully to the
ground. Nippy grabbed the telephone instrument,
stared along the edge of the house until he found
the place where the wire was connected. His knife
came out in a flash. Desperately, he began
scraping the wires bare.
Holy Herring!" Bull whispered. "What's
happened?"
"Never mind. Tell you later. Here, hook up
these two clamps on the bare wires. That's it.
Now I've got it."
The hum of conversation came into Nippy's
ear. He heard Y-9 just as he was finishing.
"This must be done at once," he was saying.
"Do exactly as I tell you. There must be no
chance for a slip-up."
Nippy heard the receiver click on the line.
Bull's whispered voice rasped in his ear.
"For the love of Mike, what's been going on?
Tell a fellow, will you?"
"Listen," Nippy came back. "That bird was
from Intelligence headquarters. He came to bring
Y-9 some papers and while he was here, he told
him about Oberst von Hoffler calling up and
ordering that all Intelligence agents should report
to him at the same time they reported to Y-9. I
think Y-9 smelled a rat because he came back
pretty sore and called up somebody.
"I couldn't catch all he said, but it was
something about ordering that bird to give him
any information that came, first and only. Then
he called the 18th jadgstaffel. Those hard-boiled
old-timers up there are working with him. I'm sure
of that, but I don't know just how. I couldn't catch
what he was saying to them through the crack in
the window. That's why I tapped the wires in a
hurry."
"What did he want them to do?" Bull
demanded.
"I don't know that, either, for certain," Nippy
said.
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"Holy Herring!" Bull breathed, "you think it
has something to do with G-8?"
Nippy shook his head. The usual happy,
carefree smile wasn't there.
"Maybe," Bull went on, "we ought to call G-8
and tell him."
Nippy hesitated and thought the thing over.
"No," he said, "I don't think so. If we called
G-8 and told him about this, Y-9 might be
listening in on his phone and hear it. That
wouldn't be so hot. Our game would be up and
the thing that's most important to G-8, I believe, is
getting any information on this case as soon as
Y-9 gets it."
"Yeah," Bull argued, "but on the other hand,
if they do something to G-8 so we can't get a
message to him, what good is it going to do?"
"And if we gum up the works so that we don't
get any message," Nippy retorted, "that's going
to knock everything bow-legged, too."
"I guess you're right," Bull agreed. He
growled angrily under his breath, "The only thing
we can do, I guess, is to wait and see what
happens. We've got to trust to luck that Y-9
wasn't talking to the 18th jadgstaffel about G-8."
Minutes passed by. They crouched there
beside that telephone instrument, growing more
tense all the while. Nothing happened. An hour
dragged past. Nippy and Bull were getting so
jumpy that they were ready to fly at almost
anything.
They took turns holding the telephone
receiver against their ear, but nothing came to
them except the steady hum of the instrument.
At length, Nippy could stand it no longer. He
turned toward the window.
''I'm going to take a look and see what Y-9 is
doing," he whispered.
At that moment, it was Bull who had the
receiver to his ear. He nodded.
"O.K.," he whispered.
The terrier ace started off. Suddenly, Bull
grasped him by the arm and held him there. The
big fellow was listening intently. Nippy stopped
short and waited. After a moment Bull laid down
the instrument.
"It just came," he said. "A message from an
agent on the Swiss border. He says that they're
hunting for a car that got away from the border
guards. They suspect it's smuggling something."
"And it's headed this way?" Nippy breathed
excitedly.
"Yes," Bull snapped. "Y-9 said he was going
out to meet it. They think the stuff got across the
border at the edge of the little village of Vasfort."
"Quick!" Nippy gasped. "Give me that
instrument. My German is better than yours.
We've got to get this information to G-8 and then
follow Y-9."
They heard the back door of the house slam,
heard someone running out.
"That's Y-9 now," Bull said. "Here take the
phone. Quick! He's going out to the garage to
get his car."
Nippy grasped the phone, jiggled the gadget
that would get the operator. Then he was talking
in a low voice in the best German he could
command.
"Get me the office of Oberst von Hoffler in
Ochlich," he ordered. "Macht schnell, Bitte."
There was a pause, then into his other ear
came the sputter of a motor. Y-9 had his car
started. Already he was backing out of the
driveway.
"I'll stay as long as I dare, trying to get G-8,"
Nippy said to Bull. "You go on over to the car."
Bull left, half doubled over, as he darted
from bush to bush across the lawn. Nippy jiggled
the phone frantically. The operator answered
again. "I am trying to put through your call."
"Bitte," Nippy encouraged. "Hurry!"
He could hear the sound that meant the bell
was ringing at Oberst von Hoffler's office. He
heard the louder roar of Y-9's car tearing out of
the driveway; it reached the street, shifted gears,
and started away. Nippy was nearly crazy. The
ringing sound continued.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mutiny
EVEN in the darkness and the shadows that
were swirling about G-8, he realized he was being
half carried, half dragged from the rear of the
building where Oberst von Hoffler had his office.
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Things were growing quite plain to him
now-- all too plain. There wasn't the slightest
doubt in his mind but that these six veterans of
the 18th jadgstaffel meant to kill him. They would
probably try to find a place outside town where
the shots would not arouse a commotion.
G-8's consciousness was returning rapidly.
His head had cleared enough so that he could
walk if they gave him the chance. Perhaps if he
let them continue to think that he was
unconscious, he might be able to outwit them. So
he kept his body limp and let them drag him on
out through the back alleys.
He listened to their conversation. There
seemed to be some argument as to what they
would do with him. The loud, rasping voice of the
spokesman came to his ears above the whispered
tones of the others.
"What does it matter where we take him?" he
demanded. "Just so it is outside the town. A bullet
in the head and he will be tossed into the ditch,
nicht wahr? Are you all agreed?"
"Jawohl," came the guttural assents.
A chill ran up and down G-8's spine as
though death had placed its icy hand there. He
was trying to think fast and at the same time give
no evidence of his return to consciousness.
With the two men holding him, one on either
side, he had no chance to break away. They were
holding him so tightly in order to keep him off the
ground. Then, too, there were two Germans
ahead of him leading the procession and two
behind.
He opened his eyes in the darkness just
enough to see that they were on a sidewalk. A
car was standing at the curb-- a regular German
army touring car with the top down.
He wondered if they would hold him when he
got into the car. He made a guess, partly born of
hope, that they would not. Probably those two big
fellows who were carrying him would be tired of
lugging their burden; if they thought he was
unconscious, they wouldn't keep Lugers stuck in
his ribs, either. There might be a chance for a
break there.
On the other hand, if he didn't get away, they
would kill him. Judging from the type of men
these six were, they would probably try to bring
him back to consciousness first before drilling
him. They would want the pleasure of seeing him
suffer.
The big spokesman was talking again.
"Quick!" he ordered. "In the back seat with
him! There is a group of soldiers coming down
the street. We must be off before they reach us.
Perhaps some of them are military police."
G-8 was unceremoniously bundled into the
middle of the back seat. He flopped limply down,
opened his eyes to slits so that he could watch
what was going on.
The big fellow was sliding in behind the
wheel and two more were crowding in behind him.
It was a five-passenger car. The two who had
carried G-8 sat down, one on either side of him.
The sixth German stepped to the running board
and hung on to the windshield. There was a
hurried grinding of the starter, a click of the gears,
and the car moved off down the street just before
the soldiers reached them.
G-8 allowed his head to loll back against the
cushion, his whole body as limp as a rag. Through
slitted eyes he surveyed the German on the left.
He didn't seem to expect anything in the way of a
surprise. Perhaps he had a Luger in his hand, but
if he did, G-8 couldn't see it.
He shifted his gaze to the one on the running
board. That wasn't so good. That fellow could be
ready for almost anything. But of one thing, G-8
was sure. The Boche on the running board did not
have a Luger in his hand. The master spy thought
he made it out as a rectangular shadow bulging
from his side. Probably all the Lugers had been
stuck back in their holsters. He certainly hoped
so.
The car was picking up speed rapidly. It tore
down a deserted street; the houses became
farther and farther apart.
G-8 shined his eyes to the officer on his
right. The head of that veteran German pilot was
turned so that he was looking out at the road. The
way became rougher and the car jounced the
passengers.
G-8 flopped like a rag doll and as he flopped,
he gathered his strength for a great effort. He
brought his legs up under him more so that when
the time was ripe, he could use them to the best
advantage. His arms hung limply at his sides, but
they were braced against the leather cushion of
the seat.
Someone in the front seat spoke.
"When we get through with this job," he
suggested, "let's go to Madame Pernet's and
make a night of it."
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"Jawohl," they sang out in a chorus of
agreement.
APPARENTLY, it wouldn't be long before
they got this job finished. Any minute, one of
those six would draw his Luger, placed it to the
side of G-8's head, and pull the trigger. There
could be no better time for his desperate attempt
to escape than right now.
He braced himself as he felt the front of the
car bang over a bump in the road. Just at the
right time, when the rear of the car jounced
upward in the same uneveness, G-8 brought
every muscle in his body into play.
He ducked sidewise. Straightening his legs
with all his might and with the help of his body, he
sent himself hurtling in a backward somersault.
There was a cry of alarm, a shout of "ach du
Lieber!"
But already G-8 was flipping over the folded
top of the speeding car. He heard the squeal of
brakes. He was dropping behind, dropping rather
dizzily to the ground, but he was landing on his
feet.
He tripped. The car had been moving too
swiftly for him to catch himself. He threw his
arms up over his head and let himself go limp.
Then he was spinning along the road, rolled up in
a ball.
Through it all, he heard wild shouts. There
was the squeal of the tires as the car skidded to a
stop.
By now, he had stopped rolling. He landed at
the side of the road on his hands and knees. He
felt the burning sensation of chafed skin. Men
were leaping out of the car. He wouldn't even
have time to get to his feet. He charged into
brush that bordered along the road, moving on all
fours, trying to give his head a chance to clear.
He had a choice of three ways to go. The
brush about him was thick in every direction
except toward the road. It would be natural to
suppose that an escaping man would run from his
pursuers so that the gap between him and them
would be widened as much as possible. But he
chose the least logical course of escape.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Lugers were blasting out in the night. Bullets
whistled and pinged over his ducked head. They
singed off branches above him and knocked them
down on him.
G-8 turned in a circle to the road. He chose
the direction the car had been coming from. The
brush vanished and he thought he had broken out
in the open; but it was merely a small space
covered with moss-grown rocks, which served to
hide the sound of his rapid feet.
He heard the men crashing about in the
brush behind him, heard them calling and
shooting. With a feeling of great relief, he
suddenly realized that none of the bullets were
whizzing past him.
A flashlight glimmered out in the night; its
beam slashed through the underbrush.
G-8 was back in the brush again now, going
more carefully. At least he had lost those
pursuing Boches for the moment. Now he must
be very careful that they didn't pick up his trail
again.
Gradually he made a wide detour. He came
to an open field far behind and to the right.
He could still make out the blazing flashlight,
but that was all. The shouting and firing had
ceased.
Cutting cross-country now, he was heading
back for the town of Ochlich. He must reach that
office at once. Perhaps the Oberst would be there
and perhaps he would not. If not, there would be
no one to take the messages of Nippy and Bull.
He entered the town, began running down
the street at top speed. Two Germans who were
walking in his direction suddenly stopped and
spread out in front of him.
Then G-8 realized that he was dressed
differently. In spite of the darkness, it would not
be hard for them to see that he wore a uniform
different from theirs. He saw them go for their
Lugers and he shouted in German.
"Come with me. Quick!"
Still the men blocked his way and when he
came up before them, they prodded him in the
stomach with their Lugers. For a moment, he
stared into their faces. A frantic hope welled up
in him that these two were not part of the six who
had attacked him. No, they were not.
"I am a secret service agent," he explained
hurriedly. "That is why I have on this American
uniform. I want you to take me at once to the
office of Oberst von Hoffler."
The Germans stared at each other for a
minute, then they nodded.
"Jawohl," they said, "we will escort you."
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"Hurry," G-8 said. "We must run. I will go
ahead to show you the way. You can follow-- with
drawn guns if you like."
They went tearing down the street. G-8
swung into the main highway and stopped before
the building where Oberst von Hoffler's office was
located. Guards at the entrance stared at him.
"You remember me," he said. "I was with
Oberst von Hoffler."
"Jawohl," the corporal of the guard nodded.
"Look here," G-8 snapped. "You do not
realize it, but I was knocked out and carried
through the back door of this building by six
German pilots of the 18th jadgstaffel. They were
going to kill me, but I was fortunate enough to
escape. I would consider it a favor if you would
come up to the office, all of you, and guard the
doors. Let no one in or out without the permission
of Oberst von Hoffler. Has the Oberst returned?"
"Nein," said the corporal, "but when he left,
he gave us orders to carry out any command
which you might give."
"Fine!" G-8 said.
HE whirled and raced into the building, down
the corridor where the door of the Oberst's office
still stood ajar. He heard the insistent jangling of
the telephone bell. He lunged through the room,
nearly knocking the desk over as he stopped
short and grabbed the phone from the hook.
Then he was shouting, "Hello, hello! Was
ist?"
Nippy's voice flashed back at him over the
wire.
"This you, G-8?"
"Right! What is it? Quick!"
"I'm over here outside Y-9's house. Y-9 has
just left. A car got away from the guards at the
Swiss border near Vasfort and is headed this way.
I think it's carrying a supply of something-- might
be the eating liquid. Y-9 has gone to meet it.
We'll keep you posted."
"Right!" snapped G-8. "Don't let Y-9 out of
your sight."
"O.K." Nippy sang out.
G-8 waited to make sure that Nippy had
finished. Nothing came over the wire. He hung
up his receiver, took a long breath, glanced at the
guards who were stationed about the door. He
thought they looked more puzzled than any
human beings he had ever seen. They all seemed
to be vying with each other for a better view of
what was going on.
Suddenly one of them uttered a word or two
as in warning. Then all snapped to instant
attention. It was a sound of heavy boots in the
corridor outside. Someone was striding down the
hall. An instant later, Oberst von Hoffler's form
loomed in the doorway. He glanced at G-8, then
he turned and looked behind him at the guards.
"Was ist?" he demanded.
"Come in Herr Oberst," said G-8 quickly,
"and shut the door if you will. We are getting
some action."
He explained what had happened. The
Oberst's eyes narrowed.
"It is as we suspected, nicht wahr? Only I
did not think that it would come to this. You say
they were going to kill you?"
"Well, if they really didn't mean it," G-8
smiled, "they certainly put on the best act I have
ever seen in my life. And you, Herr Oberst, what
did you find at Intelligence headquarters?"
"That's the strange part of it," said the
Oberst. "I could find no one who had called me.
That is what took me so long. Everyone was
asked if they had put in a call for me, but it seems
no one had. I have not been able to understand
it."
"I think that is quite simple," G-8 smiled. "As
near as I can figure it out, Y-9 got wind of the fact
that I was up here with you, so he told the six men
to call you-- get you out of the way-- then kidnap
me."
"Ach, ja," growled the Oberst. "What a
dummkopf I have been."
"No dumber than I was," G-8 laughed.
The Oberst sat down on his desk. He
pushed the papers aside, spread his hands out
with palms down, and sat upright in a position of
preparedness.
"Well," he said. "What do we do now?"
G-8 shook his head and the smile that had
been there faded.
"That is just the trouble," he said. "There is
nothing to do until we hear from Nippy and Bull.
You haven't, by any chance, heard of any more
attacks by the black raider, have you?"
The Oberst shook his head.
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"Nein. Perhaps we are fortunate. Let us
hope that the black plane Herr Weston and Herr
Martin shot down was the only one in the
possession of the fiend who calls himself the
Wizard."
"I hardly think that is true," G-8 ventured.
The Oberst eyed him speculatively for a
moment.
"Bitte, Herr G-8," he said at length. "Are you
positive that these six men who took you prisoner
were the six veterans of the 18th
jadgstaffel?"
"Yes."
"Then I will place them under arrest at once."
He picked up the phone, called the 18th
jadgstaffel.
"This is Oberst von Hoffler," he sang out
loudly. "The six veteran pilots of the 18th
jadgstaffel are hereby commanded to remain on
the ground and await further orders.... Was ist
das? ... You swine! You-- "
He stopped short and glared at the telephone
instrument, then began-clicking the receiver
angrily. He waited a moment longer, then banged
the receiver on the hook.
G-8 was smiling.
"Don't tell me, Herr Oberst, that they hung
up on you," he said.
"Gott im Himmel!" roared the Oberst. "This
is terrible! I will have them shot! You know what
they've done? They have told me to go to the
devil! This is the first time in all my army
experience that a German soldier under me has
dared speak in such a way."
"I think," G-8 ventured, "that it is safe to say
you are not dealing with German soldiers. They
may have fair records for themselves in air
fighting, but I have the feeling that if you went
back into their records you would find that all is
not so good."
The Oberst leaped from his chair behind the
desk and reached for his hat.
"So they think they can tell me to go to the
devil when I give them a command! Himmel, I
will show them!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cargo of Death
OBERST VON HOFFLER started for the
door, but G-8 reached out a hand and delayed
him.
"I don't believe I would rush off in a hurry,"
he advised. "If you go to the airdrome, you won't
find those pilots there. As a matter of fact, I
imagine that at this very minute, they are climbing
into their Fokkers preparing to take off."
The Oberst hesitated a moment. His face
was purple with rage. For a moment he stared at
G-8 as though he were going to be angry with
him. Then he nodded reluctantly.
"Very well, mein Freund," he said. "I believe
you are right. I will refrain from doing anything
more."
He came back and sat down once more
behind his desk. But this time, he sat down
limply.
For a long time neither man spoke. The
Oberst got up from his chair, lighted one cigarette
from another as he paced up and down the floor
of his office.
"As long as you are pacing up and down, I
can't sit still," G-8 smiled, "so I might as well join
you." He glanced at his watch.
"Something has got to happen pretty soon.
It's almost dawn."
"Something must happen," growled the
Oberst. "This suspense is getting too terrible.
Perhaps we are waiting in vain. It may be that
our spy, Y-9, has killed or captured your two
assistants."
"I certainly hope not," G-8 said. "Nippy and
Bull are capable of taking care of themselves."
A few minutes later, the telephone bell rang.
The nerves of both men seemed at the snapping
point. They both raced to answer it. G-8 was
there first. He shouted into the mouthpiece.
"Hello, G-8," the terrier ace shouted back.
"Right," G-8 larked. "Are you O.K.?"
"Yes, and I've got some news. We picked up
Y-9's trail and followed him. We were going
through a woods when we saw his car, which was
about half a mile ahead, suddenly swerve to the
right. The next minute there was an explosion. A
tree fell in front of us; we crashed into it and
wrecked the car.
"By the time we pulled ourselves out of the
wreckage, Y-9 was far ahead. Like a couple of
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idiots, we started to follow him on foot. Can you
imagine trying to catch a car on foot? That shows
you how crazy we were. But the way it worked
out, it was all for the best.
"There was another explosion. As near as I
can figure it out, Y-9 had some dynamite or
explosive shells with him. By setting one of these
off on the right side of a big tree, he could blow
the tree right across the road."
"Yes, yes, I know," G-8 said hurriedly. "What
happened then?"
But Nippy didn't hurry.
"Well, you see," he went on. "He blew down
another tree so that it blocked the highway, then
he put a red danger light on it. We got in sight
just in time to see a car coming from the other
direction. We heard somebody shout. I think it
was Y-9. Then there was a crash and a shot. I
forgot all about being tired. I'll bet we broke all
track records trying to get to that place. Well, we
did, but Y-9 had already backed his car to the
wreck, transferred some packages and went
slamming off down the road as fast as he could
travel. We tapped the wires along the road here
and are talking to you in that way."
"Fine," G-8 said. "Do you know which way he
went? Is he heading toward the Swiss border?"
"Wait a minute. Here comes Bull."
Bull's voice came booming over the phone,
he was panting.
"Hello, G-8, I got here as fast as I could. I
followed this bird, Y-9; he took a turn to the left.
I am sure of that."
"Wait," G-8 said. "Now let me get this
straight. He turned left off the road. Would that
be north?"
"That's right," Bull barked. "North. I couldn't
see him, but I could hear the roar of his motor.
He was stepping on it. This road we are on now
runs between Ochlich and Barfort on the Swiss
border. Got it?"
"Right," said G-8.
"O.K."
"Wait a minute. I want to find out something
else. What about the driver of the car that
crashed?"
"That's the mysterious part of it," Bull said.
"We haven't found him-- that is, not all of him."
"Not all of him!"
"No," Bull boomed back. "We found his
shoulders and his arms. The rest of him was
gone. So was his head."
"His head!" G-8 exploded. "You mean the
man driving that car was one of the headless
men?"
"I guess so," Bull agreed, "unless some of
the stuff got on his head and ate that off too."
"All right," G-8 snapped. "Here's orders. You
get back here to this office just as quickly as you
can. We will leave orders with the guards that you
are coming. Wait here until you hear from us."
"Right!" came Bull's answer.
G-8 slammed down the receiver, whirled to
face the Oberst. "Have you got a road map of this
section?"
The Oberst moved swiftly.
"Eine minute, bitte, Herr G-8." He pulled out
the first drawer of his desk, ran through a bundle
of papers and documents, then drew out a map
and unfolded it on the desk.
"Here," he said.
G-8 was poring over it.
"Now let's see," he said, talking half to
himself. "If Y-9 took this road, he would have to
stay on it for about fifteen miles until he comes to
the village of Frankheit-- which is five miles north
of here. That means that if we are lucky, we can
get to Frankheit before he does and we can turn
down that road and head him off. What is more,
we can pull the same stunt that he has just done.
Have you anything in the line of a time bomb?
We will need a couple of flashlights and I think we
ought to swap these Mausers for some he-man
Lugers."
"Jawohl," nodded the Oberst.
In the space of a few seconds he had
gathered up what was necessary except for the
bomb.
"We haven't time to hunt for one," G-8 told
him. "I will take care of that. Are you all set?"
"Jawohl."
"O.K., let's go."
They ran for the doorway. Here G-8 turned
to the corporal of the guard.
"Two orders, mein Freund," he snapped.
"Call the town hall in Frankheit at once. Tell them
we will be there in about five minutes and to have
a time bomb there that we can pick up. A guard
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must be standing with it in front of the building so
that we won't have to wait."
The corporal clicked his heels and nodded.
"And my two assistants," G-8 went on, "Herr
Martin and Herr Weston will be here soon. See
that they are protected in this office. They will
wait to hear from us."
The heels of the corporal clicked again.
"Jawohl."
Then G-8 raced down the hall after the
Oberst who had gone ahead. He found him
seated in the tonneau of his car. The instant G-8
slipped in, the door slammed and the car moved
off, gathering speed as it went.
They tore for the town of Frankheit, raced
madly through the night around curves that would
have seemed dangerous to take at high speed
even in the daylight. But the chauffeur seemed to
have the eyes of a cat. He knew every turn and
every straight-away of the road and used them to
the best advantage.
It was exactly four minutes after they skidded
to a stop in front of the town hall at Frankheit.
Five miles in four minutes through the dark
without the aid of lights!
A group stood at the curb in front of the hall.
The Oberst leaned out of the car.
"Where is the time bomb?" he demanded.
A stout old man with the importance of a
mayor answered.
"Any minute now, it will be here."
They heard the pounding of heavy foot steps
running down the street.
"Jawohl," the little man said. "Here he comes
now."
A big fellow in a German uniform pushed his
way through the throng. He carried something
gingerly in both hands.
"Here!" he cried and thrust something hard
and ugly into the Oberst's hands.
"Danke. We go, Otto. The road for Vasfort.
Macht schnell!"
The car careened as it went around the next
corner. They shot out of that town at top speed.
Ahead, dark objects loomed-- trees. There was
brush and woods on the northern side of the road.
"Otto," the Oberst shouted, "we stop here."
There was a squeal of brakes and the car
swerved slightly.
G-8 braced himself against the sudden stop.
He took the time bomb from the Oberst who was
getting out behind him with a little less speed.
"That tree over there," he suggested.
The Oberst flashed on his flashlight, nodded.
"Jawohl. Set the time bomb for thirty seconds and
thrust it under the off side of the tree."
Tires squealed as the car backed out of the
way.
Blam!
G-8 was watching the tree. It seemed to
heave out of the ground as though a giant had
suddenly thrust it up from below. Then it toppled
over across the road with a crash.
"Look!" yelled the driver. "Down the road on
the other side of the tree. A car is coming. It will
crash! It is coming at top speed. Is it the one we
are after?"
"It must be," G-8 shouted. "We will give him
warning first to make sure."
Switching on his flashlight, he swung the
beam back and forth as a warning signal. The
lights of the car went on and their beams made
the fallen tree stand out in the darkness. Then the
car swerved. The driver was searching
desperately for some way to dodge the fallen tree
trunk.
There was the squeal of brakes for a
moment as he applied pressure to the pedal. He
swung to the right. He was taking to the woods,
going to try to dodge around the roots of the tree.
"Look out!" G-8 yelled to the Oberst who was
near that spot.
The Oberst leaped out of the way. The car
came hurtling on. When it swung off the road, it
bucked and swerved violently. There was a
rending sound as a wheel struck a rock in its path.
It swung half around and smashed headlong into
a boulder at the right. The lights went out.
G-8 started running for the spot.
"He was thrown out," he yelled. "He ought to
be here in the woods somewhere."
Then, as the Oberst and the driver came
racing toward the car, he let out a yell of warning.
"Look out! Don't touch that car. Don't get
near it. Come up here ahead and help me look
for him. He was thrown clear. Or maybe he
jumped. I could not get my light on him in time."
He saw the beams from the flashlights of the
Oberst and his driver leap out to pierce the
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darkness. Then he heard a cry from the Oberst
himself.
"Ach du Lieber! Part of the car is being
eaten up! The upholstery and the top are already
gone."
"NEVER mind that," G-8 cracked. "We must
find Y-9-- and we have got to do it fast, too, in
case the liquid got him. I assume, though, that he
escaped."
"If he were thrown clear, he would be at least
knocked out," the Oberst said.
"Maybe," G-8 admitted. "But I doubt it. I can't
find-- Listen!"
They stopped, all three of them. They didn't
even breathe. There came the sound of the night
wind sighing in the branches of the trees. Then
above it, another sound, a crackling of dry twigs,
perhaps a hundred feet away, deep in the woods.
"He has escaped," G-8 whispered. "Come
on. Draw your Lugers and shoot at sight. Don't
give him a chance."
With the three flashlights blazing, they
pushed into the woods at top speed. There was
no need to disguise their movements. Speed was
the most important thing. Now they heard the
crackling and snapping of twigs ahead of them.
Y-9 was making better speed. He was running for
his life.
A tongue of flame lashed out at them
through the trees and the bark of an automatic
echoed. Then another flame. Bullets whistled
about them. G-8 was between the two other men.
He pushed them away and threw himself on the
ground.
The shooting ceased as suddenly as it had
begun. There was the crashing sound again. They
raced ahead. G-8 issued orders as they plunged
on.
"Make all the speed you can. The minute you
see the flash of his gun, crouch and shoot at the
flash. Get it?"
"Jawohl," came the duet.
They were ready when the next flash came.
All three crouched. Three Lugers barked and
spurted in answer to the crackling sound of that
gun. They heard a cry. It sounded like a cry of
pain. The driver raised up, ready to run on like a
hunter preparing to bag his prey. But G-8 pulled
him back.
"Wait," he said. "We aren't sure. It may be a
trick to get us at close range. Take it easy, now,
and listen for his movements."
They pushed on, growing more and more
cautious as they reached the point from which Y-9
fired. They searched frantically, but there was no
sign of Y-9 or his body.
"I am positive," G-8 said, "that he was right
here when he shot at us."
"So am I," said the Oberst.
G-8 stopped and listened. Except for the
sound of the wind and trees, they heard nothing.
"I am afraid," G-8 said, "he has gotten away,
at least for the time being. You know this country
pretty thoroughly, don't you, Herr Oberst?"
"Jawohl. But Otto knows it better than I."
"Good. Then tell me this, Otto. What is there
to the north of here? What point might he be
heading for?"
"About six miles north there is a field, an
advanced training field for Fokker pilots."
"Is there any other place for which he might
be heading?"
"There are no other fields within walking
distance," the Oberst chimed in.
G-8 nodded. "Then we must get to that field
ahead of him. Can we make it through the woods
quicker or should we go back to the car and
drive?"
The Oberst shrugged. "It would be quicker to
drive but-- "
"But Y-9 may be hiding in the woods," G-8
decided. "If he is, he would hear us start the
engine and would suspect that we were going to
head him off up north. In that case, he would
change his plans. No we must spread out and
follow him.
"Look here, Herr Oberst, can you do this?
We are going to separate. We may lose each
other. I want you to give Nippy and Bull a
message. They are going back to your office as
you know, and wait for orders. Tell them to go to
their planes, take off and patrol the area across
the Swiss border near the town of Vasfort. It is a
mountainous district with very few people living in
it. That is where this eating liquid came from. It
was smuggled in near Vasfort.
"Also tell them that if they can not find me, to
report to the general at Intelligence headquarters
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in Paris and to you at the same time, so that you
both may cooperate from both sides of the lines."
"Very well," the Oberst promised. "I will do
that."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mystery Valley
THE three men spread out. G-8 took the
course straight ahead through the center of the
woods, aiming almost due north. Oberst von
Hoffler branched out to the left, and his driver
took the eastern angle. Soon they were separated
so widely that not one of them could hear the
crackling sounds of the others as they pushed on
through the underbrush.
Dawn was near and the forest was slowly
growing brighter. A weird, chromium light filtered
in through the treetops, but below, where G-8
walked, it was still dark.
With the Luger in one hand and the flashlight
in the other, he moved ahead at a faster gait.
Perhaps Y-9 might be hiding in ambush. He
would have to take that chance.
It was growing lighter rapidly now. The
master spy could see where he was going without
any difficulty. Tree trunks no longer came
slamming up before him like menacing shadows
leaping up from dark pits. They were so distinct
that he could see even the roughness of the dark.
He had been separated from the others for
perhaps three-quarters of an hour now. Suddenly,
he heard a sound up ahead. He stopped a
moment to listen. That sound came quite a
distance away, but it wasn't difficult for his trained
ears to distinguish. It was the sound of a motor
warming. A Mercedes.
He moved on at a faster gait. Perhaps that
was Y-9 now, commandeering a plane. G-8 broke
into a headlong run and as he did so he heard the
sound of other warming engines.
Precious minutes passed by. G-8's legs
were aching and his breath came in short gasps.
In order to make the best time, it became
necessary for him to leap over fallen tree trunks
instead of stopping to climb over them.
That was when his legs rebelled against the
terrific strain he put on them. Once he failed to
clear an obstruction and fell flat on his face, but
he leaped up again and tore on.
The sound of roaring motors was becoming
thunderous now. He must be almost at the edge
of the field. Yes, he was. He could see a clear
open space through the trees. He reached the
edge of the woods, broke into the clearing. He
was near a hangar that had been built under the
overhanging branches of the trees. He heard
shouting, saw a figure climb into a cockpit.
No one seemed to notice the American spy
dressed in his khaki uniform. What mechanics
and pilots were out on the field at that hour of the
morning had their gaze concentrated on the man
who had just dropped into the seat of that Fokker.
G-8's gaze also concentrated on him. He
recognized him instantly. Y-9. G-8, wobbling a
little with exhaustion, raised his Luger to take aim.
Blam!
The Fokker leaped ahead just as he pulled
the trigger. At the same time, he realized that his
hand was shaking. Anyone else who had gone
through what he had would have probably
dropped rather than carry on the fight; but G-8
tried to take aim again.
He struggled to steady the Luger with both
hands. He made allowance for the speed of the
airplane and pulled the trigger again. A second
time, the Luger barked. He couldn't tell where his
bullet went, but he was certain of one thing. It
hadn't hit Y-9.
The master spy darted ahead at full speed.
At the sound of his two shots, the mechanics and
pilots turned and stared. They saw a man in
Yankee uniform with a smoking Luger in his hand,
wobbling unsteadily as he ran toward the next
idling Fokker which stood fifty yards away.
Two German pilots seemed to be quicker
than the rest. They leaped ahead to block his
flight.
G-8 swung the Luger toward them and pulled
the trigger. It all happened so swiftly and his
brain was so dizzy with fatigue that he never
realized afterward whether he had fired over their
heads purposely or had meant to hit them and
had missed because of his shaky hand.
At any rate, it served the purpose. The two
pilots stopped short in their tracks. Their faces
went white and their hands shot up over their
heads.
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A mechanic had just climbed out of the
cockpit of the Fokker that G-8 had chosen.
There was a look of amazement on his
round, full-moon face.
G-8 flashed the Luger muzzle toward him.
The mechanic might have been slow-thinking in
some things, but he knew that a case like this
demanded instant action. His arms shot up with
surprising speed.
G-8 turned as he reached the plane, so that
all the men on the tarmac were behind the ship,
facing him. He snapped an order to the mechanic
who stood there dumbly with his hands over his
head.
"Step close to the cockpit, mein Freund," he
barked. "Macht schnell!"
Without taking time to think, the mechanic
acted at once to obey.
G-8 climbed into the cockpit backward, still
facing the men. It would not be long. Another
second or two and these Germans would be
reaching for their guns. Perhaps one of those
machine guns on the top of the hangar would
stutter into action.
In spite of his predicament, it seemed that
when he dropped into the seat of that Fokker that
it was the most comfortable seat that he had ever
occupied. He shouted to the mechanic who stood
beside the cockpit, shouted an order for him to
run.
G-8 dropped the Luger into its holster with
one hand. The other flew to the throttle and he
pushed it wide open so that the engine roared.
The Fokker leaped into action.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
They were shooting at him now from behind.
G-8 was kicking the rudder back and forth to
throw them off aim. He wasn't looking behind.
That would not do him any good. He was staring
ahead at the vanishing Fokker that Y-9 flew.
Y-9 was a good mile away. His plane was
just a pair of wings and a blotch between.
G-8 stared backward once now. He
suddenly wondered about the Oberst and his
chauffeur. What had happened to them? Had
they gotten through the woods all right and
reached the field? He thought he made out the
Oberst down there, but was too far away to
recognize him.
The figure held up his arms and waved.
Probably he was shouting something. Then G-8
saw him sink to the ground as though he had
fainted.
He was worried about that. Suppose that
were the Oberst. G-8 had given him important
orders to deliver to Nippy and Bull. The Oberst
wasn't young. He was a man perhaps forty-five or
fifty. A man of that age couldn't stand the hard
exertion of running at top speed through a woods
for five or six miles; what if his heart had given
out on him? What if he were dead? In that case,
Nippy and Bull--
G-8 took a long breath and whirled around in
his seat again. His strength was coming back
now. No use worrying about something until it
really happened. He had work to do and so far as
his hunch was concerned, all the work lay ahead
of him, not behind.
He focused his eyes on the lone plane of Y-
9. He wondered whether Y-9 knew he was being
pursued.
It might be possible to catch up with the
German spy and shoot him down. On the other
hand, apparently Y-9 had learned considerable
about this mysterious liquid through certain
contacting agents. Perhaps he had learned the
identity of the man who called himself the Wizard,
and perhaps he had even learned where he was
located. In that case, it would be best to trail him.
Y-9 had continued to climb since his take-off.
Instinctively, G-8 had climbed after him. But now,
the master spy changed his tactics. His breath
came easier and fatigue was gradually leaving
him. He felt quite his normal self again. He was
thinking very clearly.
If he followed Y-9 at the same altitude, he
would surely be spotted. A plane is most easily
seen against the white of the clouds and the blue
of the clear sky and the air above them this
particular morning was composed of both. So G-8
dropped his nose and flew at an altitude of only
two or three hundred feet.
His eyes had been focused constantly on
that lone Fokker. Unconsciously, he had been
following it without taking particular note of the
direction. Suddenly, by making a check of his
compass and the ground, he found that Y-9 had
been making a very gradual turn to the south
where at first he had headed toward the west.
G-8 frowned. Where was he going?
That Fokker up ahead continued its great
circle. G-8 saw now that they were heading
directly for the 18th jadgstaffel airdrome. What
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would Y-9 gain by going there? It must be that he
did not know that his six loyal pilots had taken to
the air to escape the wrath of Oberst von Hoffler.
Instinctively, G-8 swung to the west and
began making a wide circle in that direction
himself. He didn't want to let Y-9 see him if he
could help it.
He saw the lone Fokker go down low over
the 18th jadgstaffel airdrome, saw him circle in
one vast turn a thousand feet above the drome.
Then he glided south and began climbing. G-8
followed his example, but his face wore a puzzled
expression. He couldn't figure it out.
He completed his turn in the other direction
and that brought him over the airdrome of the
18th jadgstaffel. He stormed over it, staring
down. Then he saw the answer to at least one of
his questions. On the ground down at the corner
of the field, a strip of cloth was laid. It was cut in
the shape of an arrow and was pointing in the
direction that Y-9 had taken.
Minutes sped by. Almost straight ahead, G-8
could see the towering, jagged peaks of the Alps
as they loomed on the other side of the Swiss
border. So that was it. They were heading for
Switzerland. But a moment later, he changed his
mind about that.
Y-9 was heading for a point just north of
those towering Alpine peaks. He was heading for
the place where his six loyal men had gone to
take refuge.
Suddenly, G-8 straightened. He saw tiny
specks in the sky far, far ahead. They must be
flying at a good fifteen thousand feet, those
planes-- and there were six of them!
They were north of the Alps, flying over
German territory, not Swiss. They were circling
like gnats hovering above a prospective victim.
But G-8 could see no victim that they might
attack.
There was, of course, Y-9 out ahead of him,
perhaps a mile and a half away. But these six
circling planes were much higher. He guessed
that they were almost five miles away-- so far
away, in fact, that he could barely make them out
as winged specks. But instinctively he knew they
were the six Fokkers flown by Y-9's loyal pilots.
They were circling above their new hiding place
so that when Y-9 came along he would find them
easily.
G-8 knew from experience that it would be
difficult for those pilots to pick him out against the
background of the earth beneath him. So he
turned in a great circle, being careful not to make
any sudden movements that would attract
attention.
He made several turns to kill time, circling
until Y-9 reached the other six ships. Yes, his
guess had been right. Those six ships were
coming down to meet Y-9. They were all together
now, going down in great spirals.
G-8 swung out of a series of turns and
headed for them, hedge-hopping over the ground.
The northern end of the Vosges mountains
separated him from the landing place of the
seven planes. Already, three had disappeared
behind the tops of the northern foothills into some
valley beneath. The others were going on down.
He pushed on the throttle for more speed.
The Fokker shot ahead. If he hoped to slip in
over the top of the hills and locate their hide-out,
he must do so before their motors died
completely down, permitting them to hear the roar
of his Mercedes.
He reached the Vosges foothills in a little
over a minute, climbed over the top, and stormed
along the ridge. He had flown over that country
before and knew the landmarks well. Moreover,
he knew where the Swiss border line was located.
The seven planes were landing on a field at the
very bottom of a jagged peak, just across the
Swiss border.
He flipped over and down on the west side of
the Vosges before the Boches had a chance to
see him. He needed time to think. It would mean
not only failure, but sudden death as well if he
were to go down and land on that field now.
Besides, he wasn't satisfied that this was the key
point in the case of the eating liquid. Nippy had
said that the car had been smuggled through near
Vasfort; therefore the headquarters of the Wizard
was not in Germany, but somewhere just across
the line in Switzerland. That was the point G-8
must reach.
He turned back toward the west. Of course,
only a short time had lapsed since he had left the
German airdrome, but he was wondering about
Nippy and Bull. Had the Oberst delivered his
message? Was the Oberst still alive?
He stormed back at full throttle. His brain
reeled for a few moments with sheer fatigue. He
might return to the drome where he had stolen the
Fokker; or he could go to Ochlich. Still, if the
Oberst was alive and had delivered his message,
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Nippy and Bull would be on their way to the place
where they had left their planes near the Front.
He turned his Fokker quickly toward the Front.
AS G-8 drew near the spot where he had
crashed the day before he saw ten Fokkers flying
from the northeast. He frowned as he watched
them. That was peculiar. Could it be that they
were coming to stop Nippy and Bull? Were they
out patrolling the Front? Or were they hunting
him in the stolen Fokker?
Desperately, he climbed for altitude. The ten
Germans droned on, flying at what G-8 guessed
was three thousand feet. They seemed not to be
paying any attention to him. That was strange. He
looked down on them from ten thousand feet.
Suddenly, below them, he made out a small
field just behind the German artillery and in that
field, he saw the two Spads of his Battle Aces,
like tiny grayish butterflies resting on the earth.
A frown gathered on his forehead and his
teeth clenched. He worked the Spandau guns,
preparing them for action. If those ten Fokkers
were going to try to stop Nippy and Bull from
taking to the air, they were going to have a fight
on their hands.
He saw some tiny specks about the Spads,
made out one ant-like figure before the propeller
of one ship. He watched intently.
The figure stepped back; a puff of smoke
blasted out from the exhaust stacks. Then the tiny
figure walked toward the propeller of the other
Spad. It poised there and then a moment later, a
similar smoke puff left the exhaust stacks.
All of this time, those ten Fokkers were
circling about the field. Now the Spads were
racing across the ground for the take-off. The
Fokkers still hung above, but didn't make a move
to stop them. The Spads were climbing. If there
was going to be a battle, it would be on in a very
few seconds.
G-8 stuck the nose of his Fokker down in a
terrific power dive. He was ready for almost
anything, his eyes ranged along the sights and his
fingers poised on the trigger.
Nippy and Bull had almost climbed to an
even altitude with the Fokkers. G-8 was down on
top of them, tearing through space like an
avenging meteor. He saw Nippy and Bull stare
up at him. Then they waved a greeting.
There was no move on the part of the ten
Fokkers to attack. They circled away, kept out of
reach of the two Battle Aces. G-8 held his fire.
He saw the Fokker pilots look at him and wave a
greeting also.
Then, as he dipped past them and joined
Nippy and Bull, the ten Fokkers turned back in the
direction from which they had come.
Instantly, G-8 realized the truth. Those ten
Fokkers had been sent out by Oberst von Hoffler
as an escort while Nippy and Bull took the air, a
protection to make sure that no patrolling
Germans would lunge down on the two Battle
Aces before they were ready to take care of
themselves.
Nippy and Bull were grinning at their chief as
they fell in close behind him and G-8 was grinning
back at them with genuine pleasure and relief.
The two looked as if they were itching to talk, to
ask questions and find out what had happened.
But conversation was impossible and there was
no time to land.
The sun was riding high now and G-8 led
them back toward the east. He had one thought
in mind-- to go back to the Swiss border. There,
hidden away in some mountain vastness,
presumably very close to the border, was the
breeding place for this vanishing death and the
headless men.
He knew he must be careful in approaching
the region. He must be sure that Y-9 and his six
renegade pilots did not see them. For the
present, there was no need of fighting those
seven enemies.
Accordingly, G-8 swung south of the course
he had taken before and headed for a point three
or four miles south of the Swiss-German border.
The Vosges mountains loomed before them
as they droned along at four thousand feet. They
thundered over the northern foothills. Now, the
great saw-toothed spires of the Alps loomed
ahead.
G-8 made out a small mountaineer's cabin
well up the slope on one of the mountains. There
was smoke coming from the chimney; he watched
it anxiously. He wasn't so much interested in the
direction the smoke was blowing as the speed
with which it was whisking away.
He was glad to note that it rose slowly,
straight up for quite some distance and then
gradually drifted off. That meant they would
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encounter no heavy winds and hence there would
be no bad air currents to fight when they flew low.
The mountaineer came out of his cabin and
stared up as they stormed over, then ducked back
inside as if he were rushing to tell someone else
the news. But no one else came out.
A second later G-8 saw an uneven line of
poles leading up through a path to the great
spires of the Alps, and realized that the man was
probably, a mountain ranger. He was phoning his
border patrol to let them know that fighting planes
were infringing on the neutrality zone by flying
over the Swiss border. If G-8, Nippy and Bull
landed in Switzerland and were apprehended,
they would be confined to the country for the
duration of the war. That would not be so hot.
They droned on. Nothing escaped the keen
eyes of the master spy. Now and then they
passed a tiny village composed of a few houses,
high up in a valley. Now they were over a
mountain pass, choked here and there with small
glaciers that moved down as they melted.
They were coming closer to the region of
mountains that sloped down to the village of
Vasfort.
Suddenly it seemed to G-8 that the peaks
were going up, that the very mountain sides at the
ends of their wings were rising as though heaved
by a great earthquake. He knew the answer to
that without even stopping to figure it out. The
mountains were not rising at all. Instead, the
three planes had suddenly been caught in one of
the deadly mountain down-drafts of air. They
were being slammed into a great canyon beneath.
Frantically, he signaled to Nippy and Bull,
hauled back on the stick. The Mercedes groaned
as he fought for altitude.
Nippy and Bull were struggling on either side
of him. The mountain sides along each wall of the
canyon did not seem to be rising so fast now.
The three aces fought on, screaming up for
altitude until it seemed their planes would stall.
The canyon made a sharp, narrow turn
ahead of them. For a moment, it seemed to G-8
that they would not be able to fly through that
narrow crack.
But suddenly the cliffs were falling away.
The current of air was shooting them up now.
They would be safe. They were almost to the top
of the canyon, which was widening out. A
gigantic peak on their left rose to tower above
them as they turned a corner of rock.
Then the wind currents changed. That
mammoth mountain was going up once more and
again G-8 knew they were trapped in a down-draft
that followed the jagged slope.
THE three planes began climbing more
frantically than before. But it was no use. G-8
considered a turn. He stuck the nose down and
tried it. But a little, cramped valley came hurling
up with such terrific speed that he abandoned that
maneuver instantly.
As he thrust the ship's nose up, he stared at
the valley. He had never seen it before. It was
very narrow and very beautiful. There were fairly
level fields green with grass, and several dozen
little houses with gardens grouped at the lower
end.
A crowd of peasants was standing at the end
of the valley farthest from the tiny village. Had
they come out to see the planes? No, that
couldn't be; for they had just flown into sight
scarcely a minute ago.
G-8 was curious, but there was no time to
make a careful observation. That treacherous
wind was still sweeping them downward. Well,
there was at least one satisfaction. If they were
going to be killed, they could not have picked a
prettier spot.
He made one more frantic effort to fight for
altitude. Then he whirled to Nippy and Bull and
pointed toward a narrow green field. They
nodded.
The three planes veered widely apart, then
slid down to land. As they flashed over to the far
side of the canyon and neared the bottom, the
down-draft was not as strong. They managed to
slip into the field sidewise. G-8 went in first, then
Nippy and Bull after him. Wheels touched,
skidded. They rolled to a stop and leaped out,
Lugers in their hands. No one came toward them.
Evidently their arrival was unnoticed.
"Hey!" Bull barked, "What's all the
excitement up here?"
"I don't know," G-8 answered. "But we might
just as well find out since we're here."
"It looked to me," Nippy ventured, "like a
ceremony of some kind. Maybe it's one of these
peasant dances."
"Maybe," G-8 admitted, "but I don't think so."
They strode on toward the crowd as fast as
they could. G-8 was straining his eyes.
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"You're taller than I am, Bull," he said. "Can
you see anything on the other side of that gang?"
Bull stared, but it wasn't until they topped a
slight rise of ground that he let out a cry.
"Holy Herring!" he exploded. "Looks like a
circus has come to town!"
"What do you mean, a circus?" Nippy
snapped. "I know darn well if there was a tent
there, I could see it."
They were close enough now to hear talking.
A woman in the crowd was sobbing; the group
seemed to be gripped with fear.
"Jumping Jupiter!" Nippy chirped suddenly.
"Look at that big guy straight ahead there! He's
coming down from that big rock."
G-8 and Bull's eyes flashed in the direction
he mentioned. They saw a patriarchal figure
dressed in flowing garments. To all appearances,
he had come right out of the face of a great rock
in the side of the mountain, a rock that was
roughly modeled in the form of a huge gargoyle.
"He looks like a Bedouin sheik," G-8 gasped
hoarsely. "And those two birds behind him-- "
"Holy Herring!" Bull growled. "Honest, I didn't
drink that much at the reception at the 18th
jadgstaffel last night. I know it. Maybe I'm going
nuts."
"If you are," Nippy chimed in, "you aren't
alone. You've got a couple of lunatics with you.
We all see the same thing.
If those two guys with him don't look like a
couple of South Sea Island bushmen, then I'll kiss
my maiden Aunt Maggie on top of the Eiffel
Tower at noon."
G-8 and Nippy had described the three
figures correctly. The tall, patriarchal figure in his
flowing robes looked like a genuine Bedouin
sheik.
His two companions, who had emerged from
the mountain behind him were dark, almost black,
and nearly naked. They each carried in their hand
a strange-looking object. It was a stick, perhaps
two or two and one-half feet long, bent almost at
a right angle.
Nippy grabbed G-8 by the arm. "Look!" he
breathed. "Those guys are not only bushmen but
do you know what they've got in their hands?
Boomerangs. I used to try to throw one of those
things when I was a kid. And believe me, it's
some trick."
Bull shook his head angrily.
"Say, listen," he said. "All three of us have
gone nuts. You can't kid me. You know what's
happened? We got into that down-draft of air and
crashed and we're killed. This is simply our
subconscious mind working after we're dead.
Maybe we're in hell. Who knows? We're not
crazy, we're dead. That's what we are."
G-8 was forced to smile. He jerked his thumb
over his shoulder without taking his eyes from the
Bedouin sheik and the two bushmen.
"Take a look behind, Bull," he said. "I think
you can see our planes back there. They don't
look like wrecks to me."
"Yeah," Bull persisted, "but listen-- "
"Shut up," G-8 hissed. "Come on, let's get up
near the front of this bunch and see what's going
on. Unless I'm crazy, this is going to be a show
that we're more interested in than anyone else."
"It's some show already," Nippy whispered.
"Here we come down into Switzerland and land in
the Alps where probably not one of these
peasants has ever seen an airplane at close
range before and they haven't even bothered to
turn around because they're so interested in that
show."
They reached the group of peasants, pushed
through. They stopped in amazement.
G-8 and his Battle Aces were staring at a line
of strange-looking men. They appeared to be
South Sea Island bushmen, but they wore more
clothes than the other two, clothes made of skins
that covered most of their torsos. They were like
people from a strange planet, G-8 thought. They
had oddly-shaped bodies with great barrel chests
and their faces were void of expression, perfect
poker faces.
"Holy Herring!" Bull breathed. "Something is
coming off. I think it's something that isn't going
to be very nice."
G-8 laid a restraining hand on the big fellow's
arm.
"Yes," he said, "and we are just in time for it.
Pipe down. I think the Bedouin is going to say
something."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Men From Mars
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G-8 WAS right. The patriarchal figure had
stopped near the end of the line of bushmen and
began to utter a few words in some strange
language that G-8 didn't recognize. His voice was
deep and rasping and seemed to come almost
from the soles of his feet. Yet there was
something familiar about those words. It made
him think of the hog Latin that kids had played
with in school-- corruptions of German, English,
French, or perhaps all of them, disguised with
various odd phrases.
After a few moments the sheik turned to the
two bushmen who had followed him.
Instantly, they stepped back, raised their
arms and hurled their boomerangs out over the
heads of the panic-stricken peasants.
The boomerangs whistled as they sailed over
their heads. They made a great circle, traveling at
amazing speed. Then, as though they had been
on rubber bands, they came back to the hands of
the two bushmen who had thrown them.
The Bedouin faced the peasants now. He
shouted something in that same garbled tongue
that sounded like a warning.
There was a nervous shuffle among the
villagers. The tension increased until every man,
woman, and child in that throng stood motionless.
Then the chief turned to the bushmen,
issued other orders. They raised their arms and
this time they put more speed behind the
boomerangs than before. The great objects shot
out over the heads of the petrified townspeople.
They made a circle, seemed to be gaining speed
as they came back.
G-8 was standing like a statue, tense and
motionless.
Those boomerangs were not going back to
the hands of the bushmen who had thrown them.
They were traveling toward the other bushmen,
lined up in front of the townspeople. With a
hissing sound, they bore down on the two
bushmen on the end of the line.
Something in the pit of G-8's stomach
seemed to jump. A cold chill raced down his
spine as though icy fingers had stroked him there.
The first boomerang had struck. It connected
squarely with the head of the bushman on the end
of the line. His head snapped off as though it had
been snapped off by an ax of the Guillotine and
red blood spurted from the stub of the neck.
The second boomerang landed half a second
later. With a nauseating thud, it crashed into the
neck of the bushman next to him and in like
manner his head fairly flew from his neck,
plopped on the ground beside the other.
Together, those two heads began rolling down a
slight incline.
The entire crowd of watchers stood frozen
with horror. Then the strangest thing of all
happened. The two bushmen who had lost their
heads didn't fall, but remained in an erect
position. Blood oozing from the stubs of their
necks, they walked forward.
They moved like automatons, took three
strides to where their bloody heads had plunged
into a depression at the bottom of the incline.
Each picked up his own head by the hair.
There was a shout from the robed chief. The
bushmen, including those who had just picked up
their heads, turned abruptly and all made a rush
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for the gargoyle rock. In a moment they had all
disappeared.
For almost half a minute, G-8 and his Battle
Aces stood staring at the place where these
strange men had vanished. Then, as though by a
uniform command, they leaped forward in hot
pursuit. But scarcely had they got under way
before there was a wild cry from the mob. Men,
women, and children rushed forward. They swung
around to the side, flashed in front of the three
running Americans.
Instantly, the old football charging instinct
rose in Bull Martin. He went over, lowered his
head, and hunched his shoulders. His feet were
traveling like lightning. But Nippy saw what was
coming. He moved faster, shot in ahead of Bull
with a dexterous movement, and threw his legs in
front of the flying legs of the big halfback.
Bull struggled to catch his balance. Nippy
tripped him again as it seemed he was going to
make it. An angry roar emitted from the throat of
the big fellow as he plunged headlong to the
ground. His hands shot out, those big, powerful
hands on his strong arms. Nippy tried to get free
before they could reach him, but he wasn't quite
quick enough this time.
Bull's eyes were blazing in a frenzy of anger.
He jerked his little pal close to him.
"You little squirt!" he bellowed. "I've got a
good notion to break you in two for this. What's
the idea, trying to stop me?"
Bull was almost insane with rage now. He
was shaking Nippy back and forth like a bull
terrier shakes a rat. Nippy's teeth rattled like
castanets. G-8 grabbed Bull by the arm and spun
him half around.
"Let go of Nippy!" he barked.
But Bull hung on. G-8's grip tightened on his
arm. G-8 repeated his command. It didn't seem
to make any difference to him how big Bull Martin
was. He was issuing an order and he was going to
see that it was carried out.
His next words came very low and very
calm. They might have been edged with icicles.
"Let him go, Bull, before I knock you for a
row of Chinese ashcans."
There was no doubt that G-8 meant exactly
what he said. Bull nodded instantly, released his
grip on the little fellow.
"O.K.," he mumbled, a little embarrassed
now. "Sorry, G-8. Lost my head. But I can't figure
why Nippy tripped me."
G-8 pointed ahead to the crowd of villagers
that had swung around to block their way.
"You're a great guy, Bull," he said, "but
sometimes you're a better fighter than you are a
thinker. See what you would have done if he had
let you go on a little farther? You would probably
have slammed right into those peasant women
and children."
"I'm sorry," Bull said. "I lost my head. But
Holy Herring, if we only could have followed those
guys!"
"I don't think that is necessary-- yet," G-8
said. "First, I want to find out what's been going
on around here. There's no use of throwing
ourselves into a trap by being too eager."
"But you started it," Bull complained. "I mean
you started this rush for the mountain," G-8
nodded.
"Yes," he admitted. "I'm not blaming you. To
tell the truth, I think Nippy deserves the credit in
this case. If this crowd of mountain folk hadn't
come around to stop us, we might have gone
right on without thinking. We do strange things on
impulse sometimes."
BY now, the villagers had seemed to find
their tongues. They were all shouting together in a
language which was an easily-understood dialect
of German.
G-8 turned to them. A large, middle-aged
man, powerfully built and dressed in peasant garb
with Alpine hat, stepped out from the crowd.
G-8 smiled as he faced him.
"Mein Herr," he bowed, "you are no doubt
entitled to an apology from us for landing our war
planes in your neutral country."
The man shrugged and looked a bit puzzled.
"I don't understand," he said.
G-8 frowned.
"You don't understand?" Then he laughed.
"But I don't blame you for not being able to
understand anything after the show we've just
seen. It's a bit confusing, nicht wahr? However,
Switzerland being a neutral nation, we men of the
warring powers are strictly forbidden to land
here."
Still the big man looked rather blank.
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"War?" he said. "Jawohl, it seems to me I did
hear something about a war. We see one of your
big birds flying about now and then. Someone is
fighting. We heard rumors. But it doesn't matter
to us. We shall not fight."
G-8's perplexity deepened still more.
"You mean," he demanded, "that you don't
know anything about this war?"
The mountaineer nodded.
"Ja, mein Freund," he said. "Why should we
trouble ourselves? We are a peace-loving group
of people. Once or twice a year we go down with
our wagons far below to a larger town and buy
supplies that we can not raise ourselves. But
outside of that, we are sufficient unto ourselves."
Slowly the truth was dawning over G-8.
Here was a group of simple-minded, peace-loving
people, perhaps three or four dozen of them. In
all probability, the families had lived here for
hundreds of years. They raised what they needed,
buying very little from the outside. They probably
had little or nothing to do with the government.
They were satisfied to live alone and partake of
their own simple joys and sorrows without aid or
hindrance from outside. They knew nothing of
neutrality regulations.
They had heard that there was a war, but
even now, it seemed to mean absolutely nothing
to them.
"Look here," G-8 ventured, starting out on
another track. "You know why we came here,
mein Herr?"
The other looked frankly surprised.
"You said at the beginning, that you came
down by accident."
"Yes, of course," G-8 agreed. "What I mean
is: Do you know what we were looking for when
we accidentally landed? We were looking for
something that kills men very strangely. It eats
them away."
The mountaineer's face whitened a little.
"Nothing is impossible here, mein Freund,"
he ventured. "These beasts from another planet
do strange things."
G-8's eyes narrowed.
"People from another planet?" he asked.
"Jawohl." The other looked surprised. Then
he turned and pointed to the huge queer-shaped
rock that projected from the side of the mountain.
"Listen, mein Freund, he whispered. "It was
some nights ago that we heard it in the darkness.
Every one of my people heard that terrible,
roaring sound."
The heads of the peasants bobbed in
agreement.
"We were in our beds, sleeping as all good
respectable people should do at that time. Then
it came-- a terrific roar. The earth trembled. One
of the men managed to look out of the window
quickly enough. He says he saw a dash of light.
The rumbling continued for several minutes. Then
all was still. We were afraid to stir. We knew
some terrible thing had happened. Each of us
took count of our families, but we found no one
missing. Later, we gathered in the village square
and prayed and waited for dawn to come. Then
we saw it."
He nodded at the gigantic rock.
"You see," he said, "it's like a strange beast.
We have read in books about far away planets.
Perhaps this rock is a strange beast from such
place. Anyway of this we are sure. The great
beast which seems to have turned into a rock
brought with it these strange men. For the very
next morning we saw these strange creatures for
the first time."
G-8 nodded slowly.
"I see," he said. "And how about the
beheadings? Have you seen that before?"
THE face of the mountaineer grew whiter.
"Jawohl," he admitted. "On that very first day
when we went up to look at the rock, these men
suddenly appeared from nowhere. Then one of
them threw his crooked stick and cut off the head
of another right before our eyes. Something like
that has happened every day since then."
"And how long ago was it that all this
started?" G-8 demanded.
"Three days ago," the peasant leader
answered.
"Have you had a message from any of
them?" G-8 asked.
The mountaineer shook his head.
"Nein, mein Freund," he answered. "They
don't seem to understand our language and we
can not understand theirs. Once the man in white
robes came out and tried to talk to us. He waved
his arms but we could not understand what he
was talking about."
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"Have any of you been near that rock?"
"Only on the first day. Whenever we get
near it, these strange beings pop up."
"I should think," G-8 ventured, "that you
could take what guns you have in the village and
get rid of these strange beings."
The mountaineer's eyes widened in
astonishment.
"But have you not seen, mein Herr," he
gasped, "before your very eyes that cutting off
these men's heads does not kill them? They bend
over, pick their heads up, and walk off with them.
Creatures like that can not be killed with guns."
G-8 shrugged.
"Maybe not?" he ventured, "and then
again-- "
He did not finish that sentence; he was
staring at the great rock. After a moment he
turned back to the leader of the villagers.
"What was the reason for rushing forward
and stopping us when we tried to follow those
men?" he asked.
"We had to stop you," the other explained.
"We do not dare incur their displeasure. They
might come down and kill all of us."
G-8 nodded slowly.
"I see," he said. "I thought it was something
like that. Is this all you have seen?"
"All?" he demanded. "Lieber Gott! Is that not
enough?"
G-8 tried not to smile.
"Yes, of course, that is quite enough. But I
was wondering if you have seen for instance, any
falcons such as are used in hunting?"
The mountaineer thought for a moment. He
turned and gutturalled to his people behind him.
They shook their heads.
"No," he said, "we have seen no falcons,
mein Freund."
There was a long pause during which no one
spoke. Then G-8 asked.
"You have no objections to our remaining
here for a time, have you?"
"Ach nein," the mountaineer answered. "It
has never been said that my people have failed to
extend the proper hospitality to travelers-- and it
shall not be said now. You are welcome, mein
Freunds. We only ask that you do nothing to
incur the displeasure of these men from another
world. We want to go on living peacefully."
G-8 turned to Nippy and Bull and spoke in
German to them.
"It's best that we go back to our ships," he
said. Then he nodded to the mountaineers. "No
doubt, mein Freund, you and your people had
best go back to your homes now. I think the show
is over."
It was G-8 and his two Battle Aces who led
the procession back to the little village in the
lower end of the valley. Then they returned to
their ships. From there, they could get a good
view of the great rock embedded in the side of
the mountain.
"Jumping Jupiter!" Nippy demanded at last.
"What are you going to do, G-8, call this whole
thing off?"
"Not on your life," the master spy countered.
"But we can't go up there and investigate that
rock right now without the whole town coming
down on our necks. When things quiet down a
bit, we can edge up around there. There is some
scrub growth along the very edge of the valley,
you see. I think we can slip up under cover of it a
little later and have a good look at things."
"Yes," Bull growled, "and probably get our
heads cut off with some of those boomerangs."
"I hardly think so," G-8 smiled. "If we do it
will be our own fault because we know what to
look for now."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Order of Death
IT was some time later that they decided to
start. The villagers seemed to have settled down
to their usual routine. During the morning many
of them visited the field and stared with awe at
the three planes; but now they were all gone.
G-8 and his Battle Aces started walking
toward the mountain. They moved slowly as
though they were taking a stroll for their health.
Upon reaching the row of low bushes at the side
of the valley where the mountain joined it, they
crashed through. And with that growth as a
shield, began making their way toward the rock.
G-8 was listening intently for sounds, either
from the valley or the direction of the rock. Now
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and then a voice sang out from the village. The
sound vibrated and echoed against the
mountainside. Each time he tightened a little.
He felt, and he sensed that Nippy and Bull
had the same feeling, as though they were
venturing into a great unknown. Nameless
horrors might be waiting for them there beyond
that rock.
They moved on and on, picking their way
cautiously.
"I wouldn't be surprised," G-8 said in a low
whisper as they came nearer the rock, "if they've
got men watching. I've got a hunch that the show
is put on to keep these simple country folk back
from prying into something that they shouldn't
know."
"If that's what they're after," Bull growled,
"they sure have accomplished it. They make me
feel like I don't want to mess around with them
any more than I have to. This idea of sneaking up
on a bunch of crazy idiots that cut each other's
heads off for the fun of it-- that's going a little too
far for me."
"Aw, forget it," Nippy chirped. "It's just a
swell illusion. I got it all figured out. Now look.
Suppose they take a guy and-- "
He stopped short and stared through the
brush ahead of them. They were much nearer the
great rock now than they had been before.
"Jumping Jupiter!" he breathed.
Men were coming from the side of the
mountain. They seemed to be popping in view
from nowhere.
"They must have seen us,'' G-8 breathed.
"Look! There must he a dozen or more of those
bushmen and behind them-- "
"Holy Herring!'' Bull broke in. "The whole
bunch of them are dressed in robes and they look
like Bedouins."
Two dozen-odd strange creatures were
pouring from the side of the mountain, but they
failed to catch sight of that patriarchal chief who
had directed the show before.
The bushmen were forming a circle now,
directly in front of where Nippy, Bull and G-8
crouched in the brush.
At the same time, they heard shouts and
cries from the village folk below. But the villagers
didn't seem to be coming toward the hill; they
were running from the village in panic. The
bushmen and Bedouins seemed to be paying no
attention to them. Their interest was concentrated
on the spot of inrush where the three Yanks
waited motionless.
G-8's eyes shifted nervously. The last
Bedouins carried small wicker baskets, and as he
gazed at them, he breathed one single word,
"Falcons!"
Nippy and Bull nodded dumbly in agreement.
Suddenly, the bushmen who had formed a
circle before them began waving their
boomerangs. G-8 hissed a low command.
"Put your arms around your necks," he
whispered. "We don't know what's coming, and
that might protect us in case they try to cut our
heads off."
They stood like that, waiting while the
bushmen raised their crooked sticks and hurled
them out into space, each one in a little different
direction. They heard the low, swishing sound that
the boomerangs made as they spun directly in a
great arc and came back.
G-8 and his Battle Aces could not help
moving their necks any more than they could
keep from breathing. They were so anxious to see
what was taking place that they pushed through
the brush and before they knew it, were standing
out in the open. Nippy was the first to realize
what was happening.
"Jumping Jupiter!" he exclaimed.
"They're throwing their boomerangs so that
they come back and cut off their own heads!"
Nippy's words were absolutely true. Those
boomerangs were going out, making their circles
and coming back, each one straight for the man
who had thrown it. There was a series of
sickening thuds as necks were struck by the
sharp, heavy wooden instruments.
Heads popped off around the circle of the
dozen bushmen as though someone had
removed them with a great rotary blade. They
dropped to the ground and rolled a little distance.
But this time, the headless men did not remain
standing.
One by one, they dropped to the ground,
slumped as though life had suddenly left them.
Some of the figures lay still, others flopped about
like chickens whose heads had been severed on
the chopping block.
Suddenly, G-8 felt his arm clutched in a vise-
like grip. Bull had grasped him. He was
breathing something in awed horror.
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"Holy Herring! Look at the Bedouins! They're
releasing something from those baskets."
G-8 gave a short nod.
"Yes," he hissed, "falcons. There goes one.
Look out! They're coming for us."
The master spy drew his Luger. Nippy and
Bull did the same. They stood ready to fire. The
falcons were soaring now over their heads.
The bodies of the dozen headless bushmen
had ceased to twitch. They were lying perfectly
still. Staring upward, G-8 counted an equal
number of falcons, one for each of the prone
bodies of the headless bushmen. Then suddenly
the falcons dived as though by a signal. G-8
thought he had heard one of the Bedouins cry out
a command.
AT first, it looked as though the falcons were
going to plunge on G-8 and his two comrades;
then they suddenly swerved and headed for the
bodies of the bushmen.
There was a loud swishing and flashing of
wings and next the falcons had lighted on the
blood-smeared neck stubs. At that, the dozen
bodies came suddenly to life. The bushmen
began scrambling about in search of their lost
heads.
While the three Americans stood staring in
stark amazement, they picked up their heads and
their boomerangs and started off in a double-
quick marching toward the great rock. The
Bedouins fell in line and followed.
At that, G-8 leaped out ahead, Luger in
hand.
"Stop!" he shouted "Stop or I'll shoot."
He called that command at the top of his
lungs in American, German, and French. But
none of the bushmen or Bedouins took any
notice.
"We'll find out whether these headless birds
are immortal or not," he muttered through
clenched teeth.
He raised his Luger to take aim-- then
stopped short for there, coming from the rock on
a dead run, was the patriarchal figure of the
Bedouin sheik. He was waving his arms and
shouting in German.
"Don't shoot, I beg of you. Don't shoot."
He was running as fast as he could, his white
beard flowing in the breeze. He, like the others,
was a great barrel-chested, broad-shouldered
man.
"I can explain everything," he yelled. "Listen
to me. I am the Wizard. I-- "
At that moment, Nippy who had suddenly
glanced past the sheik, let out a cry of alarm. He
leaped aside, crashing into G-8 and Bull. He was
on his knees as something went flying through the
air and then-- thuck! A shiny thing hurled over
the heads of the three Americans. It struck the
patriarchal figure full in the neck from the side.
His head leaped off his shoulders and thudded to
the ground.
"I saw them," Nippy gasped. "One of those
bushmen without a head. He threw the
boomerang. That guy there, the last one going
into the rock." At the same time, he raised his
Luger and fired. "Nuts," he spat. "I missed him."
The three stared in amazement. All of the
Bedouins and the headless bushmen had
vanished. There, before them, the great body of
the Wizard had slumped to the ground. It was
several seconds before anyone could speak
again. Then Bull nodded solemnly.
"It looks," he ventured, "as though we have
finished the job. With the Wizard dead, our
mission is all over."
"With the Wizard dead," G-8 said, "it may be
tougher yet." Then his jaws snapped together.
"Listen," he barked. "I'm going to follow these
birds wherever they went and shoot it out, guns
against boomerangs, falcons, or whatever they've
got. Are you with me?"
He started on a dead run for the great rock.
They had gone perhaps twenty paces when Bull
turned and looked back. A bellow of warning left
his lips.
"Holy Herring! Look. The Wizard isn't dead.
He's getting up."
It was as though someone had applied
brakes hurriedly. The three of them stopped dead
in their tracks and turned. The sheik, with his neck
oozing blood, was rising slowly but surely. He
stood up, tottering a moment. Then he groped
about him until he found his head. He picked it
up, tucked it under his arm neatly like a loaf of
bread, and ducked into the bushes.
G-8 plunged after him. He leveled his Luger
at the spot where the Wizard had gone, pressed
the trigger. But as the gun barked, he changed
his mind and flipped the muzzle above the target.
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The brush must be hiding the Wizard now.
They could not see anything of him. G-8 wasn't
sure whether he considered this Wizard
absolutely dead or not. Absolutely dead; that
was a funny thought. Could a man be half dead?
Could a man really have his head cut off and go
on living? It was an impossibility, and yet it was
happening before their very eyes.
The three aces plunged into the thicket. They
were searching frantically. Once they stopped to
listen, but they could hear no sound of crackling
that would signify the direction taken by the
Wizard. They sped on frantically.
G-8 heard a swishing sound and then
another. He whirled as he heard something strike
a heavy blow. With a low, weak cry, Bull keeled
over on his face with the mark of a boomerang on
his temple.
G-8 spun around the other way and ducked.
A boomerang swished over his head just as he
dived under it. Nippy was reeling backward
against a large stone. He, too, had been hurt. He
was slumping slowly to the ground.
G-8 whirled around again to face the
menace. The bomerang that had been meant for
him had missed. Probably others would be
coming, but he would account for some of these
ghastly murderers before they got any farther.
The Wizard had vanished completely, but
the bushmen, with falcons still perched on their
bloody necks, had returned. G-8 leveled his Luger
and fired as fast as he could.
One of the bushmen let out a cry of pain and
his empty hands flew to his middle. He bent
double, gurgled, wavered for a moment, then
pitched forward; his bloody neck buried itself in
the soft earth.
The second bushman was caught off his
balance by two more bullets from G-8's Luger.
He was hurled on his side. His fingers, like
talons, clawed the earth in his last convulsive
movements. It looked for a moment as though he
were trying to dig himself a hole. Then, suddenly,
his body went limp and except for the quivering of
contracting muscles, he lay still.
"So you don't die when your head is cut off,
but bullets will kill you," G-8 rasped viciously.
"O.K., here's some more for you birds. Get a load
of this, you big, headless-- "
Stars flashed before his blinded eyes for a
moment, then the light faded completely and he
succumbed to total darkness.
G-8 was first conscious of a slow movement.
He was being carried. Even before he opened his
eyes, he was aware of that fact. His mind was
foggy, but slowly he regained full consciousness.
When he opened his eyes he saw that four men
were carrying him-- four headless men.
He could see them at close range, could see
their necks and the blood oozing over them.
There was one holding each leg and one holding
each shoulder.
He raised his head, saw four more carrying
Nippy. He turned. Four others were following,
lugging Bull as they came. That was a real effort,
carrying that big fellow.
As far as G-8 could tell, he was the only one
of the three who had regained consciousness. A
panic of fear welled up in him. Suppose Nippy
and Bull were dead.
He flopped back limply.
Towering directly above them was the great
rock. They were traveling a narrow path which
was cut along its base-- a path so narrow, in fact,
that the four men had trouble walking abreast in
it.
He wondered about the Wizard. What had
become of him?
Things grew clearer now. He saw that the
path was newly-made. From the whole contour of
the ground over which they moved and the
newness of the earth, he felt quite sure of the
answer to this phenomenon. The great rock was
no meteor that had fallen from some other planet.
The four men who carried him had been
climbing in a gradual ascent. Suddenly they
reached a level and paused. Looking down, G-8
saw another valley just below. There was a great
circle of wagons-- wagons that were painted with
gaudy colors and embellished with gilt and silver
designs.
Back of them was a huge structure built of
logs and beyond that, were smaller buildings, also
of logs. Two of these looked not unlike regular
army barracks. The path descended now into a
straight line into the valley.
G-8 and his Battle Aces were carried down
swiftly and taken into one of the smaller buildings.
A Bedouin in a white robe approached them. He
gave a command to the bushmen and the three
Yanks were each laid on a cot. Then the Bedouin
began making an examination of G-8's head.
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While he did so, he uttered no word. He gave a
short nod when he finished and passed on to
Nippy.
His examination there was a little longer. At
length, he produced some bottles from a shelf.
He stood between G-8 and Nippy, so the master
spy could not tell exactly what he was doing, but
he guessed the man was administering medical
aid to the terrier ace. G-8 lay still, breathless with
apprehension. Then the doctor stepped back with
a nod of satisfaction and a moment later, G-8
saw Nippy's eyes open and stare about dazedly.
The doctor nodded quickly a third time and
stepped away from Bull at the moment the big
ace opened his eyes.
"Nippy, Nippy, where are you?" Bull called
out in a half-delirious voice. "Nippy, are you all
right?"
Nippy uttered a feeble "O.K.", but Bull didn't
seem to hear him. He went on yelling, "G-8, are
you O.K.? Something hit me. Oh, my head!"
"We're O.K.," G-8 said, "at least, I think we
are."
"If you think you're in tough shape," Nippy
chirped, "you ought to have a head like mine.
Boy, I feel like I was on the tail end of a four-year
hangover. Where are we? What are they going
to do to us?''
"I can answer the first part," G-8 said.
"These headless men carried us over a little pass
in the mountains past that big rock to a camp of
some sort. I haven't the slightest idea of what
they're going to do with us-- cut our heads off
probably."
Before G-8 could turn to see who had uttered
the command, someone spoke in a garbled
tongue from the doorway and then vanished. The
headless bushmen instantly picked up the three
aces and marched out.
The fresh air outside felt better. It had been
stuffy in that log house. Or maybe it was the
continuous sight of the men with the bloody necks
and the falcons upon them that had made G-8
feel faint.
They were brought to the largest log building
now.
The light was dim inside, but in it they made
out a group of headless men standing on one side
and a group of Bedouins standing on the other.
On a dais in the center sat a figure in robes
similar to those worn by the Wizard. This, then,
was apparently another Bedouin chief, perhaps
the high commander. His shoulders were high
and wide. There was a blank expression on his
face and when he talked, he made no movement
of his jaws. He spoke to them in a sort of halting
German.
"You inferior creatures are suspected of
trying to pry into the mysteries of an order greater
than you can even understand," he said. "You will
be subjected to the falcon test. If you survive
that, you will be given the bomerang rite. If you
continue to live when rendered headless, you will
be worthy to join the Order of Death."
G-8 saw big Bull Martin's face move angrily.
Nippy was standing on the other side of him,
motionless.
Somehow, the words didn't sink in deeply on
the master spy's mind. He was thinking more of
the voice; there was something strangely familiar
about it. He could not remember ever having
heard anyone speak in quite that same halting
German before and he made a wild guess that
the voice had been disguised.
And now, strangely enough, the chief issued
orders to the headless men and the Bedouins in
the same halting German tongue. That meant,
then, that these men understood German; yet all
along they had pretended not to.
"You will take the candidates out for the
falcon test now," the sheik ordered.
Instantly, the guards who had carried them
there turned them around. Held securely, they
were marched out of the building, one at a time.
SUDDENLY, G-8, Nippy, and Bull found
themselves standing alone in the great open
space between the circle of gaudy wagons and
the large log building.
A Bedouin shouted a command. Three
falcons leaped from hampers and climbed with a
flutter of wings.
With a sense of horror, the three Americans
saw that each of these three falcons had a tiny
glass vial fastened to its leg.
G-8 was thinking faster than he had ever
thought in his life before.
"We have only one chance," he whispered
hoarsely to his Battle Aces. "Get those falcons by
the neck and bash them to the ground before they
strike us with the vials."
"Yeah," Nippy chirped.
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The falcons were circling now a hundred feet
above the three Americans.
The Bedouin shouted a second command.
The falcons folded their wings, tipped their tails,
and plunged downward. Down, down, they hurled
with the speed of a stone dropped from a great
height.
The three Americans separated a little so
that they would have more room to fight. Their
Lugers and all other means of protection had
been taken away. They had nothing but their bare
hands.
A moment before, G-8 had been almost
frozen with horror, but now he was suddenly cold
and calm. Every muscle and nerve was
functioning perfectly. As the falcon passed
before him and dashed down to strike, he ducked
side ways with all the speed he could muster.
His right hand shot up in a blur of movement.
The falcon swerved, but not quickly enough. G-8's
fingers clutched its neck. There was a swishing,
downward movement-- then his fingers were
pressing with all their might into the throat of the
falcon.
As he threw the bird to the ground with
terrific force, he darted back. There was a slight,
tinkling sound of breaking glass. A thin bit of
liquid oozed out and ran into the earth.
He shot a glance at Nippy, who had fared as
well. The falcon that had attacked him was on the
ground, motionless except for a bit of convulsive
fluttering.
Swinging his glance to Bull, he saw the big
fellow had his falcon by the neck, the next instant
the bird was flung against a rock with such force
that there wasn't even any fluttering of the
muscles.
G-8 whirled to make a break for liberty, but
he realized that it was hopeless. If it had been a
half hour later, it would be just about dark and
they might have been able to start something.
But now the sun was still rimming the crest of the
mountain to the west.
The bushmen, holding their boomerangs
high in the air ready to throw, closed in on them.
Bull whirled with a roar of anger, but G-8
leaped out and grabbed him.
"Take it easy," he advised. "We haven't got a
chance now. We may get a break later."
Bull gave a nod of his head and surrendered
without further trouble.
They were led back to the great log
structure. The sheik, sitting on his dais, nodded
very slowly. But still there was no expression on
his face and he spoke again without moving his
lips.
"I have witnessed your encounter of the
falcons from here," he said. "It was sehr gut. You
are more worthy to become members of the
Order of Death than I had first thought. Now
there remains but one more test. It is getting late;
it will very soon be dark. Tomorrow morning at
dawn, you shall have the boomerang rite. That
will be the final proof that you are entitled to
membership in our secret order."
Bull Martin took a step forward angrily.
"Who ever said that we-- " he began.
But he got no farther. G-8 whirled on him
and with the flat of his open palm slapped him full
in the mouth.
"Shut up," he snarled. "I'll give orders here
for the three of us."
He was careful to say that in German so that
the robed figure on the dais would understand it.
Then he turned to the Bedouin chief and bowed.
"I am sure," he said, "that it will be an honor
to all of us to belong to your Order of Death. We
shall be ready at dawn tomorrow."
A chuckling sound came from somewhere
down in the throat of the robed sheik.
"I will see to it, mein Freund, that you are
ready," he said. Then, to his men-- "take them
into the woods at the other end of this building.
Bind them securely to three trees. I want them to
remain standing all night so that they will be
properly prepared for the boomerang rite at
dawn."
Once more, G-8, Nippy, and Bull were
marched out. It was dusk when the headless men
finished binding them to three trees some twenty
feet apart.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hell's Circus
SEVERAL minutes passed. It was dark in
the woods now. The headless bushmen who had
bound them there were gone and the three
Americans were alone.
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Each man had tested his bindings. Bull,
Nippy, and G-8 had all strained and twisted. They
had tried to work the knots loose, but there was
no sign of success, no hope of their ever
escaping the dreaded fate of the boomerang.
G-8 was tied to the center of the three trees.
Nippy was on his left and Bull on his right.
It was Bull who finally burst forth with, "Well,
come on, Nippy. You're the magician in this
crowd."
"They've got me stumped," Nippy admitted.
"I used to think a lot of ways of getting out of a
tight place like this when I was safe and sound
somewhere, perched on the top of a big easy-
chair, but none of them will work now."
"Anybody got a knife?" G-8 asked.
"I tried getting at mine," Bull said. "But I don't
think those birds left a single thing in our
pockets."
G-8 strained at the thongs that bound him
again.
"What I want to know," he said, relaxing at
last, "is how we're going to get out of this. These
birds that tied us up here sure know their stuff
even if they are bushmen without any heads."
After that, they all fell silent for a long time.
The hours wore on.
Sleep was overpowering G-8 and the other
two as well. It had been a long time since they
had closed their eyes for a comfortable rest. Now
they were approaching the dawn of another day.
Stubbornly G-8 fought off drowsiness, but each
time it was harder to bring himself to a full
awakening.
Then, suddenly, he heard a voice behind
him.
"Mein Herren, mein Herren," the voice was
repeating. "This is the Wizard. I have come to
save you, to save the world."
Instantly G-8 was wide awake. He tried to
turn his head so that he could see the figure, but
it was still dark and he could make out the other
only dimly.
"It's near dawn," the Wizard went on. "I must
untie you. We have much work to do."
G-8 felt the ropes twist and pull as the
Wizard worked at them. Then he was free; and
with that sudden freedom he was almost pitched
over on his face. With a great effort, he managed
to stand up straight and stagger toward the tree
where Nippy was bound. Nippy's head was
drooping; he was asleep, too.
"My other assistant is over there," G-8 said.
"Go and untie him at once, bitte."
"Jawohl," whispered the Wizard.
Nippy awoke with a start and began
struggling frantically to get free.
"Wait!" hissed G-8. "Take it easy. I'm
untying you."
"Huh?" he said in a mumbled tone. "Oh, so
you are the magician this time."
"No," G-8 snapped back. "The Wizard is."
"You mean the Wizard that lost his head?"
Nippy demanded.
"I believe so," G-8 said, "but don't talk so
loud. He seems to be working with us."
"Jumping Jupiter!" Nippy breathed.
G-8 caught him as he finished untying the
ropes and Nippy sagged forward. A moment
later, he was getting his bearings and working his
tortured, aching arms and legs.
They heard Bull mumbling something. Then
came the gentle crackling of twigs and the rustling
of leaves. The four met in front of the tree where
G-8 had been tied.
G-8 faced the Wizard in the darkness. He
realized suddenly that the Wizard, although still a
very tall man, seemed shorter than he had
before.
"Look here," he said. "Suppose we get
together on this before going any farther. There
are a great many things that we don't
understand."
The Wizard nodded.
"Jawohl. I realize that and I regret to say it is
all my fault. However, I meant no harm. I will
start at the beginning.
"I chose the name of Wizard because it
seemed more dramatic for my purpose. My real
name is Guener. For years I have been the
owner and director of my own traveling circus of
strange freaks. It has always been my hobby to
dabble with chemistry."
"But what are you doing in Switzerland," G-8
asked. "Is it your home?"
"Nein, I am German, but I have never had
any sympathy for the war. I have here a hide-out
which I have used for many years as winter
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quarters for my circus. Those log cabins which
you saw are the buildings and the wagons."
"Jumping Jupiter!" Nippy exclaimed. "I
thought those wagons didn't look quite like gypsy
wagons."
"Nein," the Wizard replied, "but we are in
dangerous quarters now. Let us move on to the
other side of the woods."
He led the way, continuing to talk as he
went.
"It was by chance that I discovered the
formula for a most dangerous acid. Once it has
begun eating wood, fabric, or flesh and bone, it
can not be stopped. There is a secret passage
through the mountains from the German border
which, up to now, only I and my troop knew."
They had stopped now at the far end of the
woods in a little pocket made by a depression of
the earth with rocks and scrub growth about it.
They crouched down to rest and listen. G-8
nodded.
"I think I begin to get it more clearly now,
Herr Wizard," he said. "You were sincere in
sending that message to all the warring nations."
"Absolutely," nodded the Wizard. "As I told
you before, I have always been against war.
When I developed this eating acid, I thought of
the part it would play in a scheme that developed
in my mind. I could make horrible demonstrations
against a few of the men on both sides of the
lines. I chose the air force because that would be
most spectacular for my work."
"But these headless men and these
Bedouins. I don't understand about that," G-8
said.
"They were part of my circus. You see, they
are not normal bushmen. They are all
hunchbacks with their heads bent forward on the
chest so grotesquely that the back of their heads
is below the top of their shoulders. By putting a
false head on their shoulders, they look like great,
barrel-chested fellows. I have used them for
almost five years in my circus in Germany. They
put on such a show as you saw in the valley.
"The Bedouins with their falcons were also
part of my circus. It was through them that I
devised the method of distributing the eating
fluid."
"Yeah," growled Bull skeptically. "Well, then
explain this if you can. What was the idea of
putting on this show for these Swiss peasants
every day?"
"Listen and I will tell you that too. Three
nights ago, there was a great landslide. The rock
which the peasants thought was a meteor fallen
from some other world was merely a rock which
had been there all the time, but had never been
uncovered. The landslide also opened a
heretofore blocked passage from the south of my
hidden valley so that the peasants, if they chose,
could have wandered in on my encampment.
Therefore, I arranged these shows to terrify them
and keep them away. I had a nephew-- perhaps I
still have, but I have not heard from him lately--
who was a pilot. Like myself, he was bitterly
against war. He stole a two-seater German plane
which we painted black. Through him and his
friends, I established four bases which the black
raider plane could contact when it needed fuel."
The Wizard paused in the darkness and the
three Americans saw him smile rather sadly.
"You are wondering how my head is back on
my shoulders," he went on. "I will tell you that.
Yesterday, a German officer came through the
secret passage. I don't know how, perhaps
bribery, but he now has control of my entire
circus. Already he has taken charge of the
laboratory. He has my supply of acid, but he
doesn't know its secret. That is where you must
help me. I prepared for an attack by making a
false head exactly like my own and padding my
shoulders under my robes."
He chuckled to himself.
"It wasn't my own head that was cut off, but
the false head, although, mein Herren, I must
admit that the blow of the boomerang stunned me
for a moment."
"Wait a minute," G-8 said. "This man that
came through the secret passage from the
German border-- was he broad and thick-set?"
"Jawohl," nodded the Wizard excitedly. "You
know him?"
G-8's head bobbed up and down.
"Yes," he said, "I am sure of it. I thought that
voice was familiar. Now I am sure." He turned to
Nippy and Bull. "That was Y-9 sitting there on the
dais."
"Holy Herring!" Bull breathed.
"That's right," G-8 continued. "You know
what he is trying to do?" he demanded of the
Wizard.
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G-8 and His Battle Ace
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THE HEADLESS STAFFEL August, 1935
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A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
67
"I have my suspicions," the Wizard admitted.
"I'll say, and you should have," G-8 nodded.
"He is going to take your liquid and spread it
along the Allied front. He can kill all our
soldiers-- thousands, millions of them."
The Wizard was nodding emphatically.
"Jawohl," he said. "We must stop him. It is
just the opposite of the way I hoped my acid
would work."
G-8's teeth clenched.
"I'll stop him," he snapped. "You know where
the supply is stored, Herr Wizard?"
The Wizard hesitated.
"It used to be in the back of the large
building, but I am not sure that it is there now,"
he said. "I saw men carrying small packages
from there toward the hidden pass into Germany."
"O.K.," G-8 nodded. "We'll soon find out."
They went at a fast trot down through the
dark valley, then slowed and crouched as they
came nearer the back of the largest of the log
building.
The Wizard was in the lead, his flowing
robes of white easily discernible. G-8 stopped
him.
"Wait," he said. "Take off those robes. They
can see you."
The Wizard stripped them off immediately
and moved on. Presently he pointed to a
shadowy door.
"That is the entrance to my laboratory."
"There is someone by the door," G-8 said.
Bull Martin growled angrily deep down in his
throat, "Let me get at him."
"O.K." G-8 nodded. "Go to it."
The big fellow crept over to the side of the
building. Suddenly, he moved with the silent
speed of a panther. There was a choking sound.
Then G-8, Nippy, and the Wizard moved on.
"What will this stuff do to a log cabin?" G-8
demanded.
"Log cabin or the woodwork of a plane-- it is
all the same," the Wizard breathed.
"O.K. then," G-8 said. "Here is what we do.
Lug out three loads of it, as much as we can
carry. We will have to hurry, though. It will be
dawn in a few minutes."
Bull had the door open when they reached it.
They crept inside, past the still form that Bull had
throttled. A dim light burned over a laboratory
table. The Wizard pointed to racks along the wall,
then he gasped.
"Leiber Gott!" he exploded. "They have
already taken half of it."
"We will get that later," G-8 nodded. "Come
on, grab hold of these bottles, as many as you
can carry and for the love of heaven, don't trip or
fall."
Never had the Yank aces worked harder or
with more care than they did in the next few
minutes.
"I guess the best thing to do is to make a
clean job of this all the way around," G-8 told the
Wizard, when all the liquid was outside.
"To be sure," the Wizard nodded.
"Everyone must die."
"O.K. First, the laboratory is going to go."
They flung bottles high in the air so that they
traveled in a great arc and crashed down on the
roof, spilling the liquid. Then they ran to another
building.
They couldn't tell for certain in the darkness,
but it looked already as if the roof of the main log
structure was beginning to go. Now they were
flinging bottles on the roof of the barracks where
the treacherous men slept-- the Bedouins and the
bushmen.
Only a few bottles remained. There was one
more cabin. The Wizard stopped them as they
started for that.
"Bitte, mein Herren," he pleaded, "this is my
job. My first circus bosses whom I trusted most
sleep there. The ones whom I had most
confidence in turned against me. Let me take the
bottles. Let me finish this in my own way."
G-8 nodded. "O.K.," he said. "We will be
shoving off."
The Wizard faced them for a moment.
"You are going to attack the planes on the
other side of the mountain? But they have half of
my supply of the liquid. I am sure of it."
"Don't worry," G-8 assured him. "They won't
last long after we get through with them."
"But there are only three of you," the Wizard
ventured.
"Don't let that worry you," G-8 repeated.
"I wish you success, mein Herren," the
Wizard said with dignity. "Auf Wiedersehn!"
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G-8 and His Battle Ace
TM
THE HEADLESS STAFFEL August, 1935
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A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
68
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Vanishing Staffel
G-8, Nippy, and Bull started for their ships on
a dead run. As they darted through the field, down
past the great rock which the villagers had
thought a meteor, they heard cries of terror
behind them. They needed no imagination to
know what was going on back there. The Wizard
was taking his vengeance.
Five minutes later, they were warming up
their planes.
Peasants began pouring from the village,
awakened by the roaring of the motors. But
before they reached the field, the engines were
warmed and the master spy and his two Battle
Aces were thundering into the air.
There was no down current in the mountains
now. Rather, they were lifted in an up-current
that buoyed them to the top of the highest
mountain with the speed of an express elevator.
They turned north. They could see
everything plainly, for the sun was beginning to
rim the eastern horizon. Over that northern-most
Alpine peak and down toward the hidden drome
they droned.
Seven Fokkers were warming on that field.
Seven Fokkers that began droning out across the
field for the take-off as they saw the three
threatening planes lunging at them.
But they were a few seconds too late. They
wobbled unsteadily. It was plain to see that each
of them was carrying a huge load. From above,
the three Americans could spot glass containers
packed around the pilots in the cockpits.
G-8 and his Battle Aces struck down on the
Fokkers like avenging demons. Their guns
chattered a wild chorus of death. One Fokker
dived and crashed, then another and another.
G-8 and his Battle Aces were dashing about the
sky like angry hornets, spearing one of those
Fokkers here, blasting into the cockpit of another
there.
Then only one of the seven Fokkers
remained. It was fighting desperately to get away.
G-8 pounced on it for his keen eyes had
recognized the pilot as Y-9. Suddenly, the
German spy hauled back on the stick and
screamed up in a half loop.
G-8 rolled, then kicked around in a tight
vertical. The Spandaus chattered and his yellow
tracers cut a circle in the side of the cockpit,
breaking the containers that held the deadly
liquid.
Before that Fokker reached the ground in its
headlong plunge, Y-9 and his cockpit had nearly
vanished.
The sun was riding high in the east when the
three Yanks reached the Chatalon area.
The drive had already started. The line had
moved in a great bulge toward the north and the
Germans were still retreating.
But the Spad's gasoline tanks were nearly
empty and so G-8 led his Battle Aces back to Le
Bourget.
When he stepped inside the apartment, he
reached for the phone and called the general.
Before he could explain anything, the general
exploded joyously.
"Great work, G-8, excellent!" he
complimented.
"But-- but," stammered G-8, "how do you
know anything about it? I haven't reported to you
yet."
The general laughed lightly.
"Well, you see," he said, "the black ship was
holding up our drive at Chatalon, and when we
heard nothing more of it I naturally assumed you
had taken care of it. And you can believe me,
G-8, that drive at Chatalon was a great success,
thanks to you."
"But," G-8 said, "I can't see how you figure it
that way, general. I really didn't do anything in
the drive."
"That doesn't matter," the general chuckled.
"As I told you before, you solved the mystery of
that eating acid and that gave us a chance to put
the drive over."
"But, sir," G-8 protested, "how can you tell? I
haven't even given you my report."
"I am sure you took care of it very nicely,"
the general answered. "You can write up your
report if you like when you get around to it. I
haven't the time to bother with reports on things
that happened some hours ago. Come down and
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G-8 and His Battle Ace
TM
THE HEADLESS STAFFEL August, 1935
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A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
69
have dinner with me tonight, will you? We can
talk it over then."
"Thank you, sir," G-8 said.
He hung up and turned to Nippy and Bull as
they were stripping off their clothes in preparation
for a quick shower.
"You know," he said, "I'm kind of glad we
didn't have to take a direct hand in fighting the
Germans at that Chatalon drive. It would have
been sort of tough to do it right after we had been
working with them on this case."
"Yeah," Bull nodded. "That's right. That
Oberst was a good guy, wasn't he? But I'll tell
you something. I'm a darn sight more interested
in food right now than in fighting Germans."
He raised his voice and shouted, "Battle, hey
Battle! How about some grub for a guy that's
starving to death?"
Battle was coming from the kitchen.
"Yes, sir. At once, sir," he grinned.
"Breakfast is quite ready, sir. I have had it ready
and waiting for the last half hour." The grin on his
usually blank face broadened. "You see, sir, I
figured nothing in the world would stop you from
getting back by now for something to eat, so I was
ready. You may depend upon it, sir, that it will be
a breakfast fit for King George himself."
"Better make it a double portion," Bull
shouted above the hissing of the shower. "King
George is only about half as big as me, you
know."
Battle bowed.
"Righto," he answered. "I will make it a triple
portion."
THE END