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Nemesis Magazine #3
by Stephen Adams
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Copyright (c)2004 Stephen Adams


Renaissance
www.renebooks.com

Science Fiction


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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment.
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         *NEMESIS MAGAZINE*
         Vol. I-No. 3
         Featuring:
         *VICTORY ROSE,* Fighting Nemesis of Axis Tyranny in
         *"THE FUHRER'S FINAL TRUMPET"*
         By
         *STEPHEN ADAMS*
         Nemesis Magazine is published by Anvil Publishing
         Editor-in-Chief: Stephen Adams; Managing Editor: J. M. Stine
         Distributed by Renaissance E Books
         For information contact: Renaissance E Books
         publisher@renebooks.com
         ISBN 1-58873-352-1
         Rachel Rocket, Hell Wings over Manhattan, and all characters in Hell Wings, including their depiction and the Nemesis logo are the creation and copyright property of Stephen Adams. Copyright 2004: Stephen Adams. All rights reserved.
         Copyright to all other new material in this issue assigned to the respective authors.
         This publication may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.
         Cover: Stephen Adams
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         *CONTENTS*
         VICTORY ROSE, Fighting Nemesis of Axis Tyranny in-
         *THE FUHRER'S FINAL TRUMPET*
         A searing book length novel by
         *STEPHEN ADAMS*
         _When the Reich sounds its deadliest weapon, the Allied forces are rendered defenseless against the enemy onslaught. America's only hope is its one woman secret army. But how can even the Fighting Nemesis of Axis Tyranny help? For Victory Rose is trapped inside Berlin, fighting for her own life against SS execution squads, facing the fury of an outraged Nazi mob, drug a helpless prisoner into Hitler's secret bunker stronghold -- with no hope of ever emerging alive!_
         PLUS THESE GREAT JUNGLE CLASSICS
         *KWA AND THE BEASTMEN* -- A Never Before Reprinted Exploit of this Legendary 1930s Apeman by PAUL REGARD
         *"BWANA, BEWARE THE DEVIL'S BELLY!"* -- A Tale of African Vengence by CAPTAIN HUGH THOMASON
       *KI-GOR & THE NIRVANA OF THE SEVEN VOODOOS* -- A Complete Adventure of the White Lord of the Jungle and his Mate Helene from Jungle Stories by JOHN PETER DRUMMOND
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         *THE FUHRER'S FINAL TRUMPHET*
         A book length Victory Rose adventure as told by
         *STEPHEN ADAMS*
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       U.S. War Department File No.: 467QT208
       Subject: Hardwyck, Victoria Rose, Major, W.A.C. (a/k/a: Victory Rose)
       CLEARED FOR PUBLIC DISTRIBUTION -- Auth. U.S. Sec'y of War
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         CHAPTER I
         *ITCHING FOR ACTION*
       Victory Rose stood on a low stage, holding a pointer, before a wall of enlarged photographs. A crowd of reporters watched intently as she explained her most recent mission, in which she had led her squad of rugged commandoes in a raid on a factory producing rocket-propelled munitions for the German Army. During the raid, she had single-handedly saved her men from death in a nearly escape proof flamethrower trap and had captured a top special agent who had been a thorn in the side of the Allies for years. Her accomplishment had undoubtedly saved the lives of scores of servicemen and possibly shortened the war.
       Victory Rose was an amazing specimen of young, American womanhood. She was tall, at six foot, and undeniably well built, military life having in no way tempered her luscious curves. She wore her parade uniform of star-spangled military blouse, low-cut and form-fitting; clingy red and white striped trousers that accented the length of her shapely legs and ended in fetchingly severe high heeled boots. Her crimson gloved hands pointed out the most important features on the photographs behind her. Rose's fresh, lovely face was perfectly made up and framed by a gleaming mass of lustrous, chestnut curls. The effect was topped off by her sparkling, blue eyes and big, American smile. She stood tall and proud, like a patriotic heroine out of the comic books.
       She finished her presentation and cast an open look at the crowd of men who stood before her with their note pads and cameras. "And now, do you have any questions, gentlemen?" she asked.
       There was some nervous laughter and elbowing. Finally one of the reporters raised his hand. Victory Rose singled him out with her pointed finger.
       "Major Hardwyk," he asked, "a lot of our lady readers back home put in some long, hard hours doing factory labor and it's pretty tough for them. I've gotten a lot of letters asking ... ahem ... asking ... if you can pass on any makeup tips for the working girl. You always look so great in your pictures back home."
       Victory Rose's flashing smile became rather frozen as she rapped out a prepared answer. Another reporter raised his hand and was signaled to proceed. The man leaned forward with his pen ready to take down her reply to his question.
       "Major Hardwyk! Is it true that ladies in France have an easier time getting silk stockings than American women? It's being said that American soldiers are bringing in special shipments and distributing them in exchange for ... favors."
       Another prepared answer addressed this question as Victory Rose's teeth were bared in something that began to look less and less like a friendly smile.
       "Major Hardwyk," called a third. "Our readers back home want to know your thoughts on this..."
       Victory Rose leaned forward to hear what subject had piqued the curiosity of the American newspaper reading public.
       The reporter let fly his question, "Is it true that tall girls have a harder time getting a man?"
       Victory Rose's scarlet-gloved fingers began to clench.
         * * * *
       "Sergeant, you'll never know how good it feels to get back to the front!"
       Victory Rose was speaking to Sergeant Cleveland, the tough noncom who did the dirty work of managing her commando outfit. He shrugged his shoulders and nodded while trying to concentrate on cleaning his tommygun. The major could sound off if she liked. He didn't blame her for hating the press conferences she was ordered to give, but it wasn't his place as an enlisted man to get too involved. Her attempts at camaraderie were well-intentioned, he knew, but sometimes left him feeling a bit uncomfortable. Officers should do their grousing among their own peers. Still, he knew that Victory Rose really had no peer in the U.S. Army.
       The time was mid-April, 1945, and the Major had returned to her unit in their bivouac near Mannheim, from which they were soon to embark on their last mission in the European Theater -- parachuting into the Alps near Berchtesgaden where Allied Intelligence believed Hitler to be gathering forces and preparing an impregnable fortress for the Nazis' last stand. If he succeeded, the war could last all summer and through the winter, even with the rest of Germany under Allied control. If Victory Rose was able to get in and kill, or better yet, capture, the mad Fuhrer, it was hoped that resistance would collapse and the German Army would offer its unconditional surrender before the end of spring.
       Gone now, was Victory Rose's star-spangled outfit. Instead, she now wore the same olive drab uniform as the rest of the army. Her only distinguishing mark was a blooming rose, stenciled in black ink on both shoulders of her jacket. Her own closely bobbed, brown hair was no longer covered by the shining, feminine wig and her face had long since been washed clean of makeup. There was no denying that she was still a beautiful woman, perhaps even more so now, in her natural state. But without the flashy uniform she was also revealed to be a supremely tough and intelligent tactical commander.
       Sergeant Cleveland appreciated his good fortune at being selected to serve with Victory Rose. He had been aghast, as had most of the men in the unit, when he had first learned of his assignment. It seemed the height of ridiculousness to serve under a female officer whom he had thought was nothing more than a uniformed showgirl. He had soon learned to respect her though, amazed at her superhuman strength, speed, and endurance. He was impressed by her intelligence and baffled by the speed with which her body healed the injuries she sustained in her battles against Axis foes. There had always been rumors that she was the product of secret, army experiments, and that these were the source of her incredible physical and mental power. Sergeant Cleveland had never learned the truth behind those rumors and Victory Rose never confirmed or denied them. In fact, she refused to talk much at all about her life before the war. But she capitalized on her notoriety to garner the very best in equipment and support for the men under her command. Not only that, but she shared every hardship, never once taking advantage of the luxuries her status as an officer and a celebrity could give her. In this way she had secured the absolute loyalty of her men, who respected her and relished the unique and exciting adventures they shared with her.
       For the past few weeks now, they had been preparing for what would be their greatest mission. In absolute secrecy they had been practicing parachute jumps in the roughest country, mountain climbing, and fighting on skis. Now they were checking and rechecking their equipment while they waited for the Go order.
       All around her now, Victory Rose could feel the men's tension as they waited. Every one of them wanted to get started and get this mission over with. Sitting with the Major and Sergeant Cleveland were the men who had been with her the longest. Cleveland, of course, had been with her since they had battled Rommel's desert forces in the North African campaign. But nearby were Beau and Moses, the southerner and the hard-eyed negro. Bitter racial enemies when they had joined the unit, the fires of combat had welded an unshakeable friendship between them, though neither would admit it. DiMartino lounged nearby. Sly and tough as a cheap steak, the little Italian from the slums of New York seemed to possess every skill imaginable with a knife. Cowboy Larimer and Coochy, the medic, wolfed down C-rations under a tree just a few yards away. Their casual attitudes aside, Victory Rose knew that each one of them was eager to carve a notch for Uncle Adolph on the stock of his carbine.
       The distant buzz of a motorcycle engine broke the silence of the afternoon, growing into snarling roar as the big machine drew near. Obviously the driver recognized Victory Rose, for he slid to skidding halt only a few yards away from the little group.
       "Boy, ya'll watch where you're slingin' gravel with that thing," yelled out Beau.
       The motorcycle courier ignored him, turning his attention to a pouch from which he drew out a folded envelope.
       "Major Hardwyk?" he asked.
       "That's right, corporal," acknowledged Victory Rose.
       "Message from General Wingate, Ma'am."
       "Hand it over, corporal" she said.
       The corporal saluted smartly and offered her the envelope. Victory Rose tore it open and shook loose the paper inside. After a brief glance, she stood up.
       "Okay soldier," she said. "I'm coming with you. Hop into the sidecar. I'm driving."
       The men exchanged glances as Victory Rose climbed on the machine and gunned the engine. With brief nods, they acknowledged their shared thought, that the time had come. The Major was being summoned to receive the official order that would send them winging south for the mission that would put an end to their three and a half years of war. Their eyes sparkled with anticipation. Only Sergeant Cleveland gave the messenger a hard look.
       With the engine blasting out a feral growl, Victory Rose swung the heavy motorcycle around. Cleveland noted with wry amusement that the corporal from headquarters was already looking a little pale. He raised his hand in something halfway between a wave and a salute. Victory Rose returned the gesture.
       "I'll be right back, men," she called. The last word was drowned in a vicious roar as the motorcycle suddenly leaped into motion. The corporal hung on for dear life.
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         CHAPTER II
         *BRIEFED FOR THE MISSION*
       By the time Victory Rose slid the big motorcycle to a halt outside General Wingate's HQ, the young courier was white-faced with sheer terror. As usual, it had not occurred to Rose that everyone was not able to lead life at her breakneck pace.
       "See, Corporal?" she laughed. "All that shrieking was for nothing. We're here in one piece and in record time to boot."
       The corporal tried to speak, but gave up after a couple of efforts and merely nodded. Victory Rose laughed at the man's panic over what for her had been a nice, little afternoon ride in the country. She hopped off the bike and strode into the big farmhouse that General Wingate had commandeered.
       The sergeant acting as Wingate's secretary rose to his feet and offered to show her into the general's office. "The general is expecting you, Major," he snapped out. "If you'll step this way please..."
       But Victory Rose brushed past the man as if he hadn't been there. She rapped smartly on the office door and then walked in without waiting for an answer.
       General Wingate was seated at his desk. The general did not like being intruded upon while he was working. He glanced up at the sudden interruption with eyes like cold, wet slate. As soon as he recognized Victory Rose though, his fleshy jowls spread in what was intended to be a friendly grimace.
       "Vickie!" he boomed, "When are you ever going to learn a little military courtesy?" He smiled as he returned her salute.
       Very few were permitted to address Major Hardwyk as "Vickie," and General Wingate only rated the privilege because, since he was her commanding officer, she couldn't do much about it.
       "Reporting as ordered, General," she rapped out. Her eyes glowed with anticipation. "Do we go?"
       "Sit down, Major," answered Wingate.
       Rose sat down, obediently. Her high mood of excitement had just crashed like a Messerschmidt with a gang of Mustangs on its tail. She had served with the general long enough to know that this was not the prelude to her hearing the news she had awaited for so many tense weeks.
       "Change of plans, Major," began the general. "Orders from the top. Your mission's scrapped as of now."
       "On hold, sir?" she asked.
       General Wingate ignored the question. Instead of answering, he flipped a big, black and white photograph onto the desk in front of her.
       "What do you make of that?" he asked.
       Victory Rose gave the photo a quick once-over. It showed a low altitude aerial view of smashed ruins that stretched as far as the eye could see. She sighed, for she had seen far too many of these pictures over the past few years.
       "It's a bombed out city, sir."
       "Very good, Major. In fact, this is Berlin," said the general, with a little edge of sarcasm in his voice. He leaned over the desk and tapped on the photo with one stubby forefinger. "But what do you make of that?"
       Victory Rose looked again. Distracted by her disappointment over the cancelled mission, she had allowed herself to miss some glaring details. There was the Reichstag and the Kroll Opera. She was looking at a photo of the government section of the German capital. And there was one more important feature. General Wingate pointed it out to her now. She looked more closely and saw what he meant. A peculiar structure blossomed in the center of the rubble field. It looked for all the world like the amplifying bell of a giant horn -- a tuba or maybe a trumpet. Only this horn appeared to be as big as a house. She looked back up at Wingate and raised her eyebrows, questioningly.
       "Ah, I see that I've got your attention now, Major. Good," said the general. "We've bombed this thing flat four times. Each time the Germans have rebuilt it within twenty-four hours."
       Rose stared at the photograph. Apparently the hornlike structure had an importance she had not guessed. It didn't look like any sort of gun, yet she knew from experience that the Nazis had been developing weapons and technology far ahead of their time.
       "A new kind of radar?" she guessed. "Or some kind of air defense?"
       "Right the second time," said Wingate. "But its much more. I've got some footage I want you to see." He looked up and bellowed, "Sergeant Picket!"
       The general's secretary stuck his head in the door. Realizing what his commander wanted, he disappeared for a moment and reappeared with a movie projector which he set up on General Wingate's desk. A sheet had already been pinned against the wall to serve as a movie screen. Once the sergeant had closed the drapes, he bustled out and shut the door behind him, leaving Rose and Wingate alone in the office.
       The general pressed the switch that set the machine whirring. As the grainy images flickered before her, Victory Rose saw she was looking out over a city in ruins, presumably another view of Berlin. On the horizon, a few black dots quickly grew until she saw that they were actually a squadron of twin-engined, Russian bombers with some fighter planes flying escort. Since the film had no soundtrack, the warplanes advanced silently, sweeping in low over the wrecked urban landscape. Suddenly, a flash of light seemed to flow like a wave from one side of the picture to the other. As the wave passed them, the Russian planes instantly nosed down and dived straight into the ground, where they crashed into the broken walls and exploded. The film ended and Wingate opened the curtains to let in the sunlight once again.
       The general spread his hands. "Well?" he asked. "What do you think?"
       "I've seen a lot of funny things in the last few years," answered Rose. "But that's a new one."
       "That film," continued General Wingate, "was smuggled out of Berlin just two days ago while it was still possible to get through the Russian lines. The man who sent it is a scientist assigned to that project. Seems he panicked at the thought of falling into the hands of our eastern allies." Wingate chuckled.
       "That's understandable, sir," smiled Rose. "What's his story."
       The general opened a file of papers and cleared his throat. "I'll let you review this material yourself, of course, when we're done here. But the short version is the Germans have developed some kind of ray. Our science boys explained it to me as an electro-magnetic shock wave, whatever that means. According to our man in Berlin they code-named it the War Trumpet. Dramatic, eh? Anyway, somehow it knocks out electrical systems. Don't ask me how. When those Russians flew through the flash of light you saw, every electrical component on their planes stopped functioning. The motors died and the planes were too low for the pilots to bail out. There was nothing they could do but crash."
       Rose looked skeptically at the photo again. "But sir, you say this thing has been bombed flat four times already. How could they rebuild it so fast? And why in the same place when they know we'll just come back and hit it again?"
       "This is just what shows above ground," said Wingate. "The scientist says this horn thing can be built quickly out of materials easily available in the city. The really important part, the generator, is buried in a bunker under about forty feet of reinforced concrete, directly below. So far we haven't been able to crack it."
       "It's a tough target, alright," Rose agreed. "But what's its range? The film showed that it can knock out low flying planes and probably motorized transport, but it looks like it has a pretty limited range of effectiveness. Those bombers got awfully close before it went off."
       Wingate shuffled through the papers until he reached the page he sought. "According to our scientist, the device has an effective range of hundreds of miles, given an adequate power supply. He says the Germans have spent the winter hooking this thing up to giant engines in a huge, underground installation. Apparently this was just a small test, to see how the weapon would function against enemy equipment in the real world. They're getting ready to use it in a full scale attack on the Russian forces threatening Berlin."
       "I see," Rose was looking at a map of Germany showing a general outline of the Russian forces ringing the Nazi capital. "I suppose the Germans have some way of shielding their own equipment from this force?"
       The general smiled. "Wouldn't be much of a secret weapon without that, now would it?" His expression became serious again as he continued. "The scientist tells us the Germans keep their own equipment in special shelters. The blast only lasts a few seconds and then it's safe to move out."
       "So..." mused Victory Rose. "They power this War Trumpet machine up and knock out all the Russians' electrical equipment within, say, fifty miles?"
       General Wingate shook his head. "Our friendly scientist claims," he emphasized the word, "that at full power this model of the weapon can knock out electronic systems over a range of nearly two hundred miles."
       Rose's eyebrows shot up.
       "Yes," agreed the general. "I find it hard to believe, myself."
       Rose nodded, "So, with the Soviets around Berlin paralyzed, the Germans mount a counter attack, smash the Russian spearhead, and drive the Red Army back to the Oder..."
       "Reuniting Berlin with the rest of the Reich," continued Wingate, "and expanding the area from which they can draw power for this device, plus providing them with space in which they can build more of these things. They could neutralize the Russians for ... say ... three to six months..."
       "During which time they're free to deploy more forces against our advance from the west," said Rose. "Which, combined with this shockwave power, would leave our forces unable to advance and defenseless against what's left of their motorized divisions..."
       "Effectively destroying our ability to wage war in any modern sense and forcing us to agree to a separate peace, ending the war on their terms and leaving Hitler in power to cook up the next one!" Wingate finished the thought.
       Victory Rose shook her head in disbelief. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
       At the general's nod, she continued. "Do you really believe they can pull this off? It's pretty far fetched."
       General Wingate closed the file and folded his hands on the desk. He looked intently at Victory Rose and said, "Truthfully, no. The Nazis are finished, if they'd just have the decency to admit it. By now I don't think anything short of a divine thunderbolt can save the Third Reich. And I imagine most of them realize that too, but they're like drowning men, grasping at straws."
       "And so..." Rose met his gaze.
       "And so, Major Hardwyk," said the general. "We live in the real world. This war will be over soon. And sad to say, we need to be thinking about the next one. Because you can bet that our allies to the east are."
       Victory Rose nodded.
       "The top Nazi scientists and their research are going to be up for grabs soon. Someone's going to get their hands on that technology when the Germans surrender," said Wingate. "Can you imagine a world in which the Soviet Union holds a power like that over our heads?"
       "I understand what you're saying, General," agreed Rose. "And so my mission is to go in and grab the plans? Blow up the machine?"
       "That's right," said General Wingate. "The scientist who sent us the film, Dr. Ulrich, is ready to defect to the west and let us benefit from his research. You're going in to bring him out. You also bring back plans, photos, equipment, scientists, technicians, slave laborers, whatever you can."
       "And what I can't bring back?" said Rose.
       "You destroy," Wingate stately flatly. "Everything. Nothing is to fall into the hands of the Russians."
       "And no one."
       "That is correct," said Wingate. "Now we both understand your mission."
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         CHAPTER III
         *JET WINGS OVER GERMANY*
       Victory Rose read through the file as she rode back to the camp where her men waited for her to return with the orders that would send them into action. Much to the motorcycle courier's relief, she had elected to ride in the sidecar and let him do the driving so that she could examine the papers.
       The Red Army was only days from completely encircling Berlin. Soon the once great capital of the Third Reich would be swept away under the unstoppable hordes of the east ... and then? Once the victors had finished carving up the Nazi empire between them, would there be nothing left for them but to turn against each other like two animals fighting over a kill? General Wingate seemed to think so and Victory Rose herself had no illusions about the benevolent intentions of Stalin and his regime. The War Trumpet was probably too little and too late to save Germany now, but with another year, maybe two, of development it could turn into a war-winning technology that must not fall into the wrong hands. It was vitally important to keep the secret of the electro-magnetic shock wave generator away from the Russians.
       As they neared the camp, Victory Rose closed the folder and looked grimly ahead. She knew there were two reasons why she had been selected for this mission. The first was that her skills and abilities made her the single individual best able to get in and out of the beleaguered city with the scientist who designed the Nazi's secret weapon. The second, she knew, was that she was expendable. She could certainly get into Berlin and very probably destroy the generator. After that, if she didn't make it out ... well, the war was nearly over anyway, and soon she would no longer be needed. Knowing that this was a suicide mission, she determined that this was one job she would handle solo.
       Sergeant Cleveland was waiting for her when she returned. Rose saw him standing by the roadside when they pulled up. His casual stance and sullen expression could not hide the watchful expectancy with which he eyed her. After the years they had served together, they knew each other well. Rose could see the almost imperceptible curtain of disappointment descend over his immobile features when he recognized the look on her face. There was no fooling the old soldier. He knew that plans had been changed.
       "The mission's cancelled, Sergeant," said Victory Rose as she stepped out of the sidecar. "You men sit tight here in camp. You'll be receiving new orders soon, I think."
       Cleveland fell into step beside her. "What happened, Major?"
       "I'm needed elsewhere. I'm not at liberty to tell you any more, Sergeant. I've seen to it that you men are being sent back. The war in Europe should be over in a few weeks at most, and you're going to make it home in one piece."
       "Major," protested the sergeant, "if you've been handed a rough assignment you'll need us there to back you up."
       "Cleveland!" she snapped, "I've got enough on my mind right now. You have your orders." With that she stalked off, leaving the tough noncom to stare after her in consternation.
         * * * *
       The German Air Force had built a big airdrome outside of Mannheim where a fighter wing had been based, back in the days when the Third Reich had an effective air defense system. In the last days before it had been overrun by the American 3rd Army, a unit of experimental jet propelled aircraft had been stationed there in the false hope of protecting the Fatherland from the masses of Allied bombers that roamed the skies at will. After the German Army had retreated from the area, the Americans had marched in and found a treasure trove of advanced aircraft to study.
       Victory Rose's jeep roared in through the front gate of the air base, past the startled sentry. She didn't stop until she skidded to a halt in front of the headquarters building. With steel spring quickness, she bounded across the distance from the jeep to the front door. As she entered the building, the captain on duty snapped her a salute.
       "Major Hardwyk," he yelped. "We hadn't expected you for another twenty minutes."
       "I'm in a hurry, captain," she replied. "Have you got my plane ready?
       "Fueling it up now, Major," said the officer. "Hop in the jeep and I'll take you right out."
       As they rode out, the captain filled her in on the aircraft she would be flying.
       "It's something brand new, a jet plane. Fast as lightning. I've seen the thing in flight, too. It's just amazing. The pilots we captured here say it can do five hundred miles an hour, easy. At that speed you could be over Berlin in forty-five minutes."
       "Just what the doctor ordered," said Victory Rose.
       "We've fitted the plane with a drop tank for extra fuel," continued the captain, "so you can make the flight non-stop. I've flown one of these myself, and they're pretty tricky but, like I said, fast as lightning. You'll be over Berlin before anyone even knows you're coming. It's got an ejector seat too. You just press the button and Bang! You're parachuting down to earth while the plane flies on and crashes somewhere down the line. Amazing designers, these Germans. Just amazing!"
       When they pulled up alongside the little plane, Victory Rose wondered for a moment at the wisdom of flying this thing across Germany. The design was certainly advanced beyond the general run of fighter planes she had seen, but the craft looked like it had been cobbled together on the spur of the moment. The fuselage was of metal, but wings and other parts were simply plywood. None of it was crafted to the standards she had come to expect from German engineering. A big jet engine seemed to have been stuck on top as an afterthought.
       "There you go, Major. Ain't she a beauty?" asked the captain.
       "Strange looking alright, but that doesn't matter," answered Rose, "as long as it gets me where I'm going."
       The fuelers were finishing up their work as Rose walked up to the plane. Moveable steps had been wheeled into place so she could reach the cockpit. A young, blond man climbed up with her and introduced himself as one of the captured German pilots who had flown these craft. Rose eyed him suspiciously. He looked too young to be a fighter pilot, but he seemed to know the plane so she listened as he explained the controls and characteristics. As an experienced pilot herself, she felt that she could handle the machine well enough to make the flight to Berlin.
       So after donning flight gear and parachute, Victory Rose climbed into the cockpit of the jet and latched the canopy overhead. The engine powered up until it was emitting a deafening screech. The little airplane shook with the restrained power of the mighty jet engine. At the signal, Rose began to roll forward. She quickly picked up speed and in a moment the futuristic craft was shooting like an arrow down the runway and leaped up into the air. Its airspeed and rate of climb were phenomenal. Even when flying powerful Mustangs and Thunderbolts she had never experienced an exhilaration quite like this. She guided the airplane in a wide, screaming circle over the airdrome, just to get a feel for the craft. Then she set her course for the northeast, opened the throttle, and rocketed toward the horizon.
       The Allied air forces had opened up a corridor for her, giving her the opportunity to cross Allied Controlled areas unmolested. Ground forces had been instructed not to fire on a lone, German fighter in the area. Unfortunately, most of the territory over which she would be flying was still in the hands of the Germans, or worse yet, the Red Army. German gunners would most likely respect the black crosses painted on her wings and refrain from firing on her. But those same black crosses would make her a prime target for the Russians. Once she crossed their lines she could depend only upon speed and luck to help her reach her goal. It was late in the day when she began her flight, and she hoped that dusk would make it slightly easier for her to get into the besieged city.
       Below her, the miles flashed by with alarming speed. Forests, farms, and towns slid beneath her as she held her steady course. At one hundred miles out, she jettisoned the empty drop tank and felt the airplane's handling improve slightly without the added drag. The speed was intoxicating. She was crossing territory in minutes that would take hours by train, flying so fast that no other plane could hope to catch her.
       As she followed the railroad line, Victory Rose gaped in wonder at the ruins of once-thriving cities. Now they were nothing more than roofless, bombed out wastelands. The destruction rained upon Germany by the wrathful Allies was terrible to behold. But Rose had seen the horrors of Nazi tyranny first hand and felt little pity for those below. They had sown the wind in the 1930s and now they reaped the whirlwind. Had the Axis powers surrendered years ago, or better yet, never begun their arrogant march of conquest, this shattered land could be a happy and prosperous region now.
       The fuel gauge was nearing Empty when Victory Rose sighted the outskirts of Berlin on the horizon before her. The jet screamed over the southern suburbs with only minutes of powered flight left to it. She had to get as close to Berlin's government center as possible before she ejected. She climbed to get a better overview of the city, saw the bend in the Spree River, and aimed her little plane toward it. As she was nearing the point where she would bail out, she looked to the east. That was when she saw the three black warplanes flying in formation ... directly toward her!
--------
         CHAPTER IV
         *BARRELING INTO BERLIN*
       Victory Rose watched the three Soviet fighters turn to bear in on her lone aircraft. She was over her jump zone in central Berlin now, with her fuel nearly gone. A dog fight at this moment was the last thing she needed, but she had one on her hands anyway. She must drive off or destroy these Russians before she could begin her mission.
       Wrenching her little plane around, she shot skyward, faster than the Russian planes could climb. As she wheeled back she saw them breaking formation, each pilot eager to be the one who made the kill. But they did not yet know the speed of the German jet fighter. Before they realized it, she was barreling down into them, red darts of flame dancing at the tips of her nose-mounted machine guns. She loosed a torrent of heavy slugs into the fuselage of the centermost fighter. The Soviet turned tail and fled, diving, flying low and fast over the shattered city. But he was not fast enough to escape the punishing machine guns of Victory Rose. The twisting, dodging warplane was lashed by a merciless blast of screaming lead. Finally Rose veered off as flames erupted from the Russian's engine cowling and as she flashed by, the plane disappeared in a violent orange ball of fire.
       Rose's plane screamed blue murder as she whipped it around in a tight circle and charged the remaining two fighters. The Russians accepted the challenge and within a second the three warplanes were weaving a web of swirling destruction over the capital of the Third Reich. Fighting so low they seemed almost to be rolling across the tops of the cracked walls, they loosed a wild spray of machine gun bullets that peppered the ruins below. She had to admit, the Russians were good. Even with her faster plane she couldn't out-fight them on her own. And now she was well aware that she had only seconds of fuel left to keep her airborne. Locked now in a death struggle, Rose could only think of trying to herd the Soviet fighters close to each other and then aim her craft directly at them, eject as they were occupied with scrambling away, and hope that she would be on the ground before they circled back. And that plan would only work if she survived the fall, which was far from certain. Right now she was too low for the parachute to do her much good even if it did have time to deploy.
       As the battling warplanes swarmed each other in a tangled loop, Victory Rose suddenly felt her plane lose power. The screaming jet engine fell silent. Every instrument on her panel went dead and she felt the plane shudder as it lost airspeed. Her frenzied mind's first thought was that her fuel was gone and she was now at the mercy of the Soviets' deadly fire. But the Russians were dipping too, falling away, powerless. Now Rose knew the true explanation. Hitler's War Trumpet had sounded another destructive blast. The mighty shock wave had swept over the airborne combatants and killed their engines before they had had the chance to kill each other.
       Rose lost sight of the Russian planes as her own jet plane dropped like a stone. With furious jabs, she tried the ejector seat button, but with no electronic signal to detonate the explosive bolts, it failed to respond. Pulling back with all her strength at the control stick and searching frantically, she spotted the big East-West street through the center of Berlin that served as an airstrip in the isolated city. Now she fought more desperately with the controls of her own plane than she had with the Soviet fighters. Only grudgingly did the aircraft respond as it hurtled downward. The nose lifted ever so slightly as she turned the clumsily gliding craft toward the wide street. Rose's lips peeled back from her teeth in a terrible grimace as she pulled back with all her might on the stick. The ground leaped up at her so fast she could see every broken shard of brick on the pavement.
       When she hit, the impact slammed her forward with such force that her safety harness snapped and her head dashed against the canopy. From that moment on she was unaware as the little plane bounced back into the air with a shock that tore the wooden wings away from the fuselage. As it smashed back to the pavement, the jet engine was ripped loose and cartwheeled alongside the disintegrating fighter in a violent tumble that ended only when they plowed headlong into a stone wall and were half buried under a pile of shattered rocks.
       For long minutes, the smoking wreck lay undisturbed. There was no movement within the cockpit and a broad, red smear marked the plexiglass covering. The crushed plane lay wrapped in silence until the quiet was broken by the tramp of hobnailed boots on the broken stones.
       A troop of boys scrambled over the rubble to reach the downed jet fighter. They were hard faced boys, hard eyed and hard handed, and they wore the uniform of the Hitler Youth. A one-legged army officer toiled along behind them, but they scarcely needed his direction. They had spent their childhood digging through rubble.
       They set to work with picks and shovels and bare hands. The wiry boys tossed the rocks aside with careless strength. They worked quickly, for they had seen the fight and believed it was a German pilot who lay within. With powerful heaves, they pried loose the canopy and tossed it aside. Eager hands gently uncovered the pilot's face, removed the flying helmet.
       The boys looked back at their officer in surprise as they realized that the pilot was a woman. The officer hitched up to the wreck and peered for a long moment at the female face. He sucked on the stumpy pipe he held clenched in his teeth as he pondered. Germany had some female test pilots, but the Russians also used women in their fighting forces. With a slight movement of his fingers he indicated that the boys should draw her forth from the cockpit.
       When they had her stretched out on the cracked pavement, the officer looked her over again. Too crippled to move easily himself, he motioned for the boys to pull off her heavy flight jacket. When he saw the stenciled rose patches on her shoulders, he nodded and ordered one of the boys to run and fetch help. The officer sagged on his crutches while he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe. He wondered if discovering Victory Rose would mean a reward for him. Then he wondered if a reward meant anything in a city that was about to be stormed by the Soviets.
         * * * *
       Victory Rose stirred, then snorted and coughed as the powerful fumes of smelling salts took effect. At first she registered only pain. Her head throbbed like a red, hot anvil and fiery bolts flickered up and down her arms. She tried to move and it took her a moment to realize that she couldn't. By an effort of will, she forced her eyes to open half way. After a time, the fuzzy images began to make sense. There were lights, faces, her own arms standing straight up above her. She was interested in her arms. Her eyes traced them upward until her hands came into view. They were tightly bound and tied to a pipe that ran overhead.
       Her senses began returning. She felt a pillow under her head and a thin mattress beneath her. Rose looked up at the faces that surrounded her. There was a doctor. The rest were army officers in field grey. Black crosses lurked at the throats of some. SS runes winked evilly from their collars. The faces smiled with a fiendish glee as they saw her return to consciousness.
       "And so we meet again."
       Rose recognized the voice from somewhere, but she couldn't force her mind to speed up its sluggish workings. She knew she had heard it before ... ringing, passionate, full of hate and power. Now it was old, wavery, yet still laced with a satanic malice.
       "The American super-woman," continued the rasping voice. "How fitting that you should join me now, for my last stand against the sub-humans."
       Rose's eyes snapped up, suddenly clear. She glared upward, her lips curling in an unconscious snarl. She saw the man's face gazing down. She recognized the arrogant sneer, the ridiculous moustache, the unruly forelock. The eyes, pale and rheumy, still held some of their old, hypnotic power. She knew the man. His image was burned into her mind. She stared up into the face of Adolf Hitler!
       "You ... Here..." she mumbled.
       "Where else would I be?" he asked. "This is where I belong. To win, or to die fighting with the last of the true Germans."
       "You ... belong ... in Hell!" hissed Victory Rose.
       Hitler bared his teeth in a malicious grin. "Perhaps you will soon meet me there," he said.
       A thin line of spittle made a silvery trail down his chin. Rose saw how the once-mighty Fuhrer of the Thousand Year Reich had degenerated into a pathetic, trembling old shell of a man. Yet his horrible, evil soul still burned within him like a dark star, spewing forth blackness for whatever little time he had left on this earth.
       "Would you like to know what I have in store for you, young lady?" he asked.
       "You filthy creep!" spat Rose. "Whatever you do to me is nothing compared to what the Russians have in store for you!"
       The trembling Fuhrer's eyes burned down onto her. She felt his satanic emanations pressing her down like a weight.
       "You will serve as an example and a rallying point for the German people," he growled. "Perhaps your soul will even bear witness to the glorious end of our people from your enviable vantage point ... hanging from the Brandenburg Gate!"
--------
         CHAPTER V
         *GRAPPLING IN THE DUNGEON*
       Sergeant Cleveland was a hard and determined man. His years of war had made him that way and without those qualities he would not have survived as long as he had. He had long ago wrapped himself in a stony shell that protected him the way armor plating deflected danger from a tank. He had little faith in the godlike superiority of commissioned officers. From his point of view, most of them were fools or worse. The good ones generally seemed to get killed off.
       Still, he respected Major Hardwyk. And after all the adventures and hardships he had shared with her, he cared about her too. He didn't want her to have faced down death so many times over the years, just so that the top brass could kill her off in a crazy suicide mission only days from victory. Cleveland feared that was the reason she had refused to take her men along with her on this one.
       And so, on the evening she left, he stood at Victory Rose's desk and stared down at the folder she had so conveniently left behind. He flipped through the pages. A secret wonder weapon called the War Trumpet. Orders to deny the Soviets access to this new technology. Cleveland knew Berlin was done for, so this was no war-winning mission. It was political. Cleveland wore a sour expression as he read.
       After thinking a long time, he called Moses and Cowboy Larimer into Major Hardwyk's quarters and closed the door. He waited while they looked at the papers.
       "Shooooot," breathed Larimer. He looked up. "How's she supposed to get out of there? This ain't right, Sarge."
       "No foolin' it ain't right," rumbled Moses. "That's why she didn't take us with her. She didn't figure she was coming back."
       Cleveland agreed. "No one's getting out of Berlin once the Russians close the ring. She'll be stuck even if she does destroy the War Trumpet and escape the Germans."
       "What do we do, Sarge?" asked Larimer. "Going into Berlin after her isn't going to help. Even if we do find her, one person probably has a better chance of getting out than a whole company."
       "I thought of that, Larimer," answered Cleveland. "We'd do more harm than good if we parachuted in there."
       Moses was looking over the maps of the German and Russian positions. "These up to date?" he asked.
       Sergeant Cleveland shrugged. "They're all we've got to go by. I expect they're as good as anything else the army puts out, if that tells you anything."
       The men smiled grimly and the sergeant continued. "We can't help her in Berlin," he said, "but maybe we can help her get out ... if we're willing to call in some favors."
       At the men's eager agreement, Sergeant Cleveland explained his plan.
         * * * *
       An army medic had been summoned to patch Victory Rose up enough for her to appear in public. As he cleaned off the blood and dirt, he was amazed to see that she was relatively unhurt after the violent crash she had survived.
       "Perhaps what they say about you is true," he remarked, "that you are more than human. I can hardly believe that you weren't killed outright. A pity our SS doctors won't get to examine you."
       Once the man had finished treating Victory Rose and pronounced her injuries to be relatively minor, her hands were untied from the overhead pipe and she was hauled off her cot. Guards dragged her down a hallway where she was dumped roughly onto the floor of a bare cell. The door was slammed shut and Rose was left in darkness with only her own thoughts for company.
       Lying on the cold concrete with her hands and feet tightly bound, she drifted in and out of consciousness as her head throbbed maddeningly. Even her powerful body would take some time to fully heal itself of the head injury she had suffered in the crash. Rose chewed at her bonds, trying to win some measure of freedom, but the heavy leather straps did not yield. After she guessed several hours had passed, she heard stealthy footsteps outside her cell. Her eyes narrowed as she heard the rattle of a key, and saw the cell door open a crack.
       A shadow imposed itself upon the lighted crack, and Rose felt curious eyes peeping in at her. She waited in silence as the crack widened to admit a silhouetted form before the door was pushed shut again. In the darkness, she heard a man's heavy breathing.
       There was a rustling noise as the form knelt beside her. She fought down a wave of revulsion as rough hands groped over her body. Her buttons were unfastened one by one and as her chest was bared she felt hungry lips pressed to her neck. Her flesh crawled as the hands slipped beneath her underclothing and squeezed cruelly at the firm flesh of her breasts. The breathing became more ragged as the hands and lips continued to roam. Blinded by the darkness of the cell, Rose could only imagine the man who crouched over her. One hand slid down her belly and beneath the waistband of her pants. She decided this had gone far enough.
       She had lain so still that her molester believed her to be unconscious. He wasn't expecting her knees to snap up in a lightning move and smash against the side of his head. He screamed and reeled back. Instantly, Rose coiled her body and then thrust out her legs in a savage kick that caught the man square in the chest. He rolled across the floor and smashed into the heavy door. It bounced open, not having been latched, and in the light, Rose recognized him as one of the guards who had tossed her in the cell. She leaped upright. She was still tied hand and foot, but crouched and ready to fight.
       The guard dragged himself, cursing, to his feet and staggered toward her with his fists clenched and raised. Victory Rose lifted her own fists, determined to knock him down again and again if he dared to touch her. Unexpectedly, the door slammed open and light flooded the room. The trim figure of an SS officer stood in the doorway.
       "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.
       The guard pointed at Victory Rose. "She attacked me!" he yelped. "I was just about to teach her a lesson."
       The guard's head rocked back as he received a thunderous slap. "Idiot!" barked the officer. "Get out of here before I have you shot!"
       The sullen guard shook his head to clear the stars. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it and closed his mouth again. He cast Rose a threatening look as he limped out of the cell. Once he was safely behind his superior's back, he cast that man a threatening look, too. The officer did not deign to notice.
       "You must forgive him," said the officer to Victory Rose. "He is a fool, but he knows that within a few days he will be dead. He must take what he can get while he is still able." He addressed her as one officer to another, seemingly unaware that she was a bound and condemned prisoner awaiting death in his dungeon.
       "I suppose he is what you Nazis made him," snapped Rose.
       Without speaking, the officer stepped close to her. Rose braced herself for another attack, but with a single, swift movement, the officer reached out and tugged her undershirt down to cover her.
       "Thank you," she stammered.
       The officer rebuttoned her shirt. "Sleep," he said, simply. "I will see to it that you are not molested." With that, he turned and left Rose standing alone in the darkness.
       A few hours later the door slammed open again and two burly SS men stepped into the cell. Rose, who had not slept a wink, hunched against the wall. But the two soldiers simply grabbed her arms and hauled her out and down the hall with them. They laughed as if they were escorting her to a picnic.
       "It's a beautiful day!" said one. "You need some fresh air and sunshine after spending the night in that box."
       The other one guffawed loudly and chimed in. "Yes, a nice walk in the spring sunshine! And when the walk is finished, a lovely, shady spot for you to rest!"
       The first one winked merrily at Rose. "In the shadow of the Brandenburg Gate!" he chortled.
       They dragged her out into the morning sunshine. Rose looked around her. It really was a beautiful day. The sky was clear and the air cold and bracing. The soldiers cut her feet loose from their bonds and ordered her to walk.
       "Massage your legs," ordered one of the pair. "Get the blood moving."
       Rose sat on the ground between them, rubbing her calves and feet. The returning bloodflow was a perfect agony and it was some time before her feet would support her. The soldiers began to look nervous as the minutes dragged on. At last, their patience wore out and they yanked her to her feet. She swayed unsteadily, but remained erect. She was determined not to display weakness before these Nazi stooges.
       An officer strode toward them now. Rose recognized him as the man who had helped her the night before. In the sunlight he looked haggard and drawn, as if he had not slept in days. He ignored the soldiers and nodded crisply toward her. "I trust you passed a peaceful night?"
       Rose nodded back. This Nazi had another think coming if he believed she was going to thank him for his protection. Instead, she glared at him until he shrugged and looked away, toward the brightening in the east. He breathed deeply and exhaled. "You know," he said, still looking away, "I, too, have not so many more of these sunrises left to me. I must enjoy each one to its fullest."
       "Guess you should have thought about that before you started the war," answered Rose.
       The officer looked back at her again and sighed. "You seem to be feeling rather more energetic now." He checked his watch. "It's time for us to be on our way," he said with a charming smile. "Shall we begin?"
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         CHAPTER VI
         [NOTE: Image omitted. Images not supported in this eBook format. Download the MS Reader, Acrobat, or Hiebook format file.]
         *THE VIEW FROM THE SCAFFOLD*
       A noose of heavy rope was slung about Victory Rose's neck. Over that, the officer hung a crudely lettered sign that read, "Victory Rose: Enemy of the German People." A small column of soldiers had been assembled, and Rose took her place at the head of it, the officer by her side.
       "It is a pity you had to come here," said the man. "Had you waited a few more weeks, perhaps only a few days, you could have made the journey in perfect safety."
       "C'est la guerre," answered Rose.
       "So it is," returned the officer. He gave a sharp order and the column stepped out of the prison courtyard onto the pavement of the great East/West street that pierced the heart of Berlin. A crowd of ragged onlookers had gathered on either side of the street. They watched Victory Rose's little procession as it tramped along. The people were grey skinned and half starved, a collection of the old, the crippled, and the very young. They were the pathetic remnants of a dozen years of Nazi tyranny. They watched her with a mixture of pity, jealousy, and formless anger.
       Rose stumbled forward, weak and exhausted. From time to time her guards stepped on the trailing end of her rope, making her jerk backwards. Her hands still hung, bound, before her but she held her head high. She glared at the muttering crowd, willing them to see that she was unbeaten. Each time she stumbled, her back was prodded by the bayonet held by the soldier walking behind her. Here and there, a war widow or an orphaned child spat out a curse at her. Bits of filth and rubbish began to fly toward the column, flung by unseen hands hidden within the crowd. A broken stone cracked against her skull, and her head was once again a throbbing mass of pain. She fell to her knees and tried to shake the stars out of her eyes.
       "Come on, be brave now," a voice said in her ear. It was the officer, helping her to her feet. "They're nothing but a rabble," he said. "Don't show them any weakness."
       She rose to her feet and carried on, through a growing torrent of abuse, toward the looming form of the Brandenburg Gate. Rose could now see that scrap lumber had been used to erect a crude scaffold between the massive columns directly beneath the chariot of Victory that still perched atop the structure. She managed a thin smile. For Victory Rose to end her life beneath that statue was a curious irony.
       "Hold your head high," said the officer. "For a soldier, meeting death honorably can be his crowning achievement." He bared his teeth. "Magnificent. I hope that when I meet my own end I can do so in a manner that will be remembered."
       Rose shot him a dark look, but walked a little straighter. Her hair tumbled about her beautiful, strong features and she regarded the scaffold with a calm and steady gaze. Her powerful shoulders bore the weight of the rope and sign as if they were badges of honor.
       Then, before she knew it, she stood before the ominous structure. It rose darkly before her, a tangle of mismatched lumber cobbled together in the space of a few hours during the night. Despite the officer's fine words, she could see nothing magnificent about this spot. Her boots thudded hollowly on the steps as she mounted to the high platform. She reached the top, where the hangman helped her to step up on a stool. A cold breeze whipped through her close-cropped hair and she gazed out at the morning sun dancing over the wreckage of Berlin. As the rope around her neck was fixed to a crossbar above, Victory Rose looked down at the crowd that swarmed thick below her. She swept them with a gaze of contempt and pity. In a few days each one of these people would be scrambling like rats for their own lives, when the Red Army rolled in here.
       Those upturned faces were her last sight before a suffocating, black bag was thrust over her head. From below, she heard a few words of oratory spoken, some foolishness about True Germans rallying to throw back the Bolsheviks at the gates of Berlin. Then the stool was kicked out from beneath her feet.
       The scratchy rope bit into her neck, which felt stretched to the snapping point as it suddenly bore all of her free swinging weight. The noose tightened until it completely closed off her windpipe. But the hangman had been given his orders. Victory Rose was to strangle slowly in full view of the city, and so she did not fall far enough to break her neck. Her mouth gaped for air which could not come. Huge black and red blossoms began bursting before her eyes. As consciousness began to fade, she realized to her dismay that her feet were kicking frantically in the air. She tried to still herself as her final seconds of life slipped by. She had not wanted to humiliate herself before her captors. A distant roaring filled her ears.
       Then somehow, she realized that her legs had been seized, that she was being lifted. Her limp body sagged against the noose until she felt the rope go slack and Rose slammed hard against the floorboards of the platform. Still dazed and strangling, she scarcely comprehended when the hood was torn away from her head. Fingers pried roughly between the noose and the skin of her throat. Her body gave a convulsive gasp and dragged in a great lungful of burning, cold air.
       Sounds began to reach her brain: explosions, screams, and the rattle of gunfire. A voice was screaming in her ear, "Get up! Get Up!" At the moment, all Rose could do was gulp air and retch. More hands grabbed her arms and she felt herself dragged bodily down the scaffold's steps.
       As her senses began to clear, her mind grasped that she was at the center of a swirling melee. She forced her legs to work and staggered alongside her rescuers as they dragged her though the stampeding crowd. As she ran, she glimpsed the officer who had escorted her to the gallows. He lay still now, in a pool of blood, his body trampled underfoot and forgotten.
       "Run faster!" someone yelled. And she tried.
       Her mind was beginning to function again and Rose saw that she was being pushed along by two ragged men who swung submachine guns and loosed an indiscriminate spray of lead into the panicked crowd of Berliners. Bodies flew in every direction as Rose's new companions cleared a path for escape. Black objects sailed through the air and she heard the crash of hand grenades amid the wild howls from the crowd. Obviously there were other fighters involved in this attack.
       Plowing ruthlessly through the press, they burst into open space and ran south, twisting through side streets with German bullets singing through the air around them. Wind exploded in and out of her lungs as she pounded along beside the guerillas. When they rounded the corner of a building, a gunner stepped out from behind the scarred wall and fired off a burst at the pursuing soldiers before joining the group in their flight. The hammering submachine gun slowed the Germans for a brief moment, but these were veterans of the fighting on the Russian front and it would take more than a little noise to scare them off.
       Victory Rose was shoved through a shell hole into a vacant house. The three guerillas tumbled in after her. The little group crouched in silence as German soldiers thundered past. Rose held out her tied hands.
       "Get me out of these," she whispered.
       One of the fighters produced a knife and sawed quickly at the cords. A second later, Rose was rubbing circulation back into her swollen, purple hands.
       "Come on," ordered one of the men, and the group ran through the house and out the back. The group scrambled over a garden wall and fled down a back alley, through a gangway between two houses, and out onto another street. As they ran, they heard shots and shouting from nearby streets.
       Like rats, they scurried through the shattered hulk of the city. At some point they were spotted once again and the chase was renewed, with blasts of machine gun fire being traded between the parties.
       "This way," panted the man beside her, and they pelted down a narrow street toward a pile of broken masonry. The German soldiers were closing in, their bullets kicking up stones around the four fugitives. Rose felt a tug at her pants as a slug tore through the material, just brushing her leg. Without slowing, the little group made a giant leap up onto the brick pile, scrabbling upward through the rolling debris. In a shower of gunfire, they heaved themselves over the top and tumbled down the other side.
       Rose looked up to see men rising up on her side of the pile, pointing long tubes back the way she had come. There was a flash and a roar, and suddenly the earth shook as thunderous explosions rocked the street. Her companions had led the Germans into a deadly ambush. The men on the brickpile threw down their empty panzerfaust tubes and signaled for her group to follow them.
       "Come on!" they shouted. "That's stopped them for now, but there's more where they came from."
       Rose's group was pushed down into a cellar and they ran through a labyrinth of subterranean passages that linked one building to another in the ruined city. Holes had been smashed through foundations and the guerillas fled from cellar to cellar across Berlin. At last they stopped. While Rose and her companions caught their breath, one of the panzerfaust men pounded on a steel door. After words had been exchanged through a loophole, the barrier was opened to admit them.
       The room where Victory Rose found herself was small and stone-walled, with flickering light provided by a couple of candles. About fifteen grimy men looked up when her group entered. When the door was quickly barred behind them, the air became a reeking miasma of human bodies packed into close quarters. Rose and the room occupants eyed one another carefully until, at last, one of them got up and extended a hand.
       "Victory Rose," he said in Russian. "We know you. Welcome. I am Nicholas."
       "Thank you," she answered back in his language.
       The man shrugged. "It is to our credit to save a famous American hero like yourself. Perhaps you will be of help to us after the Red Army closes its trap on the Nazis once and for all."
       Rose nodded. "I came here to fight the Germans," she said. "I guess we can help each other."
       Nicholas smiled thinly, but did not answer.
       "Victory Rose," said one of the men beside her. He was one of the guerillas who had freed her from the scaffold. His voice was deep and masculine, with a trace of humor, and she realized that it had sounded familiar to her all along. "No greeting for an old friend?"
       Rose's eyes snapped open, wide with amazement. She looked up into a smiling face she could never forget, though the tides of war had kept them apart.
       "Crush!" she breathed, and threw herself into his arms.
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         CHAPTER VII
         *THE UNDERGROUND CONSPIRACY*
       Alexei Kruszynski, the Russian colonel whom Rose called "Crush," laughed down into her face, dazzling her with his gleaming, white teeth and snapping eyes. He swept her up into a bear hug and planted a passionate kiss on her lips. As of old, his breath reeked of vodka and the vilest of Russian, wartime cigarettes. For a moment, Victory Rose allowed herself to be intoxicated by the memories of happier times.
       Then she pulled away and stepped back. "What are you doing in Berlin?" she asked.
       "Such a question!" replied Kruszynski, with that rich laugh. "And after you nearly shot me down, yesterday!"
       "That was you? Well you know," she answered, "you and your buddies did gang up on me back there."
       "But of course," he boomed. "We naturally assumed that you were a German, when we saw the markings on your plane. Can you forgive me, darling?"
       Rose ignored the endearment, not caring to make a public display of herself now that she had recovered from the surprise of meeting Crush again so unexpectedly. "I suppose I really must, after you came so gallantly to my rescue just now. No hard feelings," she replied, with a wink.
       "That was a magnificent airplane you were flying. Captured from the enemy, no doubt," continued Kruszynski. "What wonders will be ours for the taking, once the Germans are defeated at last."
       Rose simply smiled back at the Russian, and chose not to reply. For now, Kruszynski need not know that she had come to Berlin with the intent of denying him those very wonders which he sought. She did not fail to note that Crush, too, had avoided explaining his presence here in Berlin."
         * * * *
       Deep underground, deeper by far than the cellar where Victory Rose and her companions hid, was the final refuge of the man who had once held all of Europe in a grip of terror. Here, in a bunker far beneath the Chancellory building, Adolf Hitler crouched in safety, spinning webs of fantasy while his people were blown to pieces on the surface above. With his mind crumbling further into madness as the hours of isolation went by, the Fuhrer hatched one last plot to spring on a world that was about to overwhelm him.
       He stood, gazing at a huge wall map of Europe. With a trembling finger, he traced an imaginary line around Berlin. He turned back to look at the generals who waited eagerly for his pronouncements. Hitler's face twisted in a sneering grin.
       "Gentlemen," he said, "this circle represents the area over which the War Trumpet will make all electronic systems inoperable." He indicated a red outline approximately one hundred miles in diameter. "Except for ours, of course, which are safely shielded."
       "Within this area," he continued, "the Russians will be left completely at your mercy. By nightfall, day after tomorrow, you will have annihilated the Soviet military presence inside this ring and be poised for further attacks to the east. I trust you have deployed your forces accordingly?"
       The generals offered their agreements. Privately, not one of them believed Germany possessed the resources necessary to push back the Red Army whether the War Trumpet worked or not, but the hypnotic presence of the Fuhrer could still make them imagine that anything was possible. Leaving rational thought behind, the generals allowed one twisted old man to send thousands of Germans to their deaths.
       "The War Trumpet is being prepared as we speak," announced Hitler. "It will require approximately ten hours to set the controls and bring the dynamos up to power for the full scale blast. During that time you will check and recheck your forces. Armored units are to be prepared to spring forward the instant they receive the signal."
       Vigorous acknowledgements came from the generals. Inwardly though, they were horrified at their Fuhrer's grasp of reality. He seemed to believe there were hidden panzer divisions waiting idly for his commands. In truth, the Nazis would mount their attack with a few battered fighting vehicles and platoons of Volksturm militia mounted on bicycles.
       "The prime object of the attack will be to smash Russian forces closing on the capital and drive the Red Army back over the Oder River. Secondarily, forces will drive north to link up with Steiner's Operational Group and south to link up with Ninth Army and Fourth Panzer. Once this is accomplished we will be in a position to throw a bridgehead across the Oder and renew the eastern offensive against the Bolsheviks." Hitler stepped back from the map and preened, amazed at his own genius. "Gentlemen, this will be our summer!"
       The generals were thunderstruck by the insanity of the plan. They knew the best they could accomplish was to win a bit of breathing space before the Soviets drowned them by sheer numbers. Their lone hope was that someone, somehow, would take effective control of the government while the Russians were off balance and negotiate an agreement with the Western Allies that would save the Fatherland from complete disaster. And yet not one of them spoke up, mesmerized as they were by the evil power of the man with the funny moustache. They prepared themselves to carry out his orders.
         * * * *
       Back in the cellar where the guerillas sheltered, Alexei Kruszynski was speaking. "Come now, Rose. Let us not play games. We both know there is only one reason your government would have sent you here alone, with us poised to take Berlin any day now."
       Victory Rose remained silent. Now that she knew Hitler was still in Berlin there could actually be two reasons why she might have been ordered into the city, either to capture the War Trumpet, or the Fuhrer himself.
       But Alexei was not fooled. He shook his finger and said, in his deep voice, "The Americans believe that Hitler is somewhere in the south, preparing a last defense. Therefore, there is only one reason you could have come. The War Trumpet is the one thing that could have brought you here."
       Rose acknowledged the truth of his statement. "Okay, Crush, you're right" she said. "I was ordered to destroy the Trumpet. We're afraid it could blunt your offensive and lengthen the war. At this point, all the Nazis can accomplish by further fighting is to get more men killed, and we've all seen enough of that."
       "This is all very true, darling," agreed Kruszynski. "I, for one, would be quite happy to see the Trumpet destroyed. I wonder that the Americans do not trust us to do that ourselves."
       She looked into his dazzling eyes. "Is that why you came here?" she asked. "Because of the War Trumpet?"
       Kruszynski shrugged, "And why should Russia not take an interest in this remarkable invention?"
       Victory Rose smiled and shook her head. "Let me see," she began, "if I can think of any reason why the world would be a better place if a man like Joseph Stalin didn't have that technology at his disposal..." She rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling and pursed her lips, making her face a caricature of extreme thoughtfulness. "Gee, Crush, that's a real tough one."
       Colonel Kruszynski was not amused. "May I remind you who you have to thank for your life today, and whose hospitality you share right now?"
       Rose winced inwardly, knowing that in this respect the Soviet was right.
       He continued, "Rose, I must refuse to allow my feelings for you to deny the Soviet Union her rightful share of the spoils of this war which we have won through blood and heroic sacrifice."
       "I know, Crush. You know I've seen it first hand. I know what your country has suffered at the hands of the Nazis."
       Taking this as an agreement of sorts, Kruszynski's mood altered and he flashed her another one of his devastating smiles.
       "Why must we argue about such things?" he asked. "For now, we both share the same objective, to prevent the Germans from using the War Trumpet and causing more suffering than they already have.
       Alexei continued, "I, too, was sent into Berlin to seize the War Trumpet technology. As you can see," he swept his hands around him, "my government has provided for me somewhat better than yours has for you."
       Victory Rose smiled at this. Kruszynski knew very well that she was worth more than all these men put together when it came to a fight. Undoubtedly, one reason he had risked his mission here to rescue her was the hope of enlisting her aid.
       "Let me propose an arrangement," said Alexei. "Working together, we can accomplish more than any of us can do separately. Let us join forces, you and we. Our group possesses documents showing the general layout of the War Trumpet facility -- documents, by the way, which we know your superiors were not able to furnish you."
       "Let us pool our resources, destroy the War Trumpet together, and salvage what we can. Once we have accomplished this we can reason out an agreement between ourselves as to how we share the benefits of this technology."
       He looked deep into her eyes, "As allies should."
       Rose was almost offended at his attempt to charm her into working against her own nation. Yet she found it so amusing that it was impossible for her to stay angry. Looking at the men around her, she knew Crush had a point. If she had to fight against them as well as against the Germans, it might make a difficult mission into a mission that was nearly impossible. Reluctantly, she had to agree. She could deal with this crew once the plans for the War Trumpet were safely in her possession.
       "All right, Crush," she said. "I'll do it."
       Kruszynski swept her up in another rib-cracking bear hug. "Wonderful, darling!" he said as he showered kisses on her cheeks."
       Rose squirmed in his grasp, but didn't knock him across the room. He took this as an encouragement.
       "And now," he said, "you must be exhausted. Let us find some private quarters where you can sleep in peace."
       The men in the room exchanged grins as their colonel escorted Victory Rose through a low archway into an adjoining chamber.
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         CHAPTER VIII
         *THE MIDNIGHT ATTACK*
       Back in Mannheim, General Wingate listened carefully to the young captain who stood before his desk. Wingate had just returned from breakfast in the officers' mess when he found the man waiting in his office. The moment he had seen the smooth face and clear eyes, the general realized that he was in the presence of a young replacement who had probably never seen a day's actual combat.
       As had happened before, the general found himself intrigued by this interview. It was the captain's lips that were moving, but he was sure the words came straight from Sergeant Cleveland. The sullen noncom had served under Wingate long enough for the general to know how the man operated.
       General Wingate himself had been troubled by the nature of the assignment he had handed to Victory Rose just the day before. Even with her superior physical and mental prowess, he didn't know if it was possible for one agent to slip into Berlin and destroy the War Trumpet before the city was taken. Looking at the map, he felt a sick certainty that it would not be possible for her to escape the city once the Soviet ring had closed.
       And now this captain had come in to propose a plan to get her out of there.
       Wingate gave the young man the courtesy of hearing him out. He listened attentively, thanked the officer for his suggestions, and dismissed him.
       Late that afternoon, a courier delivered a terse message to Sergeant Cleveland back in his own quarters in camp. It read: "Air transport is arranged and waiting. Proceed at once to Hamelin. Report to Colonel Davis for further orders. Gen. Wingate.
       The captain would be perfectly qualified to remain in Mannheim and take care of the paperwork.
         * * * *
       In the darkness of night, slinking figures crept furtively through the ruins of the darkened city of Berlin. Like sly foxes, they stole from shadow to shadow, evading roving gangs of SS thugs who prowled the streets for deserters. Just outside the Kroll Opera, at the entrance to a lean-to that would attract scant attention from the air, two armed soldiers stood and smoked. Rose held up her fist to halt her companions and pointed at the guards. Motioning for the men to wait, she darted off into the gloom, her German submachine gun slung across her back, her knife in hand.
       The first guard never knew what hit him. One moment he was taking a drag from his cigarette, and the next, he had simply ceased to exist. The cigarette fell from his lips to smolder briefly on the ground. The second guard uttered a low gasp when he turned and saw a dark form lowering the dead man gently to the ground. With a lightning leap, Rose silenced the new man before his gasp could turn into a cry of warning. Rose uttered a low whistle and waited for the guerillas to reach her.
       When they had all gathered at the entrance to the lean-to, Kruszynski outlined once again the layout of the place. There were twenty steps down, then a landing where a guard would certainly be posted, then another twenty steps, then a long corridor leading to the chamber where huge dynamos powered the Nazi wonder weapon. Emanating from below, they could hear a rising hum.
       Crouching at the top of the stairs, Rose peered down to the landing below. As they had suspected, a guard lounged unwittingly on the iron platform. He seemed to be lost in a daydream, vaguely watching something on the level below. The man had no idea that within seconds, his war would be over. Rose lifted the submachine gun to her shoulder and took careful aim.
       The guard jerked as Rose's burst slammed home. Before he hit the floor, the iron stairs rang under the thudding of heavy boots. The guerillas bounded down three and four steps at a time. Rose hit the wall at the bottom and whirled to the right, spraying the corridor below her with gunfire as she turned. From behind her, hand grenades tumbled down into the knot of surprised men who still blinked up, uncomprehending. Suddenly, the hallway trembled as explosions threw fire and shrapnel through the air. Rose leaped down the steps into the blinding smoke and hurtled along the passage.
       Doors were flung open on either side of the corridor and Rose fired reflexively into each one, not slowing to see what she had hit. Had she eased her pace, Alexei and the other fighters behind her would have run right over her back. A closed door barred her way at the end of the hallway. She put her head down and launched herself against it, splintering the wooden panels and crashing to the floor of a metal balcony. The guerillas poured through the doorway behind her, trampling her in their wild haste to reach the War Trumpet. With their guns still barking, they began running down a stairway to their left, descending to the main floor of the underground facility.
       In the seconds that she lay motionless under the pounding feet of the guerillas, Victory Rose stared wide-eyed into the vast cavern that housed the War Trumpet. Bright lights overhead provided a harsh illumination for white-coated technicians who swarmed over the huge machine, checking dials and switches. To one side, slave laborers tended the fuel lines that fed the dynamos from giant reservoirs of oil. On the floor below, armed men were rushing into the chamber. Rose turned to shout a warning, but her voice was lost in the earth-shaking scream of the monstrous device. She saw flashes of gunfire, and guerillas began to fall.
       The mission had turned into a fiasco. Survivors were running back up the stairs now, and once again Rose was pummeled by running feet. She rolled over and emptied her magazine down into the mass of pursuing soldiers. A second later she was up on her feet, flying back up the hallway and reloading her gun as she ran.
       Ahead of her, she saw a squad of heavily armed troops storming down the stairway where she and the guerillas had entered just minutes before. The Russian fighters ran straight into them and the corridor erupted in a deafening chaos of gunfire. Rose threw herself into a doorway that opened to the side and a rain of bullets kicked up chips from the concrete floor where her feet had been.
       The space she entered was pitch dark but she ran forward at full speed anyway until she stopped, teetering on the edge of another stairway that led downward, lit only by a dim, bare bulb at the bottom. Without a moment's thought, Rose plunged forward, her feet scarcely touching the treads until she crashed at the bottom. Her booted foot kicked open a closed door and she dived into a well-lit room where uniformed officers turned to gawk at her in surprise. Rose's own eyes widened, for in the midst of the soldiers she saw the trembling, hunched form of Adolf Hitler himself staring, open mouthed, at her.
       With one, blurred movement Victory Rose surged forward. The next instant, she held the terrified Fuhrer in an iron grip with the muzzle of her gun pressed against his temple. The air resounded with the noise of pistols being cocked. Another doorway slammed open and armed men poured into the room.
       "Hands up! Drop your weapon now!"
       "Get away from me! I'll shoot him!"
       "Release the Fuhrer and surrender or we will open fire!"
       "I'll kill him! I swear I'll kill him!"
       Rose dug the gun barrel harder into the side of Hitler's head. He moaned softly and fainted. Rose and the Germans glared at each other over the limp body of the Fuhrer. Seconds ticked by as the standoff continued. Events had transpired so quickly that neither party knew quite what to do. Tension crackled through the crowded space.
       "Please, everyone calm down."
       Everyone turned to face the gentle voice that came from the doorway where Rose had burst in. There stood an old man in a long, white coat. A few, stray hairs swirled about his bald head. Thick glasses perched crookedly on his faintly bemused face.
       "Get out of here, Doctor!" shouted one of the soldiers.
       The old man ignored the order and held his wrinkled hands out to Rose. "Come, dear," he pleaded. "You don't want to die here. Let me help you."
       Rose eyed the man suspiciously, but had no real alternative open to her. Evidently, the man was of some importance and could be used as another hostage if necessary. Twisting the gun meaningfully against the Fuhrer's head, she sidled toward the newcomer. When she reached the doorway he spoke to her in soothing tones.
       "Put him down gently," said the old man. "I am Dr. Ulrich, the director of this project. I am a far more valuable hostage than this poor fellow." He indicated the insensate form of Hitler. "He will only slow you down. I can at least walk."
       Before anyone could react, Rose had dropped the Fuhrer, none too gently, and seized the elderly scientist. She didn't know if the man had told her the truth or not, but he was right about one thing. Dragging an unconscious man along would slow her down. Besides, she wasn't sure whether one of these Nazis might take it into his head to use this occasion as an excuse to assassinate Hitler, which might have put her in the situation of dragging a target with her instead of a hostage. She pulled Dr. Ulrich up the stairs with her.
       "This way," he said, pointing toward a passage, dimly visible in the poor light.
       With no better idea, Rose followed his directions and hustled him through a winding labyrinth of passages until they reached a locked door. The scientist produced a key and opened it for her.
       "Quickly," he panted. "The soldiers will be upon us in a moment. This door opens on a stairway that will take you to the surface."
       "Thank you," said Rose.
       "Wait!" cried the old scientist. "I really am the director of this project. Am I right in assuming that you are the American known as Victory Rose?"
       "That's right," she agreed.
       "I want out of Berlin!" he hissed. "Get me to the west before the Russians take the city."
       Shouts began to sound somewhere not far off.
       "Don't worry. I was sent here to get you out of Berlin, but I can't do anything for you right now," said Rose.
       "But you'll be back," said man, with frantic urgency. "Here." He thrust a crumpled paper into her hand. "Follow these directions. Now hit me."
       Rose took the paper and drew back her fist. She knew the old man wanted an alibi for having let her escape.
       "Yes, Doctor, I'll be back. I didn't come all this way for nothing." She popped him on the jaw, hoping she hadn't hurt him. He staggered backward and slumped to the floor.
       The shouts grew louder and heavy footfalls announced the approach of armed searchers. Rose turned and fled through the door.
--------
         CHAPTER IX
         *THE SECOND ATTEMPT*
       Victory Rose crouched in the now-abandoned cellar which Nicholas' fighters had made their hide-out just hours ago. Now the guerilla leader, his men, and Crush were all either dead or captured in the underground chamber of the War Trumpet. For not, there was nothing Rose could do for them. With some stale bread and cheese she had, for now, tamed the rumblings of her empty belly. She spread Dr. Ulrich's paper on the floor and read over the curious, German script. It was a short note, describing an unguarded entrance to the War Trumpet facility and providing directions to the doctor's private office. She was to arrive at ten o'clock in the evening, when the shift changed and it would not be so unusual for an unfamiliar person to be seen in the halls. She was asked to find a lab coat, or at least some civilian clothing.
       The guerillas had left some odd items of clothing behind them. There was nothing like a lab coat, but Rose selected a pair of pants and a long overcoat that was two sizes too big for her. She wouldn't pass as a technician, but she might blend in with the slave laborers in these ragged garments. There was also a small cache of weapons and ammunition. Rose stuffed a couple of spare magazines for her submachine gun into the lining of the coat. Lastly, she considered the panzerfaust she found leaning in a corner. After experimenting a little bit, she managed to rig a harness of sorts from strips torn from an old shirt. Using this, she was able to hang the awkward rocket tube down her back, underneath the overcoat. It made quite a bundle with the submachine gun, but by stuffing a blanket under the coat she hoped she could pass as a hunched and bulky man. With plenty of dust rubbed into her face and hair, she thought she wouldn't stand out too badly.
       Now, with nearly ten hours left before her meeting with Dr. Ulrich, the only thing left for Victory Rose was to get some much needed rest. In two nights she hadn't closed her eyes for more than a few hours and she knew that she needed to be in the best condition possible in order to carry out this mission.
       With that in mind, she curled up on a battered mattress and was soon snoring peacefully.
         * * * *
       Sergeant Cleveland and a platoon of picked men had been riding in their little column for an hour now, bumping slowly over dangerous territory as they drove to the east. Already, a handful of German soldiers had approached them with raised hands, glad to finish off their wartime service by surrendering to a unit of the western allies. Cleveland had disarmed the hungry men and sent them back to the American lines on foot. He was not equipped to house prisoners.
       With a halftrack and two trucks to ride in, the group made fairly good time as they drove along. General Wingate had done a good job of making arrangements for them. When their transport plane had landed in the field outside Hamelin, the three vehicles were gassed up and loaded with supplies. Sergeant Cleveland could remember many missions he had started out on far less well equipped than this. Still though, he knew that this was an unofficial mission and that if it went bad, Wingate would deny knowledge of it. Cleveland was on his own.
       They would proceed east to a spot close to Brandenburg, if all went well. Hopefully, the front lines would be fluid enough for them to get through. Once in position there was nothing they could do but wait and trust that some rogue, German unit wouldn't decide to finish them off. They would just have to see what developed.
         * * * *
       Rose's watch said six o'clock when she awoke. She ate what was left of the provisions in the cellar and chain smoked the last of her cigarettes while she waited for the sun to set. She held Dr. Ulrich's note to the burning tip of her smoke and reduced it to ash. At eight, she emerged from her underground hideout and made a very careful and circuitous journey to the site of the entrance Dr. Ulrich had indicated. At ten o'clock, her shadowed form darted from the shelter of shattered walls and disappeared into an unmarked doorway.
       The concrete steps she descended were coated with dust, as if they had been long forgotten and disused. There was no light. Rose groped her way down until her hands felt a steel door barring her way. It opened with a rusty creak when she put her shoulder to it, and she peered into a corridor that glowed yellow in the light of a few electric bulbs. When she stepped through the door, she noticed a pile of old lumber lying nearby. She heaved a bundle up onto her shoulder and shuffled along toward Dr. Ulrich's office.
       "You there! Where are you going?"
       The harsh voice sent an electric charge of adrenaline through Rose's body. She stood still, hunched under the load of wood, with her head bowed. A disheveled soldier reeled toward her. He stank of filth and liquor. His fingers dug into her face and forced her to look up at him. His red, piggish eyes played over her.
       "You look too healthy for a slave laborer," he slurred. "You must be new." His eyes roved over her, trying to imagine what lay beneath the bulky garments.
       Rose tried her best to look terrified. She began jabbering in Russian and the soldier shoved her away.
       "Not worth the trouble," he mumbled, and resumed his uncertain walk down the corridor. He seemed to have forgotten all about her, and Rose was glad she hadn't been forced to silence him.
       She hurried along through the complex. The few technicians she encountered didn't even bother to notice her. It was only a few minutes before she saw the door to Dr. Ulrich's office. Setting down the lumber with as little noise as possible, she ducked inside.
       The old man was seated at his desk. His jaw was swollen where Rose had hit him, but otherwise he appeared unharmed. "Shut the door!" he whispered, impatiently. His eyes betrayed a state of near panic, and rightfully so. If he was found to be aiding an agent of the Allies, his death would certainly be very slow and very horrible.
       "You look too healthy to be a slave laborer," he said.
       "So I've been told," replied Victory Rose. "What can we do about it?"
       "Here," Ulrich handed her a lab coat and she stripped off the old overcoat. He gasped, "My God!" when he saw the arsenal she carried under her clothing.
       She slipped into the spotless, white coat and Ulrich said, "For heaven's sake, clean yourself up! Your face is a mess!" He handed her a rag and pointed out a pitcher of water. As Rose washed her face, he looked anxiously at the gun and panzerfaust that she had brought in with her.
       Rose jerked her thumb at a cart loaded with tools and electronic equipment. "What about that?" she asked.
       At his nod, she stowed her weapons underneath the load. The spare submachinegun magazines she slipped into her coat pocket. With that done, she was ready to go.
       She looked into Ulrich's eyes. "You realize I have to destroy the War Trumpet, don't you? I can't just spirit you away and leave it in operation."
       "Yes, of course I understand that," snapped Ulrich. "Do you think I was born yesterday? I only hope you have some plan ... at least a better one than you and your comrades came up with last night."
       "We'll think of something," Rose answered with a sour look. "What about the Russians, anyway? Were they all killed?"
       "Your friends," said the old scientist. "Two of them are still alive. I convinced the Gestapo that we were short of labor, which we always are, thanks to the brutal way our workers are treated. They're tending a fuel line in the main chamber."
       Rose's heart jumped at the news. Crush might still be living, and she had a slim chance to save him.
       "I need to be in the main chamber, overseeing the powerup sequence of the War Trumpet," said Dr. Ulrich. "It's a very delicate procedure and I hope those idiotic assistants of mine haven't bungled the job. Come on ... Schulz. And be sure to bring that cart."
       The two strode purposefully out the door and down the hall. The cart had a bad wheel and clattered so conspicuously that Rose wanted to jump out of her skin. Ulrich nodded briskly to some of the technicians who walked by and Rose kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. A set of huge double doors opened before them, and suddenly she was overwhelmed by the giant bulk of the War Trumpet, rising like a monstrous, burning idol before her.
       Now that she could look at it without the distraction of gunfire ricocheting around her, Rose could see that the apparatus was even bigger and more complex than she had realized. It towered nearly three stories tall, a mosaic of unbelievably intricate parts all festooned with ladders and scaffolding upon which the white-coated technicians climbed like ants. The top of it was lost in a forest of condensers and cables and huge, blue sparks of electricity licked over the whole thing. She wondered that the attendants weren't fried in the flashing display of power. A constant, ear-shattering scream filled the chamber as the machine pulled more and more power from the huge dynamos. Ulrich yanked at her elbow and handed Rose a set of earplugs.
       Now she looked toward the great fuel reservoirs and the gangs of oil-soaked slaves who worked like demons under the watchful eyes of SS guards. Her gaze skipped frantically over the toiling masses, seeking one set of features among all those blackened faces. In that Dante-esque vision she finally picked out a flash of white teeth. They were not gleaming now in a carefree laugh, but were bared in a grimace of terrible effort.
       No matter ... Victory Rose had found the one she sought. Alexei Kruszynski still lived!
--------
         CHAPTER X
         *UNDER HITLER'S SPELL*
       Elated now, with the knowledge that Crush was still alive, Victory Rose followed Dr. Ulrich across the floor of the teaming chamber, pushing the balky cart along before her. She watched over it anxiously, fearful that someone might discover the weapons she had hidden there. If that happened, she stood small chance of leaving the installation alive, much less accomplishing her mission of destroying the War Trumpet. At least the squeaking of the bad wheel was no longer audible over the din of the howling dynamos. As they neared the pulsing shock wave generator, Ulrich finally signaled her to leave the cart in a narrow space between two cabinets, where it would not be too conspicuous.
       Rose snatched up a clipboard and followed the old doctor up onto the scaffolding that was strung along the sides of the great machine. As she climbed and walked along after him, she jotted down figures from the instruments that Ulrich inspected. She had no idea what the dials indicated, but she needed to look as if she belonged. Luckily, the shriek of the dynamos charging the Trumpet had reached a pitch that made conversation completely impossible. Communication was carried on by writing or hand signals.
       Taking Victory Rose in tow, Ulrich visited each station on the War Trumpet. He often nudged technicians aside to make his own fine adjustments to the control panels when he felt that they needed his guiding hand.
       From the corner of her eye, Rose noticed a disturbance on the floor, far below them. A multitude of dark-uniformed men had entered the chamber and were bullying their way through the crowd of technicians. A figure in a long, dark coat and officer's cap tottered along in their midst. With a sudden start, Victory Rose recognized the man who had just walked in, surrounded by his ring of sycophantic admirers. It was the Fuhrer, himself, who had recovered from his fainting spell and had now arrived to watch the first full-scale deployment of his newest wonder weapon. She watched as his eyes glowed in childish wonder at the sight of his mighty engine of destruction.
       Rose grabbed the Dr. Ulrich's arm and hustled him off the scaffolding and around to the opposite side of the War Trumpet, giving him very hard and meaningful looks when he tried to resist. Trying to stay out of sight, they worked their way back around the great machine, weaving a path through aisles of vibrating equipment whose purpose she could not even guess. Rose pulled him into a corner behind a stand of metal shelves where they could have a view of events while enjoying the safety of a shadowed nook. When Ulrich saw his leader, he tried to leave their hiding place and join the throng. Rose held him back by main force. His face disgusted her with its display of open adoration and she wondered if it might not be better to leave him for the Red Army to play with after all. He was obviously not as reformed as she had at first believed him to be.
       Now she saw the tottering form of Hitler as his men assisted him to mount the makeshift steps to the scaffolding that ringed the War Trumpet. She half wondered if he would finish the climb or collapse in a trembling heap and have to be carried away on a stretcher. But some dark fire still burned in the old monster. His stride seemed to gain strength as he ascended. His pale eyes began to regain some of their piercing power as he swept the crowd with his gaze. The technicians on the floor below gradually drifted away from their labors, stood still and gawked upward like superstitious primitives who looked to the heavens for a hovering angel, not realizing that what they saw was a devil in human form.
       Now HItler stood in glory atop the scaffolding, visibly drawing power from the screaming multitude below him as the War Trumpet drew power from the screaming dynamos that fed it. His trembling was stilled. His hunched shoulders straightened and he appeared to grow in stature. He comforted the throng with the warm gaze of a loving mother. He chastised them with the lightning glare of a stern father. The crowd worshipped him. He fed upon it like a hungry leech.
       Hitler waited with masterful patience for the crowd to still itself. As the people gave him their rapt attention, he began to speak. His words were inaudible in the room's din, but that did not matter. It was his fiendishly powerful will that spoke, ladling its poison from his black heart directly into theirs.
       He worked into his oratory, starting slow and gathering the mob into his hands, building momentum, the pressure increasing until he was exploding, spilling forth a torrent of ecstatic frenzy. He gestured like an angry titan, nearly overwhelming the backdrop of the giant machine behind him. Minute after minute rolled by while the ranting Fuhrer cast his hypnotic spell. The chamber trembled now, not only to the shriek of the dynamos, but to the thunder of an enslaved multitude roaring, "Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!"
       Not since the Nuremburg rally of years past had the Fuhrer enjoyed such a stage, such an adoring audience. The crowd was offering him its very humanity, and he was snapping it up. Even Victory Rose was horrified to find herself gazing up in rapture at the man who had nearly destroyed civilization with his lust for power. She was witnessing the final glory of his reign of evil. She stared across the sea of screaming faces. It was like watching a silent movie of an insanely cheering mob.
       The crowd became one with Hitler as he swept them up into the embrace of his passion. The fires within him burst forth and bathed the crowd, which absorbed and returned them in a symbiotic relationship that left both giver and receiver exhausted and exhilarated. It went on and on, far longer than Rose had imagined the man could have managed. And yet, finally, the rant began to wind inevitably downward as the physical strain on his body overcame the spiritual nourishment he reaped.
       The Fuhrer slumped against the railing, panting like a man whose passions had left him worn out. Sweat pasted his forelock across his dreamy face. His aids finally stepped up and began to ease him away as his knees began to buckle. The mighty dictator followed their lead like a little child. He had given forth his last and greatest effort.
       The multitude of technicians scarcely noticed that their god was being almost carried down the steps from his lofty podium. The cheering and waving and foot stamping went on and on, as if they did not want to believe the moment could ever end.
       Hitler collapsed at the bottom of the steps. In seconds, he had withered to become a mere shell of a man. His infernal power had fled him. Mumbling to himself, barely breathing, he was borne along by his men. The crowd burst its bonds and surged toward him. Arms strained, fingers stretched to touch the coat of their beloved idol. The dictator scarcely seemed to notice. Rose, too, had gaped in awe at the spectacle. Now she turned back to Dr. Ulrich, only to find him ... gone!
       She whirled frantically, cursing herself for taking her eyes off the old man. She should have realized that if she was affected by the Fuhrer's performance, then the old scientist who had enjoyed twelve years of Nazi patronage would be completely taken in. Rose's sharp eyes scanned the swirling crowd in an effort to find Ulrich. When at last she spotted his bald dome bouncing up and down as he strained to catch a glimpse of Hitler, she cast concerns for her own safety to the winds and plunged into the mass.
       With ruthless jabs, Rose's elbows cleared her path. She tore through the crowd with purposeful strides, shoving aside those too stubborn or careless to give way to her. From time to time she caught sight of Dr. Ulrich, and corrected her course to intercept him.
       Victory Rose barely realized when the momentum of the crowd began to overwhelm her. At some point though, all her shoving was no longer enough to keep her ahead of the press behind her. She was carried forward and smashed into the mass of bodies in what was turning into an uncontrollable stampede. Rose fought now, not to move forward, but to remain on her feet.
       She stomped on bulky, yielding forms that lay unseen beneath her. There could be no mercy for the fallen. Brute survival was the only imperative now. Rose swung her powerful arms around the shoulders of two men on either side of her and together they made a bulwark that could withstand the crush of humanity.
       Rose and her two captive companions were nearing the ring of uniformed guards that surrounded the Fuhrer now. She was on a collision course with Hitler and his men. Real fear began to grip her now. Her face was well known to the mad dictator and if he still lived he was sure to recognize her.
       Now she was smashed bodily against the angry guards. She looked directly into the eyes of the one in front of her. Spit from the man's shouting mouth sprayed over her face as he vainly screamed for order. His voice went unheard.
       A final surge of the multitude and Rose was driven through the ring of soldiers. She saw the comatose Fuhrer sagging between two men. His head hung down and swung like a half-filled sack of potatoes. Rose held her breath and whispered a prayer that the man was already dead.
       And then her prayer was answered.
       As if the universe had decided to play a horrible joke on Victory Rose, the rumpled head began to rise. The Fuhrer's grey-skinned face revealed itself to her. His drooling lips twisted in a hellish grin. The terrible, watery eyes fixed upon her. Rose stood paralyzed as Hitler's finger rose, pointing.
       And his vile mouth formed the words, "Victory Rose..."
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         CHAPTER XI
         *AT THE MERCY OF THE MOB*
       The Fuhrer's quivering finger hung like a dagger, poised to strike. His face bore an expression that could have been read as stark terror, or malicious glee. Hitler's announcement of the name "Victory Rose" went unheard over the thunder of the dynamos, but an ever widening circle of eyes began to focus upon the object of his attention. Rose realized with horror that she was transfixed by a hundred stares from every quarter of the chamber, and she saw her name formed soundlessly by screaming lips within the crowd.
       Rose felt hands seize her from behind. Lashing out automatically, her fists connected with bone and the crowd fell back a step. She whirled from one side to the other, facing it down with flashing eyes and bared teeth. For just a moment, the multitude of technicians hesitated. It was like a mindless, powerful beast waiting for the spark that would impel it to action.
       One of Hitler's guards provided that spark. He lunged forward at Victory Rose's unprotected back and wrapped his grey clad arms around her like a vice, pinning her arms to her sides. Rose's reaction was automatic. Her heel stamped down on the man's foot with crushing force. She whirled and struck, and the hapless bodyguard flew backwards with blood spurting from his ruined nose.
       But the dam had broken and the mob surged forward. Clawing fingers ripped at her twisting form. Rose's powerful arms and legs worked like pistons, dealing out bone crushing punches and kicks. Bodies rolled underfoot as the frenzied rioters trampled their own wounded. One raving face after another loomed up and disappeared as Victory Rose battled for her life.
       Smashing her way through the torrent of angry humanity, she made for the closest refuge she could find -- the stairs leading up to the scaffolding on the War Trumpet. Her shredded clothing fluttered about her as she stormed out of the crowd and leaped high upon the iron steps. The human river poured up the stairway after her, and paid a grim price for every inch it gained. Rose's own swollen fists sprayed red drops with every blow she struck. She screamed and fell as the nails of a fallen man ripped deep furrows down her leg. The stairs dug painfully into her back as the crowd swarmed over her. A thunderous two-legged kick drove them off. White coated bodies tumbled through the air as the leaders were hurled away.
       Victory Rose stood, gasping for breath, at the top of the stairs. Her creamy skin gleamed through rent clothing. With one eye blackened, bleeding from a score of wounds that showed through her ragged clothing, her ripped thigh awash in gore, she took her wide-legged fighter's stance and raised her fists in defiance. The howling mob took up the challenge.
       Looking down at the charging mass, Rose knew she could not save herself from being overwhelmed. She turned and fled.
       Now the metal scaffold trembled under the pounding of countless running feet. Even wounded as she was, Rose's fleetness could have kept her well ahead of the crowd had she not stopped at each panel of instruments and spent precious seconds throwing switches and twisting the dials out of adjustment. The bloodthirsty mob stampeded after her across an unsupported stretch of catwalk and she leaped just in time. Her body flashed across open space and she snagged a stair rail just as the structure collapsed under the weight of humanity. A great, white-coated mass fell helplessly into the mob that rioted more than two stories below.
       With a flex of her powerful arms, Rose dragged herself to safety and crouched for a moment on the swinging staircase, looking down at the boiling mob. Any object that hands could grab was being hurled up at her, but she was too far above them. The missiles only fell back to strike those below. Turning her back upon her frustrated pursuers, she crawled painfully to the top of the stairs and rested while she considered her next move.
       She had done her work well, sabotaging the War Trumpet's controls as she ran. The giant dynamos were slowly winding down and the screaming of the machine had quieted to the point where it was just possible for her to hear the howls directed at her from below. She got up and walked slowly along the catwalk, looking for some means to exit the chamber.
         * * * *
       Swinging south of Brandenburg, Sergeant Cleveland's expedition had halted at a farmhouse where they made their headquarters. They were welcomed with fawning attention by the master of the domain, who could read the writing on the wall and offered them his profuse assurances that he had never supported the Nazis. The cynical Cleveland merely grunted and glanced warily at the beer offered by the fat landowner. DiMartino bravely volunteered to risk death by testing the man's hospitality and was soon quite happily certain that the brew was perfectly safe.
       Here, Sergeant Cleveland decided to rest and wait. He had led his men into dangerous country, behind the German lines and only twenty miles from Berlin. At any time during the day they could have run smack into enemy troops. Given the fluidity of the situation, he was also prepared to encounter Russians. Stumbling into either nationality could have unpredictable consequences.
       There was really no way for anyone to know where Victory Rose would emerge from the besieged city. It seemed logical that she would try to break out as far west as possible, but that was only an educated guess. And after years of war, Cleveland was realistic enough to face the fact that if she would emerge was just as uncertain as where.
       Weary as he was, Cleveland slept little that night. He lay for hours, listening to the faint rumble of artillery in the east. He pictured Victory Rose on the receiving end of those exploding shells. He finally drifted off for a few, brief hours.
       In his dreams, he lay in a muddy trench while a massive artillery barrage tore the landscape around him. Plumes of smoke and flame rose to blot out the sky as he crouched in terror. A shell crashed to earth just yards away, and a massive, black wall of earth filled his vision. He awoke with a cry.
       And looked directly into Coochy's wide-eyed face.
       "Tanks, Sarge!" he yelped. "We're surrounded by panzers!"
         * * * *
       Victory Rose continued her slow walk around the War Trumpet. The crowd below had fetched ladders now, and was trying to set them up against the side of the great machine. Rose could see though, that it would be some time before they could manage to reach her. She focused on her search for an exit.
       Above her, a jungle of electrical cables formed a tangled mass. She searched them carefully in hopes that she could discover where they entered the chamber. Her piercing eyes followed the snaky lines until a grin spread over her face. A bundle of the cables disappeared through a large hole in the wall several yards away. Judging the distance, she knew it would be child's play for her to leap high enough to seize a handhold and work her way along the electrical lines. If she was lucky, she could make the journey without being electrocuted.
       As she positioned herself for the jump, her concerns about electrical current were suddenly shoved to the back of her mind. Rose whirled at the sound of running feet and came face to face with another angry throng pouring toward her from the other side of the War Trumpet. They had found a different way up and now she had no place to run. Without a second thought, she leaped for the cables.
       Rose caught one of the arm-thick lines in a firm grasp and held on tight while her legs swung out over empty space. She was about to reach forward when she felt a terrific pull on her ankle. One of the technicians had leaped after her and now clung fiercely to her leg. Rose knocked the man loose with a desperate kick and he fell, spinning, to the floor, far below. She was free for just a second before she was grappled again, and yet again. In a moment she was struggling to support the weight of three men who dangled from her waist and legs.
       With steely determination, Victory Rose set her mind to the task of escape. Her muscles quivered with the terrible strain of supporting hundreds of pounds. Despite her will to edge forward, she could do no more than simply hang motionless and use all her strength to hang on. She was fighting a losing battle and she knew it. By now, even if the three men dropped off her, her arms might be too weak to perform the task demanded of them.
       But the men were not dropping off. Instead, they were clawing and swinging and doing their best to yank her loose. They didn't seem to care that her fall meant their death as well as hers. Rose felt her fingernails peel off as her hands slipped over the insulated line.
       And suddenly the strain was gone. She was falling through the air. Her sense of relief almost overwhelmed her realization that she was more than thirty feet above the concrete floor. The men had also let go as the group plummeted downward.
       With less than a second to act, Victory Rose swung about and seized two of the men, thrust them beneath her as her only cushion against the impact when they landed. She closed her eyes as the ground rushed up at her, and an instant later she lay dazed and helpless as the crowd closed in on her.
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         CHAPTER XII
         *SHACKLED FOR DEATH*
       Four idling Tiger tanks sat in front of Sergeant Cleveland's farmhouse. Half a dozen other vehicles, of more or less military appearance, were parked around and between them. German soldiers sat nearby, smoking and drinking water from a horse trough. It was a battered, but still powerful, little military unit that faced the Americans.
       Cleveland tried to rub the sleep out of his face as he watched out the window. He dismissed Coochy with a surly nod when the big medic persisted in asking what they were going to do. The tough noncom had no idea what to do about this development, so he handled it in the same, direct way he handled everything. Shouldering his Thompson, he strode out onto the front step and eyed the newcomers. With his arms folded and a sullen expression plastered over his face, he hoped that he appeared more confident than he felt. Those Tigers could level the farmhouse in minutes.
       An officer popped out of one of the tank hatches and stood erect, waiting to be noticed. The sergeant remained silent and stubborn. A minute ticked by while the two battle leaders pointedly ignored each other. The officer's driver gunned the engine, hoping to force an acknowledgement from Cleveland, but the waiting game continued. German soldiers watched curiously from the yard while Americans peered through the windows of the house. The sun continued to rise and no one seemed to know what to do about the situation.
       Finally, the German colonel climbed down from his vehicle and walked over to Cleveland. With a salute, he introduced himself as Colonel von Wolfram of the Fourth Panzer Army. The sergeant returned the gesture.
       "I believe we have you trapped and outnumbered, sergeant," said the officer in crisply accented English.
       "There's a lot more where we came from," growled Cleveland.
       The colonel's face puckered into a sour expression. "And you are a very long way from your lines," he continued.
       Cleveland grinned. "Don't worry, Colonel," he answered. "They'll be closer tomorrow."
       "You are making this very difficult," spat the German.
       "Let me make it easy for you, Colonel," said Cleveland. "You offer me the surrender of your men and your vehicles. I offer you breakfast and escort back to the American lines."
       Cleveland added, "You look hungry."
       The colonel reddened, but began to unbuckle his pistol belt. "I must explain the situation to my men," he said.
       "You tell it any way you want," said Sergeant Cleveland. "Just make sure they get the message." And he held out his hand to receive the offered sidearm.
       After Cleveland went back inside the farmhouse, his men crowded around him with laughter and congratulations.
       "How'd you know that Kraut wanted to give up?" asked Coochy.
       Cleveland blew out a heavy breath and mopped his brow. "Who knew?" he answered.
         * * * *
       Victory Rose was seized and dragged away from the bodies that lay crumpled beneath her. Although the fall had not killed her, for now she was so dazed from the impact that she could do no more than watch the hands that carried her. With a bitter stoicism, she suffered the blows and kicks rained on her by the crowd.
       After enduring the gantlet of abuse she was dragged inside the ring of guards and hurled to the floor. She lay motionless at the Fuhrer's feet.
       "Helpless at last," wheezed the old dictator. "One dream, at least, has been fulfilled -- that my eyes should witness the sight of you groveling before me."
       "Never," gasped Rose, struggling to rise. A heavy boot on her neck crushed her back down to the concrete.
       "When the Fuhrer says 'grovel,' you grovel!" screamed one of the guards.
       Rose went limp, unable to fight any longer. Hitler laughed as the hobnailed boot sole continued to grind against her flesh. "Now what shall we do with you?" he mused.
       A familiar voice caught Rose's attention. "My Fuhrer! My Fuhrer!" it shouted. She felt Hitler's attention waver away from her as Dr. Ulrich pushed his way to the fore. Her heart sank under the heavy knowledge of the Nazi scientist's slavish adoration of his leader.
       "What is it, Ulrich?" asked Hitler.
       "My Fuhrer, I beg to report," panted the old man, "This saboteur's attack has delayed the War Trumpet's blast by no more than one hour. The controls are being reset and power is regaining its former levels."
       Indeed, the low rumble of slowly turning dynamos was beginning to vibrate the chamber once again. The wonder weapon was still a living menace to the Allied war effort.
       "Ah, my faithful Ulrich," gushed the Fuhrer. "It is minds like yours that forge the weapons our soldiers will carry to ultimate victory."
       Rose's stomach turned as she heard the old doctor shout a passionate, "Heil Hitler!"
       "And what shall we do with this American strumpet?" queried Hitler. "I wish her to meet a fitting end ... the sort of death she richly deserves after the damage she has inflicted upon the Fatherland over the past four years!"
       A clanking noise reached Rose's ears.
       "What is this, Ulrich?" snapped the Fuhrer.
       Brutal hands yanked Rose's arms behind her back. Pain racked her twisted muscles as cold metal was clamped about her wrists.
       "Metal collars, Fuhrer," said Ulrich, "for mounting the coolant pipes. They are adjustable."
       As he spoke, Dr. Ulrich was screwing the iron tight on Victory Rose's wrists and ankles. The rigid fittings bit deeply into her tortured flesh. When he was finished, four iron pipe collars clasped her limbs. They were not chained together and while somewhat weighty, they did not prevent her from moving.
       "I trust you have something in mind, Doctor," said Hitler.
       "Oh yes, Fuhrer," answered Ulrich. "Oh yes ... You will see the end that I have planned. And believe me, Fuhrer, it will be both glorious and terrible."
       "Bring her!" he shouted.
       Again Rose was dragged through the crowd, but this time it was six uniformed guards who performed the deed. They walked briskly, with powerful strides, and the mob fell back before them. The soldiers who dragged Victory Rose to her doom also performed an unintended act of protection for her, intimidating the frenzied technicians so that she was spared the rain of torments she had suffered earlier. Her weary mind embraced this tiny relief.
       Rose's feet banged limply against stair treads as she was hauled up another set of steps that wound upward around the body of the War Trumpet.
       "This way!" cried Ulrich. "Follow me."
       The soldiers obeyed the old doctor's commands and stamped along behind him. As they proceeded along a catwalk, Rose looked down into the milling throng. Suddenly her sharp eyes picked out the Fuhrer among his people, far below. Hitler's face was turned upward now, and wearing a look of triumphant glee.
       "Here!" barked Dr. Ulrich. He pointed to a huge wall of metal that was mounted high up on the side of the War Trumpet.
       "Raise her arms," ordered the doctor. "Press them against the metal plate! Now!"
       The soldiers held her arms up high over her head, but they did not need to press them against the vibrating metal. Four sharp clanks announced to Rose's ears that a force had seized the pipe collars and held them fast against the wall.
       "The electromagnet," announced Ulrich. "One of the great electromagnets that forms the heart of the War Trumpet." He leered at Rose. "The machine is nearing full power, you verdammt American. Once it does, the weapon will be ready to fire its shockwave across the city. When that happens, dear girl, this plate will become charged with millions of volts of electricity."
       Ulrich leaned out over the railing and addressed the crowd.
       "At the blast of the War Trumpet, Victory Rose will be burnt to a smoking crisp before your eyes! The Third Reich's renewed march to conquest will begin with the death of our greatest enemy!"
       The doctor turned and laughed as Rose struggled helplessly against her bonds. Blood streamed from her wrists as she pulled desperately at the metal collars that held her against the giant magnet.
       "Be ready, Victory Rose!" laughed the doctor. "Be ready when the moment comes! There won't be another," he warned.
       He ushered the guards back toward the stairway. When they balked at leaving Rose alone, he told them, "Come along, you fools. Once the War Trumpet sounds, this whole area will be filled with live bolts of electricity. We'll all fry if we stay here. Move!"
       The guards didn't have to be told twice. Without a backward glance, they turned and ran down the stairs, taking them three at a time in their haste to reach a place of safety. Hanging back, Dr. Ulrich held Rose's face in one withered hand and hissed, "Be ready!"
       Then he, too, was leaping down the steps with surprising agility for a man of his age. In a second, he was gone and Rose was alone, pinned to the wall in a horrible crucifixion in full view of the ranting mob, far below her. She stared at a wall clock that hung at the far end of the chamber. The moments of her life were ticking away and she was helpless to save herself. She gritted her teeth and prepared to meet her end. The moment was drawing near...
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         CHAPTER XIII
         *THE FLAMING REVOLT*
       The hour of delay was almost up. The mighty War Trumpet was vibrating so powerfully that Victory Rose's teeth rattled like dice in her head. The clock's minute hand stood nearly straight up, and the technicians who were not otherwise occupied were standing below, staring up at her, waiting to see her fry like a steak on a hot grille. Even Hitler seemed to have regained some of his strength and she could see the sparkle in his evil eyes as he watched for the fatal moment.
       Standing near the gloating dictator, Dr. Ulrich's hand was raised high in the air. When his hand dropped, that would be the signal to start the final sequence that would lead to the Trumpet's great blast -- the blast that would leave the Russian armies helpless at the hands of the Germans, and send millions of volts of electricity through the body of Victory Rose.
       The noise of the dynamos was beyond screaming now. The din had reached such a point as to have no meaning. Blue lightning flashed across the cables and snapped angrily at Rose's face. She saw, with a sick horror, Dr. Ulrich bring down his hand in the sharp, chopping motion that would tell his underlings to begin the final countdown. Only seconds left now...
       With the whine of the dynamos drowning out all else, Rose's first inkling that something unexpected had occurred was a burst of movement to her right and far below. With her view almost totally obscured by the bulk of the War Trumpet, she had to strain to see what had happened. Figures began leaping into view down on the floor. They were raggedly dressed, thin and dirty, and they swung tools, lumber, anything that could be used as a weapon. It was the slave laborers! At the moment the final switches had been thrown on the War Trumpet, they had staged a revolt. Rose saw a mighty figure jump up on a desk and flail at the crowd with an oversized wrench, before he hurled himself through the air toward Hitler's guards. It was Crush! She might have known that he would be one of the ringleaders of the rebellion. She lost sight of him as he disappeared into the melee. The uprising had come too late to save Rose, though. She knew she was living through her final moments, but she was thrilled to have had one last glimpse of her beloved Russian.
       Rose twitched uncontrollably as she felt electric tingles nip at her wrists through the iron cuffs that held her pinned to the machine. The countdown had to be near zero now, regardless of the battle down on the floor. In a moment the Trumpet would sound and Nazi armies would march again. She fumed at the bitter knowledge that her mission had failed. Suddenly a streak of fire flashed from one side of the chamber to the other, ending in a flaming explosion against the side of one of the fuel tanks. Rose looked quickly to find its source and saw ... Dr. Ulrich holding the empty tube of her smoking panzerfaust -- the one she had left hidden in the cart. It was he who had fired the missile that had ruptured the giant, iron tank. Tons of burning oil poured out now, upon slave and Nazi alike. Explosions rocked the chamber and more tanks split open, dumping their contents. The vast chamber became a scene out of Dante's worst nightmares, a lake of fire where tormented souls continued to battle, knee deep in flame. Hatred between slave and Nazi ran so deep that each lusted to strike the last blow before burning to death. Rose stared down in wonder at the horrifying scene. A wall of heat slammed up at her, threatening to roast her alive. But at the same time, every electric light in the place went out. The scream of the dynamos quieted as the dead motors spun down. Suddenly, Rose felt her wrists and ankles released from the metallic grip of the pipe collars and she crashed to the hot iron catwalk, burned and bruised, but alive. Instantly, she leaped up preferring that the soles of her boots received the metal's searing kiss, rather than her bare skin.
         * * * *
       In the meantime, twenty miles away, Sergeant Cleveland and Colonel von Wolfram sat in the main room of the farmhouse, talking over glasses of the disgruntled landowner's best wine. It had been one thing for him to entertain a small force from the victorious, American army. It was quite another thing though, for the farmer to see his supplies eaten up by a mob of his own, defeated soldiers.
       With their men fed and bedded down for the night, von Wolfram and Cleveland needed to discuss what their next step would be. Von Wolfram had asked for help in getting his men to the west and safely surrendering them, but Cleveland had no intention of leaving the area without Victory Rose, or at least without the knowledge that she would not be able to return. Given the facts that von Wolfram's battle group was far more powerful than his own and that he was, in fact, in territory still held by the Germans, the tough noncom felt his best choice was to level with the enemy officer man to man. Colonel von Wolfram's eyes had widened in admiration as Cleveland explained his mission.
       "Aha!" said von Wolfram. "So you are that famous Sergeant Cleveland. How we all itched to get our hands on you and your lovely commander. I can tell you, your head would have been worth the knight's cross to the man who took it. In a way, it is a pity," he continued, "that we did not meet until the war was all but over. Now we shall never have the opportunity to measure ourselves against one another."
       "Yeah," agreed Cleveland. "You can see how broken up I am."
       Von Wolfram smiled. "You Americans. Always with the jokes."
       "What isn't a joking matter, Colonel," said Cleveland, "is that we're waiting here to escort Major Hardwyk home and we're not leaving here without her."
       "I admire your loyalty, Sergeant," answered the German. "And you have done a remarkable job, commandeering these vehicles and leading your men so far into enemy territory. But we both know there is one glaring weakness in your plan."
       Cleveland nodded. He had always known that actually locating Victory Rose, if she emerged from the besieged city, would require a tremendous amount of good luck.
       The colonel thought a moment and then offered his help. "We have men and vehicles, Sergeant. We can fan out to cover a wider area, and we can communicate by radio. If your Major does escape from Berlin, you will stand a much better chance of intercepting her if you allow us to help."
       Sergeant Cleveland's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "That's a very generous offer, Colonel. I'll give it some thought."
       With a sigh, Colonel von Wolfram replied, "You doubt my good intentions. After my remark about the iron cross, perhaps that is to be expected. I apologize for my indiscretion."
       The colonel leaned forward and set down his wine glass. "Let me explain something to you. Five years ago we were told that we were fighting to save the west from being crushed by the barbarians of the east. Through all the twists and turns of the Nazi regime, we put on blinkers and we told ourselves that the camps and the killings and the lies were small problems and that we could set them right once our nation was safe and strong again. We believed our leaders.
       "We were wrong.
       "This is my chance to atone in some small way for the horrors that I helped inflict upon the world. Sergeant, I respectfully request that you allow me to aid you in your mission."
       Cleveland nodded.
         * * * *
       Deep beneath Berlin, in the chamber of the War Trumpet, Victory Rose searched frantically for a means of escape. The hole she had spotted earlier in the night was out of reach from her present location. She was facing the door which she had entered the night before, when she and the guerilla band had first tried to storm the installation, but in order to reach it she must cross the lake of flaming oil. The increasing blast of heat that struck her from below made an excellent inspiration for speedy thought. If she didn't find an exit soon she would end up like those poor devils down on the floor who had burned alive.
       There was no time for weighing risks. Rose leaped up and caught one of the thick electrical lines that snaked overhead. Bracing her feet against the side of the machine, she wrenched desperately at the cable until it tore loose. From that moment on, there was nothing she could do other than keep a tight grip as she swung out over the roaring blaze. With the lights gone, the chamber was illuminated only by the scarlet flare of the burning oil. In that uncertain light it was almost impossible for her to judge direction and distance with any assurance. She could only clench the cable with white knuckled hands and hope.
       As the swing continued, she dipped lower and lower until her tortured feet dragged through the hungry flames and she screamed in agony.
       Then she was leaving the fire behind, arcing up and away. The landing outside the entrance door grew larger as she rose. At the apex of her swing, she let go and flew through the searing air, stretching her body and reaching out. She would have only one chance to catch that railing. The alternative was unthinkable.
       As she sailed through space, she saw three sooty refugees who had also chosen the doorway as their only means of escape. Whether slave or Nazi she could not tell, for their dark figures were scarcely visible in the flickering, red glare.
       She was heading straight for the men, though, and there would be no way for her to avoid them. One of the men raised his arm, and Rose saw that he was pointing a gun directly at her hurtling body. In a second, her leap would bring her so close that it would be impossible for the gunman to miss.
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         CHAPTER XIV
         *ESCAPE FROM THE INFERNO*
       The black muzzle of an automatic gaped directly at Victory Rose as she swung toward the three men on the landing. She saw the gunman's forefinger tighten on the trigger of his weapon, saw the tongue of bright flame burst forth as the man fired a deadly shot.
       But at the very moment the pistol blazed, a hand reached from behind and struck the gun-wielding arm. The shot went wild and the next second Rose had plowed, feet first, into the group. They all went down in a tumbled knot, but Victory Rose was on her feet before the three men could rise, the automatic now gripped in her own fist. Amazingly, one of the men on the landing responded with ... laughter. Beneath a thick layer of grimy soot, Rose recognized the familiar features of Alexei Kruszynski!
       "My God," she breathed. "Crush! I thought you'd burned when the oil tank blew up."
       Kruszynski shook his head and pointed to his ear. The screaming of the dynamos had left him deaf for the time being. He couldn't hear a thing, but had grasped her meaning. "I'm here, darling, in the well-toasted flesh," he answered, with a flashing smile.
       He had reached the safety of the stair landing along with the sole survivor from his guerilla band. Nicholas and all the rest had perished in the ill-fated assault of the night before. Along the way, Crush had grabbed Dr. Ulrich and dragged him out of harm's way. The rest of the slave laborers, the hundreds of technicians, and the Nazi soldiers, had perished in the roaring flames below. Even now, thousands of gallons of oil continued to gush from the ruptured tanks, feeding the ravenous inferno and beginning an underground firestorm that would continue until it had sucked the last bit of oxygen from the complex.
       "We've got to get out of here," mouthed Rose.
       Kruszyinski nodded his eager agreement, but as they turned, they saw another blackened figure struggling up the metal steps from the floor below. The horribly burned man was crawling on hands and knees, bits of flesh sticking to the red hot iron as he moved. Rose could not imagine how he could have emerged from that wall of solid flame, yet up he came. It seemed impossible that he could live, burned as he was, with the skin hanging in loose hunks. Only a titanic effort of will could have animated that tortured body. It dragged itself upward until it reached the floor of the landing.
       Victory Rose knelt down in an automatic response, even though she knew the man was beyond all help. After years of war, she seen men endure all sorts of horrible, mortal injuries, yet remain lucid to the very end. If she could offer nothing more than a comforting presence, that she would do. As she stooped, the man lifted his head. The lurid glow of the inferno played across his roasted features. Rose staggered back as she saw the tattered ashes of a narrow moustache crumbling against his upper lip.
       The men on the landing gasped in amazement, horrified to see the face of Adolf Hitler staring up at them from under a mass of sizzling blisters. The Fuhrer's mad eyes rolled in agony and the long, bare teeth snapped open and shut as if his ruined mouth was trying to form words.
       Ulrich was transfixed by the sight of the leader he had betrayed, now mystically appearing almost as if to accuse him of treachery and murder. Kruszynski and his henchman eyed the naked, disintegrating figure with vengeful glee. Here was the man who had ravaged Holy Mother Russia in a war of incalculable brutality, twisting in agony at their feet. They spat bitter laughs at the Fuhrer's torment.
       At the sight of the resurrected Fuhrer, Victory Rose had forgotten the pistol in her hand and now, without even realizing it, she raised the weapon. She stared at the gibbering monstrosity that writhed before her, and before she knew what she was doing, her finger had squeezed the trigger. The automatic bucked once in her fist, and a round hole appeared in Hitler's forehead. She looked down at the smoking gun in her hand. For a moment, she could not grasp the reality that she had actually put a bullet through the head of Germany's Nazi Fuhrer. The blackened corpse flopped bonelessly upon the floor and lay still, slowly grilling as the flames continued to heat the iron. Gradually, the enormity of her act dawned on Victory Rose's mind. Adolf Hitler would torment the world no more.
       Rose felt a smashing blow slam into her from behind. As she fell, she looked back and saw Crush struggling to restrain his infuriated comrade. The man screamed furiously at her until Alexei's fist connected with his jaw and he collapsed in a heap. Kruszynski pulled the man to his feet and glared at Rose with accusing eyes.
       "You should have let him burn!" he mouthed through clenched teeth.
       It was not in Victory Rose to watch a living being endure hopeless torture. Yet she understood the Russian's feelings. Had she hesitated but a moment before firing, she might have thought twice before putting the fiendish dictator out of his misery. She stuffed the pistol in the waistband of her pants and hustled the three men toward the door.
       Suddenly there was a rending crash that even their abused ears could detect. They turned in time to behold the spectacle of the War Trumpet, its steel supports weakened by the awful heat, lurch sickeningly. With a slow, almost majestic movement, the great wonder weapon leaned forward and fell, like a great, molten idol crashing into its own sacrificial fires. The impact rocked the chamber with shockwaves of heat and brought down sections of the ceiling as well as tangles of electrical cable.
       The iron landing trembled and Victory Rose shoved her companions through the doorway before it could collapse beneath their feet. In the corridor, they battled a freezing wind as the hungry blaze sucked oxygen to feed its hunger. Papers and debris sailed through the air as they were drawn into the inferno. Kruszynski carried the senseless guerilla and Rose dragged the old doctor as they ran through the complex. The body of Hitler remained where it was, caught in the twisted iron railing and cooking over the flames.
       The companions ran through the corridors, joined by a few of the technicians who had been working in other parts of the facility. The little stampede of representatives from all sides of the European war fled heedlessly from the far more immediate threat of immolation in the fires below. With gasps of relief, they emerged on the surface and staggered out under a starry sky. They kept running between columns of thick, oily smoke that billowed out of vents and entrances that connected to the blazing installation. The fugitives scattered in all directions, fleeing madly until their exhausted bodies collapsed on the rubble strewn ground of the city. Rose lay breathless on the cold stones as her excitement waned, with her bruised limbs outflung and gleaming in the moonlight.
         * * * *
       One of the German tank commanders pounded on the farmhouse door before he walked in. Sergeant Cleveland and Colonel von Wolfram dragged their eyes open. Both men had fallen asleep in their chairs. Their wine glasses had fallen to the floor, forgotten.
       Von Wolfram rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "What is it?" he mumbled.
       "Beg to report, sir," said the soldier, "radio message from Berlin." The man waited, not wanting to speak further in front of the American sergeant.
       "Oh, go ahead," said the colonel. "We may as well speak freely with one another."
       With a final glance at Cleveland, the tanker spoke. "Sir, it's garbled. There's been some kind of attack on a military installation in the city. One report says Russians. Another mentions the American, Victory Rose."
       The colonel's eyes widened at this. Even Sergeant Cleveland, whose German was rudimentary at best, caught the name of his commanding officer. Von Wolfram translated the rest of the message for him.
       "Your Major Hardwyk is still alive, Sergeant," he announced. "Or at least she was an hour ago. We must hope for the best."
       Cleveland's lips curved in a hard grin. "Okay, Colonel. Now we've got to find out where she's headed."
       "I believe you've done right to position yourself here," said von Wolfram. Unless she's dead or a prisoner, she'll head due west before the Red Army closes the ring around Berlin. The Russians may be your allies for now, but if they believe the rumours that Victory Rose is the product of some sort of experimental treatments, they will hardly pass up the opportunity to study her if she should fall into their hands. After all, in the chaos of war it would be quite easy for her to disappear and never be heard from again."
       The sergeant agreed. "So we wait and hope she shows up. Monitor the radio for more reports if she's spotted."
       "Correct, Sergeant," answered von Wolfram. "And we deploy our forces. If she does make it out of the city, we want her to meet friends, don't we?"
       Cleveland started to unfold his map, but von Wolfram stretched out a hand to dissuade him. "Let's use mine," he said. "It's bound to be more up to date."
       He opened the crackling paper and the two leaned over it in study.
--------
         CHAPTER XV
         *FLIGHT FROM BERLIN*
       The first fingers of dawn were drawing pink streaks across the sky as Victory Rose dragged herself to her feet. She poked her head up over the parapet of an open cellar where she and her group had taken refuge after the War Trumpet was destroyed the night before.
       She stood, bathed in the rosy, morning light, tattered but statuesque, beautiful and strong. Her short cropped brown hair fluttered slightly in the breeze. Rose's wounds had already begun to heal. Her bruises were fading and the wicked gouges on her thigh had closed. Though she was stiff and sore now, in a day or so she would be as good as new and would show no sign of the terrible punishment she had endured. Although her face was smudged and weary, a calm confidence emanated from it.
       In the cold, morning air, her breath made a smoky veil between her and the endless vista of the shattered city. Rose's quick ears picked up a slight rustle behind her, and she felt Crush's hands drop gently upon her shoulders. She spoke without turning.
       "I'm getting Ulrich out of here this morning."
       She felt him stiffen behind her, and continued.
       "You know I'm taking him back to the American lines. That's what he asked for."
       She turned around and faced Kruszyinski. "Why don't you come too? In another day or so this city will be a war zone."
       Kruszynski's teeth flashed in his soot-blackened face. "Look around, darling. The war has already destroyed this place, as it has so much of my own country."
       "I mean," said Rose, "that very soon the Red Army will kick its way in here and there's no guarantee they'll bother to distinguish between you and any other male of fighting age they find. This might be your chance to start life over, after the war."
       "In America..." mused the Russian.
       Rose looked down into the cellar where Dr. Ulrich and the remaining guerilla still snored on the stone floor. The low grumble of artillery throbbed its dull undertone and flashes lit the horizon in the east and north. The mighty Red Army was beginning the final steps of its long march to the west. The unstoppable Russian juggernaut would soon overwhelm the besieged city of Berlin. Once that happened, life here would become extremely hard and unforgiving.
       "I need to find transportation," said Rose. She pointed at the old doctor. "He won't be able to walk out of here."
       Kruszynski walked over and kicked lightly at the guerilla until the man's eyes fluttered reluctantly. "Get the doctor on his feet," he ordered. "Victory Rose and I are going to scout about and see if we can find a car."
       "Find some food, too, while you're at it." The Russian fighter patted his belly. "And some water. None of us will get far like this."
       Much later, in the afternoon, Rose and Kruszynski showed up with a big, German motorcycle and sidecar. As usual, Victory Rose drove and Crush rode in the passenger seat, holding onto a few, scant provisions they had managed to scare up. After hiding the vehicle behind a ruined wall, the four comrades broke their fast with hunks of black bread and lukewarm water from a canteen they passed around between them. Ulrich asked where the supplies had come from, but received no answer. Neither Victory Rose nor Kruszynski were interested in talking about yet another German soldier who would never rise to help rebuild his war torn nation. The four munched silently while each considered his own thoughts.
       Dr. Ulrich wondered if he would ever really make it back to the American lines. He swung back and forth between panic and a fatalistic acceptance of whatever might come. He just hoped his end wouldn't be too painful if it did come today. A direct hit from a bomb or a well-aimed sniper's bullet striking him out of the blue would suit him rather well. Burning to death or being run over by a Russian tank, on the other hand, were only two of the nightmarish endings he envisioned. He hoped to make himself very useful to the Americans if he should make it through for there always existed the dread possibility that they might hand him back over to the Russians in exchange for some other Nazi asset if they felt he was not worth keeping.
       The mind of Victory Rose was just as preoccupied, although dwelling less on terrifying fantasies and thinking more of the practical aspects of shepherding the little band through miles of No Man's Land where Germans, Russians, Americans, or British might shoot first and ask questions later. For as long as it took to reach the Allied lines, Death would be a constant companion, striking equally from the sky above, the earth below, or anywhere in between. So far, Rose had managed to carry out every aspect of the mission as General Wingate had outlined it, from destroying the War Trumpet to eliminating all those who could help to recreate it. Now she had but one more task to perform, in getting Ulrich away from the Germans and Russians.
       The sun was nearing the horizon and Rose spoke to Crush, "You can ride on the saddle behind me. Dr. Ulrich and your man can squeeze into the sidecar together. It won't be comfortable, but it will carry us at least part of the way."
       Kruszynski stood and shook his head. "You need not risk traveling in such crowded conditions, darling. My comrade and I have elected to remain in Berlin to await the final liberation." He stepped toward Victory Rose. "You understand, darling, that Dr. Ulrich is to remain with us. He is far too valuable to risk out on the open road in these uncertain times."
       The other guerilla watched carefully. Ulrich's mouth gaped in horror. Rose's only reaction was to rise to her full, six foot height and shake her head meaningfully.
       Crush stepped toward her and his hands tenderly encircled her waist. He gazed into her eyes with all the charm and intent he could muster. "Darling," he breathed into her ear. "After all we have meant to one another ... you must understand that Mother Russia cannot leave herself open to invasion again ... that we must have this defense against the terrors inflicted upon our people..."
       He stepped back with a confused expression, then he looked down. The barrel of Rose's automatic was pressed into his belly.
       "I believe this is what you were looking for," she said.
       Crush flashed his teeth in a dazzling smile. "I stand defeated by feminine logic," he conceded.
       Rose always fell for that smile, but unfortunately for the Russians it did not prove distracting enough to prevent her from seeing the other guerilla's furtive movement. A knife flashed and the man lunged toward Ulrich, preparing to take him hostage.
       But a blindingly quick movement from Victory Rose sent the knife spinning away into the rubble, and the man himself staggering back against the cracked bricks.
       "You're way too slow to pull anything like that on me," she laughed.
       Crush sighed and spread his hands. "I tried to tell him."
       "I think the travel arrangements have been pretty well settled," said Rose. She put away the gun and pulled on a German Army greatcoat she had dragged out of the sidecar. She tossed another one to Ulrich. "Put it on, Doctor. It's going to be a cold ride. I don't want you catching pneumonia."
       Ulrich, with visible relief written all over his face, snatched greedily at the coat. His old-fashioned upbringing had not prepared him to think of a woman as one who could deliver him from danger, but these extraordinary times had turned all his old notions upside down. He was happy now, to rely upon Victory Rose to get him to safety.
       Suddenly, all four heads turned to the east. From across the ruins came the distant drone of aircraft engines. It was Rose's sharp eyes that spotted the Russian bombers sweeping in low over the city. There was no way to be sure whether they had learned of the War Trumpet's destruction, or if this was simply another probe, but twin engined planes were roaring in, preparing to rain death upon the pathetic remnants of the Nazi state. As the companions watched, the bombers suddenly ballooned in size, so quickly did they come in. The few puffs of flak that greeted them were too little and too late. In seconds, the planes had loosed tumbling, black eggs that erupted with fire and fury.
       Rose jumped on the motorcycle and started the powerful engine. Its throaty roar was heard above the din of exploding bombs. She gunned the motor and then looked back once again at Crush.
       "You sure you won't come along?" she yelled. "Last chance!"
       Crush flashed his brilliant smile. "You Americans!" he called. "You'll end up on the ash heap of history!"
       "Who are you kidding?" Rose laughed. "We'll bury you!"
       The two gazed one more time into each other's eyes. The European war had nearly come to an end. Soon, this little space that separated them might turn into a gulf that would keep them forever apart. Dr. Ulrich fidgeted, terrified by the bombing and anxious to be off before the Russians figured out some way to get ahold of him again.
       Rose strapped a German army helmet on her head and waved. Then she opened up the throttle and the powerful motorcycle rocketed away.
       Crush stood watching, his hand in the air. In seconds, Victory Rose had disappeared into those giant explosions, leaving him and Berlin behind for good.
--------
         CHAPTER XVI
         *ROLLING BATTLE*
       Colonel von Wolfram's little mechanized unit made its way east along the Havel River from Brandenburg. The task of finding one woman in the German countryside seemed nearly impossible, perhaps mad, but the men were determined to do their best and carry out the wishes of their commander. If they resented the colonel for snatching away their chance at freedom when the prize was so close at hand, they did not speak of it openly. And so their battered vehicles toiled along, and the soldiers scrounged fuel wherever they could find it.
       The Americans under Sergeant Cleveland followed along behind the little convoy. They had only the halftrack and two trucks, but at least these were in reasonably good working order. The groups kept in contact by radio and monitored the airwaves for messages that might help them to locate Victory Rose.
       After five miles, one of the German trucks gave up the ghost and refused to go farther. Soldiers and gear were redistributed among the remaining transportation. This was nothing new to the men and they felt fortunate that they would not be forced to march on foot. The delay was slight, and soon the battle group was underway once again. The dead truck was shoved off the road and abandoned.
       The hours went by slowly for Sergeant Cleveland. All around, he saw a devastated country. Hungry and frightened, women, children, and the very old stood by the roadside and watched silently. These were the ones deemed too weak or frail to pick up a weapon and die uselessly to preserve the Fuhrer and his henchmen for a few moments more. Cleveland thought he had never seen people so utterly lost. Some of them, hoping he was here to save them from the Russians, waved little, makeshift American flags. At last the tough noncom had to turn away from the sight. He could not bear to think what the coming days would bring to these people, but part of him felt that they were only getting a taste of what they had inflicted on the world.
       For his own part, Colonel von Wolfram stood erect and proud as he looked out the top of his Tiger tank. No matter how this day's events turned out for him personally, he knew that this was the final military mission of his long career, and he wished to be worthy of it. When he had entered the service as a young officer in the closing days of the First World War, he had dreamed of spurring the German Army on to the final effort that would bring victory. In the years after, he had tried to set an example of service and tradition while the country dissolved into anarchy. Like so many, he had owned reservations when the mad clown, Hitler, had risen to power. And like so many, he had cast those reservations to the winds of wishful thinking when Germany seemed to rise once again under the leadership of the Fuhrer. Now, with the clarity of hindsight, he could see how so many things had gone so terribly wrong. His nation had compromised with the devil and would pay the price. With his wife dead in the bombing of Magdeburg; his infant daughter lost, but hopefully alive in some orphanage although he would never see her again, there was little left for von Wolfram but to make one last attempt to do something right. He had no illusions left, but he wanted to feel that he had done one small thing to help his country come to an understanding with the Western Allies now that all was lost.
       The sun was well up when a jeep approached them from the north. Von Wolfram examined it carefully through his field glasses. He recognized the Russian uniforms. He had seen enough of them during his years of service in the east. The jeep sat still for several minutes as its occupants watched the little convoy. Then it turned around and drove off without further incident. A grim smile played upon Colonel von Wolfram's lips. He had no doubt the jeep's driver would be back soon ... with friends. He knew his own battle-hardened men had seen the Bolsheviks, but he passed a message back to the Americans.
       An hour later, the first mortar rounds fell on the roadway. A machinegun blazed away from the cover of a stone wall. Sergeant Cleveland and his men watched in wonder the efficient, almost casual way the Germans dismounted and dealt with such a minor attack. Von Wolfram declined to waste one of the precious rounds from his tanks' main guns. Instead, the infantrymen knocked out the position with hand grenades and chased down the survivors. It was all over in minutes with only one man killed and some minor wounds to three others. The Germans seemed to think nothing of it. They hopped back up into the trucks and drove on.
       A few miles farther on, a shell whanged off the front armor of the leading Tiger. Von Wolfram calmly surveyed the scene before locking himself down into his panzer. Over the radio, he told Cleveland to move his unit back out of harm's way. He could not ask them to open hostilities with their own allies. In the distance, Soviet T-34 tanks churned across the muddy fields like great, iron monsters converging on a meal. Squads of infantry swarmed in their wake to pick up the scraps. Among the Germans, weapons were checked and booted feet ran to find battle positions. The day's work had begun.
         * * * *
       Victory Rose's motorcycle thundered down the road leading out of Spandau. Her helmet was gone and her short, brown hair fluttered in the cold wind. Her face was red and raw. Dr. Ulrich huddled deep down in the sidecar, shivering and miserable. For a long time now he had been wishing he had remained behind to be interned in a nice, warm Soviet prison with hot water and food.
       All night Rose had twisted and turned through the western suburbs of Berlin dodging SS patrols, both real and imagined. All too often she had been forced to backtrack several blocks as she found her path blocked by rubble or makeshift tank barriers.
       At one point she had blundered into a German Army checkpoint and had been forced to come up with a fanciful tale of being a courier assigned to carry a high-ranking Nazi official out of the besieged city. When, despite her acting skills, talk had failed her, Rose resorted to a different language that she spoke with fluency. When she sped off, she had the men's weapons safely stashed in the sidecar along with the terrified, old doctor.
       Now, after a night spent dodging snipers' bullets and shell holes, she was out in the relatively open country west of Berlin. With a full tank of gas she had siphoned from a smashed truck, she was making good speed and feeling more confident than she had in days. Suddenly, a bullet careened off the pavement in front of her.
       Rose twisted the throttle and begged for more speed from her screaming machine. Looking to the right, she saw to her horror three Red Army trucks full of men bounding across the fields toward her. Guns were blazing but only a lucky shot could have hit her from the bouncing vehicles. The trucks crashed across the ditch and skidded up onto the road. One of the trucks took the turn too wide. Its front wheel slammed down into the ditch on the opposite side of the road. The big Studebaker rolled over and the lucky soldiers who weren't crushed under its weight were tossed high in the air. The other two trucks roared after her without slowing.
       Ulrich screamed as the hulking machines bore down on them. Gunshots were cracking and now that the trucks were on smooth pavement, there was a real possibility of being hit.
       There had been a good chance that Crush might have radioed the Russian commanders outside Berlin to inform them of her flight with Dr. Ulrich. Rose would have done the same thing had the situation been reversed. That these men had been alerted to look for a woman on a motorcycle seemed a good explanation for why they had taken off after her. Now that she was discovered, Rose had to contend with the possibility that more Soviets might be called to join the pursuit. As if they had been conjured up by the mere thought, she saw more trucks and jeeps thundering out of the trees toward her. A small swarm of military vehicles had picked up her trail and was coming to take up the chase. An explosion from a tank shell erupted several yards wide of the road. Rose felt no fear of that. The gunner must not be very good, to miss the road by that much, and she knew the tank could not catch her.
       With an impatient motion to Dr. Ulrich, Rose pointed to the submachine guns she had seized at the German checkpoint. The old doctor understood, and despite his fear he grabbed one and began firing back at the two closest trucks. It was one thing to fantasize about warmth and food in Soviet captivity, but it was quite another thing to contemplate the realities of falling into the hands of Stalin's army. Ulrich's aim was far from precise, but at least his shooting back encouraged the Russians to keep a little distance between them and their quarry. The old doctor had served his time in the Prussian Army many decades ago, and began to enjoy the feeling of blazing away with a gun once again. He began to forget his fear as the excitement of the moment took over.
       With Ulrich shooting, Victory Rose was able to concentrate on the road ahead. The scenery blurred on either side of her as she coaxed more and more speed out of the great machine. The trucks began to fall back, unable to keep up with the hurtling motorcycle. She leaned forward into the wind and allowed herself to enjoy the ride.
       The road took a wide turn around a small hill and Rose leaned into it. Suddenly her face went white and she grabbed the brakes. The big motorcycle skidded wildly and Rose fought to keep it upright. Dr. Ulrich was thrown backward toward the front of the sidecar, but she could do nothing for him while she had her hands full, fighting for control of the vehicle.
       After a quick, but hair-raising moment of sheer terror, Victory Rose wrestled her motorcycle to a stop and stared in horror at the road in front of her. Blocking the roadway, squatting like an armored behemoth of ages past, was an idling Tiger tank...
--------
         CHAPTER XVII
         *FLAMES OF THE PYRE*
       Germans in front, Russians behind ... Victory Rose stared up at the sixty ton monster in utter shock, her head suddenly empty. The panzer's machinegun swiveled toward her. Rose knew she had just seconds to act, but her body simply refused to function. The unexpected sight of the Tiger tank blocking her way had temporarily robbed her of her wits. Beside her, Dr. Ulrich squealed in panic. Rose cursed her own inability to act.
       Then the tank hatch swung open. An officer in a tanker's black uniform popped out and shouted over the engine noise, "Victory Rose?"
       Rose stared up at the man. Now she was shocked again by the fact that he didn't simply order the machinegunner to shoot her down. Was he just guessing? She didn't know how to answer.
       Dr. Ulrich solved her dilemma. "Yes!" he screeched. Whatever the reason that the tankers had decided to spare them, the old doctor was sure it had something to do with their belief that she was the famous American commando leader. He did his best to remove any doubt the Germans may have had.
       The officer ignored Ulrich and addressed himself to Rose. "It is an honor to come face to face with you at last," he called. "You have performed an amazing feat in getting this man out of Berlin. I wish we could talk at length, but our meeting must be a brief one. Your Sergeant Cleveland is waiting for you just two kilometers up this road."
       Rose nodded and shouted back. "There are Russians behind us," she warned. "They're coming up fast." Her statement was rendered unnecessary by the sound of engines approaching from the other side of the hill.
       The German leaned down and spoke to someone inside the tank. Then he straightened again and said to Rose, "We have called for reinforcements and we will hold off the Bolsheviks as long as we can. Go now!" He turned away from her and began scanning the horizon with his field glasses.
       Rose didn't need to be told twice. She revved the engine and shot around the tank as fast as she could. She was hundreds of yards away when, behind her, she heard a huge crash and she knew the Tiger's big gun had fired its first round into the oncoming Soviets. Before she had gotten much farther she heard several more.
       It was not at all like Victory Rose to run from a fight, and even less in character for her to leave another to do her fighting for her while she fled to safety. For now though, her responsibility was to complete her mission by getting Dr. Ulrich to the Americans. She had mixed feelings about the old doctor. On the one hand, she would not now be alive if he hadn't committed the daring act of blowing up the War Trumpet. On the other hand, she was never entirely sure just what the wily old man's intentions were. Dr. Ulrich's loyalties seemed to rest entirely with Dr. Ulrich. She would not be unhappy to be rid of him.
       The news that Sergeant Cleveland had somehow made his way out here to join her was a welcome, but minor surprise. Rose had not wanted to unnecessarily risk the lives of any of her men now, with the war so nearly over. But it was just like the tough noncom to take it upon himself to do a thing like this. She would certainly be glad of getting the help to transport the Doctor back west.
       Victory Rose flew down the road for the two kilometers the German officer had told her, and then veered off into a field where she saw three American army vehicles parked among a few battered German trucks. Her motorcycle bounced across the rough ground as she drove the last few hundred yards. Finally, she slid to a halt and killed the engine, the final leg of her impossible mission accomplished. Rose leaned on the handlebars and blew out a long and heartfelt sigh.
       Sergeant Cleveland's little camp turned out to be a makeshift field hospital. A few wounded Germans and Russians lay in rows, bandaged and groaning. Rose recognized the handiwork.
       "Coochy!" she shouted. And when the big man stuck his head out from behind a truck she said. "You here too?"
       "You bet, Major," said the medic. "The gang's all here!"
       DiMartino, Beau, Larimer, and Moses came running up, almost forgetting to salute in their happiness at seeing the return of Victory Rose. Victory Rose almost forgot to notice the lapse.
       At last, Sergeant Cleveland strode into view. He walked with his perpetual slouch and wore his usual sullen expression. He saluted carelessly and greeted his commanding officer. "We figured you could use some transportation for the prisoner," he said, with a nod toward the sidecar where Dr. Ulrich still sat.
       "I won't ask how you found out where to look for me," she said, and smiled as she watched him think fast for a reply. She turned away and walked over to Dr. Ulrich, who was climbing out of the sidecar.
       "Doctor," she said, "I leave you in good hands. These men will do whatever it takes to get you safely out of here."
       "Leave?" sputtered Ulrich. "Where are you going?
       Sergeant Cleveland also looked on with intense interest.
       "I've got to go back," Rose said simply.
       "But ... but ... why?" asked Ulrich.
       Rose answered impatiently. "Those Germans back there, your countrymen, just saved us from certain death."
       The roar of big guns reached them from the battle still going on a short distance away.
       "You hear that, Doctor?" asked Rose. "That's the sound of your life being saved. And mine too. I'm going back to see if I can help."
       "Give us a second, Major," said Sergeant Cleveland. "We'll saddle up and go back with you."
       "No, Sergeant," she said. "Your job is to get Ulrich back behind American lines, and given the state of things in this area I think you're going to have your hands full doing just that. I don't know if the Russians are going to break through here or not, but I want you to get packed up and get out of here now." She looked around. "Take these wounded men back with you."
       Cleveland assented reluctantly and saluted.
       "And Sergeant," added Rose, "Thanks for coming. I appreciate all you've done here."
       The ghost of a smile passed over Cleveland's lips as he turned away.
         * * * *
       Victory Rose roared back the way she had come. Her motorcycle flew along the road at top speed. The pavement flashed by under her wheels as she drove with desperate urgency. In minutes, she reached the hill where the Tiger tank had surprised her earlier. She braked hard and slithered around the curve, to be confronted by a scene of utter devastation.
       Rose sat still on the big machine and looked out on a field full of burnt out wreckage and dead men. Tanks were split open like ripe fruit and other vehicles had simply been blown to pieces. Fires still crackled on the tortured ground and smoke soiled the spring air.
       A lone figure staggered across the dreary landscape. It was torn and blackened and it wore a ragged greatcoat that flapped in the breeze. It stopped and stood facing a burning Tiger tank. Rose recognized the tank from its markings as the one that had stopped her on the road. She jumped down from her motorcycle and ran forward.
       "What happened?" she gasped. "Is the fighting over?" She asked this even though the answer was obvious at a glance.
       The figure turned slowly and blinked at her as if he had never expected to see another living human being again. He seemed to have forgotten how to speak. He was a lone soldier -- weaponless, his helmet long gone. He was the only living man left on the terrible battlefield.
       Rose grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard. "What happened here? Who was in that tank?"
       "He held them off," whispered the man, to no one in particular.
       Then he looked at Rose as if for the first time.
       "He held them off until the rest of us could get here."
       The man's strength failed him. He sighed and abruptly dropped to a sitting position. His coat, which he had held tightly around him, fell open. Rose could see that his body was awash in blood.
       "The Russians fled when we came," he said. "The other Germans chased them away. I ... I couldn't move fast enough. They said they'd come back for me."
       Rose could see that no one would ever come back for this man. "Tell me who was in the tank," she urged.
       "He was our colonel," moaned the soldier. "Colonel von Wolfram. He wouldn't let them pass." He stopped and looked at Rose again. "He wouldn't let them catch you."
       Rose gazed toward the slowly burning tank. Black smoke billowed from gaping holes torn through the armor plating. "We'd better get back," she said softly.
       Even as she spoke, she heard the first pops as machinegun ammunition began cooking off in the flames. Bullets began to whine across the field. Rose took hold of the dying soldier and pulled him safely back behind some wreckage. She propped him up in a sitting position and together they watched as the ammunition for the main gun began to go off. First there was one bang, and then another and another. As the armor piercing rounds began to tear through its hull, the Tiger was suddenly surrounded by an awe-inspiring display of shell bursts that ripped hunks off the vehicle and cast a ruddy glow over the ruined armor. Finally the gas tank was ignited and the war machine went up in a violent, orange fireball filled with explosions of the remaining ammunition. Victory Rose gazed in wonder at the funeral pyre of Colonel von Wolfram, a man who had died trying to find his soul under a mountain of compromised ideals. No one would ever remember him, but he and his men had died heroes, fighting to save their nation from a fate it had brought upon itself.
       Rose turned to the young soldier. His glazed eyes reflected the fires of the burning tank. His face was still and peaceful. She laid him tenderly on the charred grass of the battlefield and walked slowly back to her motorcycle.
--------
         CHAPTER XVIII
         *THE ROAD HOME*
       Victory Rose drove the big motorcycle back to Hamelin. She rode slowly, absorbed in her own thoughts. She sensed a change within herself. Germany had not yet surrendered, but with Hitler dead it could only be a matter of time before the Third Reich realized it was dead. The terrible spirit that had held the Nazis together through years of war was gone now, and the vermin would be scattering for their holes. With victory in Europe all but assured, she wondered what life would hold for her in the years to come. The very reason for her existence seemed to have vanished during her few days in Berlin.
       On arriving at the American Headquarters, she discovered that Dr. Ulrich was already gone. He had been whisked away as soon as Rose's men had arrived, taken to where ever captured Nazi scientists were kept while arrangements were made to get them safely back to the U.S.A. She imagined him sipping champagne in some Paris hotel room and driving his guards crazy with his arrogance and fickle moods now that he was safely out of the Soviets' reach. Her own men had been assigned temporary quarters and she was told that they would be leaving with a truck convoy in the morning, to make the long trip back to Mannheim. After delivering a report to the local commander, Rose went to her own quarters, a private room in an apartment building and flopped down on the bed. She fell asleep instantly, still wrapped in the German army coat she had worn since the night before.
       Ten hours later, a bath and a meal helped her to feel human again. These simple pleasures were an almost unbelievable luxury after her recent experience, and she reveled in them. A clean, decent uniform made her look like a soldier again, but just getting rid of her own grime made her feel like a new woman. Her men swarmed about her excitedly when she appeared at the doorway of their house.
       "Major!" exclaimed Sergeant Cleveland, with his eyes wide and a big smile on his face. At Victory Rose's surprised look he remembered himself and hung back. The smile was replaced with his normal sullen scowl.
       The reunion was short lived, though. In a short time, the group was mounted in trucks and heading south.
       Victory Rose leaned against the door of the cab and stared out the window, watching the miles roll by. She saw streams of people, the first trickles of the great flood of displaced persons that would soon inundate Europe, as millions tramped across the wrecked continent, seeking homes and families lost to the years of war. The pilgrims trudged along under a dripping, grey sky.
       When the convoy stopped for fuel, Rose stood off a way and shook loose a cigarette.
       "Light, Major?"
       It was Cleveland. He had appeared from nowhere.
       The two smoked in silence, sheltering under a tree from the light pattering of the raindrops.
       "Sergeant?"
       Cleveland looked up at her, silently waiting for her to speak.
       "Will you miss it?" Rose gestured vaguely with her cigarette.
       "The war?" He shook his head. "Not a bit, Major."
       They finished their smokes and flipped the butts out onto the muddy ground. It was time to go back to the trucks. The moment was ending. Sergeant Cleveland spoke up.
       "I think," he said, "that after a month in the Pacific we won't have much time for reminiscing about this place."
       He trudged back to the trucks. Rose watched his back and wondered what the next months would bring.
         *THE END*
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       The Furher's Final Trumpet (c) 2004 by Stephen Adams. Nemesis Magazine, Anvil Periodicals are fictitious creations of Stephen Adams and do not represent any real publication or publishing company, past or present. Richard Maxxon, E. Marshall Owens, Robert Barron & Yasmine King are pseudonyms for Stephen Adams and do not represent any writer or artist, living or dead. Gun Moll, Rachel Rocket, Victory Rose, Femme Noir, and their images are creations of Stephen Adams and (c) Stephen Adams. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from Stephen Adams, 307 S. Montgomery St., Spencer, IN 47460. Email: solitarybird@yahoo.com
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       IN OUR NEXT ISSUE...
         [NOTE: Image omitted. Images not supported in this eBook format. Download the MS Reader, Acrobat, or Hiebook format file.]
         *SHE WAS THE NEMESIS OF HELL'S RESTLESS SPIRITS!*
       When a mysteriously traumatized young woman begs for asylum at the Chapel of the Saints of Night, Father Tomansino must come to grips with one of the gravest errors he has made during his lifetime of stewardship. A moment's negligence is all it has taken to open a conduit of pure evil and release an invasion of creatures from the pit of Hell upon unsuspecting humanity. His own desperate efforts to halt the release of the demonic hoards having failed, the terrified priest has only one hope. As the bloody monstrosities roam the city, slaughtering and devouring its citizenry, Tomasino turns to the shadowy, Femme Noir, Dread Nemesis of Hell's Restless Legions. From the depths of her sanctum, the shadowy Chapel this Champion of Light issues forth to wreak destruction upon the forces of Hell, before humanity can become food for their gluttonous appetites. As her only mortal friend and ally, Detective Rick Harrell, rallies his forces to fight a desperate holding action against Hell's most fearsome creations, Femme Noir battles single-handed through the blood-thirsty demons in order to risk her soul in a face-to-face confrontation with the sorcerer who has unleashed "Hell's Hungry Darlings."
       For an exciting preview of "Hell's Hungry Darlings," visit the Nemesis magazine home page at: www.geocities.com/solitarybird/nemesis.html
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         *KWA AND THE BEAST MEN*
         PAUL REGARD
         (said to be a pseudonym of Perley Poore Sheehan)
         Author of "Kwa of, the Jungle," "Kwa, King of Ophir," etc.
         *CHAPTER I*
         HORN AND HOOF
       When Kwa followed the leopard into the clearing and found the strange monster standing there his first instinct was to turn and run. Here was something that he didn't want to see, something that sent a chill of horror through his veins.
       Animals he could understand and men he could understand. But the thing that stood before him now was neither. He recognized it at once. This was a Beast Man. Every now and then the Beast Men made their way into the Devil Bush -- that great jungle that covered all this part of Equatorial Africa. Arid, as for that, the Devil Bush had come by its name honestly.
       This was haunted jungle. It killed.
       There were creatures in it that killed white men and black. Few had ever penetrated to the heart of it and lived to tell about it afterward.
       That was why it was called the Devil Bush. It was fetish, greegree, taboo.
       Kwa felt a gust of anger, and this drove away his fear.
       The leopard had lured him here by a lie. The leopard had come to him with the story of a man lost in the woods.
       This was no man.
       The Beast Man stood about six feet tall, bulking huge. There was nothing about him to suggest the big ape -- the chimpanzee or the gorilla. Head, neck and shoulders shining black -- these suggested the goat or the bull rather than the ape. On the top of the low-browed head was a tangled thatch of wool through which emerged a pair of knob-like horns.
       The head was low and thrust forward. There were widest eyes, gray, staring and wild. The arms and body were magnificent. They were like a statue of Hercules in oily black marble.
       But, with an inner shiver Kwa let his eyes flick down. There was mudcaked wool on the thighs. The shanks were like those of an uncurried horse. The feet were cleft, enormous, split and splayed like those of a moose.
       "Ho!" said Kwa. But he was ready to jump.
       KWA himself stood there naked and white. He'd been disporting himself with hippos and elephants in a clear green river far over on the other side of the Devil Bush when the leopard had found he didn't even have his knife with him. He'd left the knife where he'd dropped it somewhere along the bank of the river. He hadn't even stopped to twist about him the girdle of vines he usually wore.
       Since his return to Africa from his grandfather's home in Florida he'd let his hair grow. It hung now about his shoulders tawny and long. And there was a down on his face, almost as if he'd been actually a member of that Furry Tribe, the Not Yet Men, the Mu, who had reared him.
       But his body gleamed smooth and white.
       "Ho I," he said again. "I am Kwa, Kwa of the jungle!"
       And now, for the first time, he was aware that others of his animal friends had followed him here.
       It was as if that declaration of his had been taken up by a thousand voices. But all of them together made no more sound than a breeze.
       "Yea, this is Kwa! Kwa the Golden One! Kwa of the jungle!"
       The stir of the breeze was like a vocal chorus, yet it would have been unintelligible and all but inaudible to ordinary ears. Not to the ears of Kwa. This was the sort of speech to which he'd listened ever since he could remember.
       Sun-time, the heat of the day, he'd lain in cool shadows and listened to birds and beasts, all manner of things, talking as if in their sleep. A radio that was never silent -- elephant whispers running the length and breadth of Africa, the twitter of birds and the minute notes of squirrels and monkeys no bigger than a gorilla's thumb.
       But-mostly silence. In what the White World called silence, you could hear more voices and get more information than at any other time. It was a silence, so Kwa had learned, like that of the ether through which uncounted broadcasting stations send their unending programs.
       At least some of the elephants must have followed him from the river. Bush-deer and buffalo, troops of mboyo -- the shy wolf-dogs of the deeper jungles; leopards, of course.
       He might have known that the leopard who had lured him here was tricking him. The only interest that a leopard could have had in a man -- a real man -- lost in the woods would be to kill him.
       Leopards hated men -- all men. And, often enough, Kwa had suspected that leopards had extended this hatred to include himself -- he who drew no clear frontier between the peoples who were "men" and they that were "animals."
       Leopards, unlike the other jungle tribes, appeared to be jealous of men. Leopards were brave. No animal was braver. But there was also always something ghostly about them -- running after strange gods.
       "A Beast Man!" came the chorus from the jungle. "Kwa! Kwa! Be on your guard! Kwa, Kwa, he will try to kill you!"
       This was in the universal language of the jungle, which was almost a manner of thought rather than any articulate speech. It was a means of communication that all animals used, on and off, even when, as many of them did, they possessed a tribal speech of their own. It was the ancient speech, one that Kwa had used instinctively ever since his earliest childhood. But, since then, he'd learned most of the jungle calls as well.
       Everywhere, to declare yourself, state, who you were and stand your ground, was in the nature of a challenge.
       From the Man Beast there came a long-sustained and rumbling breath. It was something that at first Kwa couldn't understand except that this was an answer to his challenge.
       Kwa, with every nerve and sinew on the trigger, flicked a look about him. He was amazed by the number of leopards he saw about him. Leopards were glinting everywhere in the foreground, running, belly-flat; pausing to stare; sliding and slinking. They gave an impression that the jungle-glade was surrounded by the coil of an enormous black and yellow snake -- never still -- with a hundred heads.
       Recollection and some further measure of understanding came to Kwa. Of all the animals of the jungle the leopards were the only ones who'd ever been reported to have been on terms of intimacy with the Beast Men.
       The Sapadi-meaning, "the Cloven Footed" -- as all the Negroes of the Guinea Coast call the Beast Men. Time was when the Negroes had talked to the Utangani, the White Men, about the existence of Sapadi in Africa's great Equatorial forests. But the White Men had laughed, and so the Negroes no longer talked about the Sapadi except among themselves.
       The Utangani were like that. They laughed at everything they couldn't see or understand -- animals and men and trees that were aniemba, possessed by a spirit; the nibuiri, the ghosts of animals or men who roamed about in the dusk and dark; the power of the ougangas, the witchdoctors -- not all of them, but some -- to trap the souls of things, of men included, and keep them imprisoned in a box.
       Kwa laughed at nothing he couldn't understand. The world was filled with such things -- both the Great White World, which was his by inheritance through his parents; and the Great Black World, the world of the Devil Bush to which he'd been born and in which he'd been reared.
       There came a momentary diversion.
       A ncheri, a little bush-deer, no larger than a slight Italian greyhound, had leaped a fallen, moss-covered tree, and stood there in the clearing. Evidently it had been taken by panic and it stood there quivering, its soft eyes bright with alarm. At sight of it that revolving wheel of leopards had instantly stopped. But even quicker than the pause and hover of the leopards was the action of the Beast Men.
       Maybe this was his final answer to that challenge of Kwa's -- also a warning to those other jungle tribesmen he saw assembling. One of his great arms as if uncoiled and struck.
       It was a movement faster, almost, than that of the jungle-eyes that followed him. On the instant, it seemed, he'd broken the ncheri's neck. He'd brought its throat to his mouth. He stood there drawing at the little creature's blood.
       From where he stood Kwa sprang. "Hah!" he grunted.
       And he'd struck the Cloven Footed with his fist.
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         CHAPTER II
         *BLOOD CALL*
       It was a blow that might have felled a man -- a jab, something of an uppercut -- with all the force of that plunging rush behind it. But the Sapadi was merely shaken. It was surprise that had shaken him as much as the blow. He was a Beast Man, hence something of a god -- god of the leopards. This white whelp of the Utangani had struck him.
       The Sapadi was about to get another shock. He'd dropped the body of the dead and bleeding deer to the ground between his splayed and cloven feet. The smell of blood and the spectacle of the raw red wound was too much for one of the leopards. In an instant, it had flashed in and seized the prey, had started off with it. Without delay, two other leopards came in. They were there with the flashing speed of hungry snakes.
       There was a whine and the beginning of a fight.
       Kwa was in the midst of the tangle at once, striking with his bare hands right and left.
       Now Kwa heard something that the Sapadi said -- and understood it, although it was in an inverted form of thought, like the secret language of some murderous lodge.
       "Strike him! Tear him!"
       Kwa saw a quick change in the leopards.
       One of the brutes he seized by the neck and flung aside. At another that had dared face him with a yawning mouth he aimed a chopping blow that quelled it on the instant.
       These were murderous moments -- a scent of blood in the air from the slaughtered deer, a voice commanding the leopards to kill him. It was as if, suddenly, here in the Devil Bush, the Devil himself had appeared. There flashed through Kwa's mind even now old stories that he'd heard -- long nights, in the great Fire Cave of the Mu, when the people of the Furry Tribe sat about their sacred fire and the jungle tribes, from mice to elephants, from birds to pythons, gathered in the shadows to watch the mystery of fire and hear the stories of the world.
       In all of these stories, the Devil came and came again -- as wolf, as snake, as man,
       Kwa backed from the bloody wreck of the little deer. He'd kicked the last leopard away. His eyes were on the Beast Man, ready for attack, ready for flight. He'd have little enough chance, he knew, unarmed against an enemy like this.
       There were a hundred voices screaming warning. Then, from a corner of his eye, he saw an elephant plunge into the clearing from the green screen of the jungle. That was Golef, a young elephant bull, with whom he'd struck up a close friendship.
       "Golef!" Kwa called. "No killing!"
       "He would kill you from behind," came Golef's whisper.
       Just as the Beast Man rushed at him, head down, Kwa sprang aside. He saw what had happened. He understood now those cries of warning. One of the largest leopards -- an old man-eater, as Kwa could tell at a glance -- had been creeping up on him from behind.
       Golef, the elephant, had not only seen the danger in time. He'd acted on it. With a sweep of his trunk, he'd tripped the leopard and brushed it aside.
       The leopard joined the others. They were bunched, but restless, circling among themselves. The eyes of all of them were on the Beast Man, then on Kwa. It was as if they were appraising two gods. One they would elect, one they would kill.
       "Ho," cried Kwa. "I'm a Man!"
       This wasn't a beast. Like most jungle speech it was merely the statement of a truth. But the truth conveyed the challenge.
       From branch and ground -- bush and from the green maze beyond the clearing -- from all directions, from above and all around, it seemed -- the voices were telling Kwa to be careful, to save himself, that this was a Sapadi who faced him, and that Sapadis were killers.
       "Even as the Utangani!" came a rasping breath, and Kwa knew that he was hearing again the voice of the Beast Man.
       Once more Kwa had a glint of fear. But the fear was not for himself precisely. It was fear that the situation would get out of hand. There was that taint of blood in the air. There'd been that revolt of the leopards. He knew that now, should the situation escape from his hands, he would be doubly lost. His life would not only forfeit but his hope -- the hope that had become the purpose of his life -- to restore the Great Truce among animals and men.
       The leopards were whining a chorus to that statement of the Sapadi.
       "Even as the Utangani! The Utangani kill!"
       The Sapadi rushed him,
       The rush of the Sapadi was like nothing that Kwa had ever seen before -- swift, silent. It was like the charge of three animals in one. The hands and arms were snakes. The open mouth had become the mouth of a fighting leopard.
       Kwa, jungle-trained, crouched and went far to one side.
       As he did so, there was a roaring whisper that reached his brain.
       "Kwa! Kwa! We'll fight for you!" These were the elephants and buffalo who spoke.
       There came another rush of speech, mingled with it, but as clear as the voice of horns in an orchestra.
       "Kwa! Kwa! We'll fight for you!"
       Now Kwa could scarcely believe the evidence of his brain. This last offer had reached him in the voices of lions; and lions were almost as rare in the Devil Bush as men themselves were.
       Yet there were the lions -- a dozen or more. Males, all of them. Kwa, with a rush of gratitude, knew that now, at any rate, the leopards would be held in check. Leopards were brave; they were cunning; they possessed, perhaps, certain forms of evil magic which lions either ignored or disdained. But in the presence of a lion no leopard dared assert itself.
       All this, like the breaking up of light in a prism -- instantaneous.
       The Sapadi had rushed. Kwa had dodged. The voices had reached him. , Kwa found time to stand straight and -- raise both arms.
       "No, no!" he shouted. "I am Kwa! Kwa fights! Kwa will slay this thing!"
       He, could imagine the sort of slaughter that might begin should he himself be slain. The jungle now surrounding this fated battleground was packed with life. Grass-eaters and blood-drinkers were there together, birds and squirrels and snakes. An old man gorilla stood with his knuckles on the fallen tree and back of him were other gorillas. They stared at the leopards, stared at the lions. But it was at Kwa they stared the oftenest. On him the present truce depended.
       There should be no killing in Kwa's presence. There should be no killing within sound of his voice. But Kwa himself could kill. Kwa came from the terrible race that killed even when it was without hunger.
       Kwa and the Sapadi were advancing again. There was a great silence.
       The Sapadi snorted and breathed with a rasping sound.
       "I am Bele," he said; "god of the blood-drinkers. I am thirsty again. Tonight I and my brethren will drink the blood of this young white goat."
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         CHAPTER III
         *NOOSE AND CLAW*
       There'd come a sort of chorus to that statement of the Sapadi's. It came from the direction of the slinking, watchful leopards.
       "Yo, yo! He is god of the blooddrinkers!"
       But a lion coughed, and the sound struck silence even to the sort of silent speech that was running about.
       Kwa thought. He thought in English. To him English had always been, in some sort, a sacred language. This, he never could forget, had been the language that the unknown golden-haired woman had used, his mother, she who had passed her life on to him.
       Sometimes English sentences formed in his brain, even here in the depths of the Devil Bush, and it would curiously seem as if it was his mother -- her "mbuiri," her soul that whispered to him.
       "Use your brain! Look up!"
       He looked up. And now, just as the Beast Man of the cloven feet made another lightning dash in his direction he jumped into the air instead of to one side, and seized the loop of a swinging rubber vine. Almost too late. The Sapadi had struck at him with clutching fingers and scored such a scratch down one of Kwa's legs as a leopard might have made.'
       "He runs away," the leopards whined.
       And Bele, the so-called god of the blood-drinkers, braked his charge and pivoted on his horned feet. With him, at any rate, there could be no side-stepping. Nor could he climb. Both of which thoughts came to Kwa in that swinging moment.
       But he had no intention of running away, and those who knew him best divined that this was so.
       "Ho," roared Bele. "He joins the other umkago!"
       The "umkago" were a tribe of small red-headed monkeys. They were there in force, swarming overhead. The Beast Man had meant this as a taunt, and the leopards were ready to take it up. Monkeys and apes had always been a favorite food for leopards, perhaps because they were so much like the children of men; then, dogs, because these were the friends of man; then man himself.
       But the lions also had taken to serpenting about, and in the sudden silence caused by their movement the forest tribes heard Kwa shrill out something in the very language of the umkago, the red-headed monkey pilgrims.
       Then: "Wah!" Kwa shouted in the universal speech.."Wah! I am brother to them all!"
       He stood in his loop of vine and started it to swing. For the first time now since he'd first stood in the presence of the Beast Man he began to feel an assurance of victory.
       The feeling made him laugh aloud. It made him shout a song.
       "Wah!" he laughed. "Come catch me, Bele. Come catch Kwa. Bele drinks the blood of a little deer. Bele now talks of drinking the blood of a Man!"
       This was the turn of the treedwellers -- birds and ribbon-snakes, monkeys and squirrels. Some of the squirrels were so small that they might have been taken for mice if it wasn't for their silken, never-quiet tails.
       "Wah!" they chorused. "Kwa is the brother of us all! Come catch us, Bele! Come catch Kwa!"
       Bele, at a momentary loss, charged over toward the leopards. They cowered at his approach and looked their reverence. Bele charged back -- huge and black, shining -- if not a god at least a devil to most of these other animals. Half man. Perhaps with the mbuiri of a man at his command to help him with his evil magic.
       The buffalo showed signs of stampede. They rolled their eyes and snorted at those cleft feet of his feet almost like their own. Golef, the young elephant-bull, Kwa's particular friend, threw out his barns door ears and extended his trunk in a rigid slant -- it was a fighting stance -- but it took all his nerve and all his memory of his talks with Kwa to maintain it.
       Only the lions and the old gorilla stood firm and apparently at ease, as if there was some ancient, settled wisdom back of them that couldn't be shaken even by a devil.
       "Ho," Kwa suddenly shouted. "I am Kwa -- Kwa the Golden -- and my mother came from the Golden West!"
       The meaning of this was obscure to all who heard it -- except to Golef, perhaps; but none who heard Kwa could believe other than that the battle was but now begun.
       Down from the heights of the trees where the red-headed monkeys ran there came a length of tie-tie vine, soft and supple, strong as copper wire. There seemed to be no end of it. It was with vine like this that the big-game hunters of the Gaboon used to weave their elephant and buffalo-nets, back in the days before the White Man came to exchange powder and rum for slaves.
       "Ho! Tie-tie vine!" Kwa chanted. "With tie-tie vine my mother's people conquered the Golden West!"
       Suddenly, Bele, who'd again come to the side of the snaking leopards, caught one of them up in his powerful hands. There was a squirming spasm as the leopard let out a snarling scream of protest.
       "Kill!" shrilled the Beast Man.
       He'd turned and with one of those lightning-swift charges of his had hurled the leopard to where Kwa had been standing out of reach.
       It was as if he'd hurled a living buzz-saw. The leopard caught and clung -- cursing heaven and earth in the leopard tribal speech.
       But Kwa was no longer there. Kwa had leaped. He'd landed on the ground. He hadn't lost a moment. He was coiling his tie-tie vine. Then there followed something that struck all those who saw it as a bit of beautiful and terrible magic.
       A treble breath-a shrill whine swept the jungle.
       While the lightning-footed but slower witted Sapadi, Bele the Beast Man of the Cloven Feet, still gazed up to where he'd hurled his living missile, Kwa dashed in close, and as if lashed him with his slender vine.
       It looked like suicide to those who watched him. But instantly their keen eyes saw that a noose had fallen over Bele's head and shoulders. Bele reacted to this as swiftly as if the vine had been red-hot iron. He jerked around and plunged at Kwa. As he did so, Kwa stepped aside and made another lashing movement at his feet.
       Kwa gave a double-handed jerk and Bele fell.
       Now, instead of retreating, as Kwa's friends hoped and expected, Kwa flung himself flat on Bele and started to throw loop after loop about his head and shoulders -- four, five -- while Bele in his confusion heaved and struggled like a harpooned whale.
       All would have gone well for Kwa just then if it hadn't been for the leopard swinging on the vine just overhead.
       Physically, the leopard could not have been more easy in the position in which it now found itself than if it had been safe in its own home den. But here was a chance to ease the ache in its pride -- to rid itself of a little of its stored-up venom. It didn't dare attack openly either of these two fighting gods on the ground, but it could fall. Fall it did -- or pretended to; swinging under, dropping, turning in the air.
       One of its hooked and scimitared paws caught in Kwa's bright mane and held.
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         CHAPTER IV
         *KEEPERS OF THE PEACE*
       KWA, struggling with all he had of both brain and muscle to bring his battle to a close, felt that dragging rake of pointed talons across his scalp, the swift suffocation of the leopard's fur as the big cat let its full weight down upon him.
       In spite of himself, or to save his life, Kwa flung up a hand to shake himself free.
       Swift as the reflex was, one of the lions had been swifter. It had reached the group on the ground with a single spring, it had struck with a massive paw. The leopard rolled.
       It didn't rise again.
       Almost as swift as the lion -- he might have been as swift if it hadn't been for some order Kwa had given -- Golef, the elephant, planted one of his feet on the leopard's head.
       He held it there while the spotted fur quivered to a stillness. Then Golef raised his trunk and screamed.
       "Ho!" was what he said. "While Kwa is occupied, the lions and we shall see that peace is kept!"
       Swift moments, all of these. Things happening all at once. Life in the jungle like a river, flowing slowly, day after day, night after night, then taking some mighty jump into a cataract of action,
       For Kwa, a brush with death, just now when the leopard clawed his head. Bele gouging with his own mouth of a fighting leopard had got a strand of the tie-tie in his mouth and snapped it. A hand and arms came free.
       WITH his free hand he clapped a blow at the side of Kwa's head that staggered him -- a curious blow, not with the fist, but with the hand half-open and the fingers rigid, a leopard blow.
       The Beast Man fought like a leopard and with the strength of a bull.
       Kwa, wavering, caught the hot blast of Bele's breath -- breath smelling of blood and carrion. Kwa saw Bele's yellow fangs within an inch of his face.
       Kwa flung his strength and concentrated purpose on that free hand of Bele's and forced it around. It was like trying to twist a live branch, big as his thigh, from a mulmberry tree.
       Bele heaved and was on top of him. But Kwa had brought the free arm of Bele with him. Little by little, he was dragging the arm into the position where he wanted it to go.
       Meantime Bele had worked his other hand partly free, and his fingers were merciless as they prodded and tore wherever they could reach Kwa's body. Kwa felt as if bush-pigs were tearing him up alive.
       But he wouldn't let go of Bele's arm. He had the arm now against Bele's back and was pressing it up. The great hand of the Beast Man was now almost between his shoulder blades, and there Kwa held it -- held it even when Bele once more surged and rolled.
       Now Kwa came up and was no longer underneath. He gulped the air. He filled his eyes with one wide glance of all that lay about him. After all, he was Kwa, and Kwa had friends. For these friends he was fighting now. The thought somehow nerved him for the final effort, when he gave a sudden heave and knew that he had dislocated Bele's shoulder.
       He didn't pause to rest on that much of a triumph.
       Bele, with a dislocated shoulder, could still be as dangerous and as deadly as a gored rhino, as a wounded lion. That also was part of the jungle law -- never to stop simply because of pain, simply because you thought you might be beaten. Pain that was merely the whip of the invisible master, to each man and beast his own "mbuiri," forcing him to go on until the mbuiri, the soul or the ghost, itself skips out.
       In his own heart Kwa said, "God bless the umkago!" The little redheaded monkeys had thrown down enough tic-tie vine to tether six elephants.
       Kwa noosed the dislocated arm and threw the same loop for a dozen turns about Bele's throat.
       He noosed the second hand, then cast a hitch about one of Bele's hocks and drew the two together. This wasn't for the sake of torture. This was all for the sake of absolute mastery, absolute security.
       Kwa got to his feet. There was a tremor in his knees. He was streaming with blood. He felt befouled. He raised his face and shook out his name of tawny hair. He felt as if he'd been scalped. He felt as if he had a nest of hot coals in his thighs -- there where Bele had prodded and torn at his flesh.
       But all this would pass.
       "Wah!" he cried. "You see me? I am Kwa."
       There was a singing in the air. It was made up of a hundred -- or a hundred thousand -- voices. For there has never been a census of the jungle-world. There has never been even an attempt to chart the zones and the countries of jungle thought and speech, of common understandings.
       The answer came:
       "Wah! We see thee, brother! Thou art Kwa!"
       That was the general run of the chorus, and there may have been even the voices of insects in it as well as the voices of birds and elephants, of lizards, snakes and pigs.
       Kwa bent a knee and took a slow step, bringing his foot flat down to the trampled earth.
       "There lies Bele," Kwa said; "bound and mastered."
       The warm breeze of a thousand or ten thousand breaths repeated the affirmation.
       Kwa took two steps, thinking deeply, inviting his mbuiri to express itself.
       "Shall I kill him?" Kwa asked; but those who heard him knew that the question was not for them. There was a great silence. "Killing him would do no good," said Kwa. "We shall doctor him and let him go."
       Bele himself meditated this strangest part of his adventure when he found himself free. It was early night. It was the night of a new moon -- always a night of some solemnity in Black Africa -- for animals as well as men.
       The thing that impressed Bele most was that he'd been turned out free and sound on a new-moon night. The new moon must have had something to do with it. This moon liked him. It was his moon.
       As a matter of fact, the strange white Thing he had fought had been worse hurt than he himself had been hurt. The Kwa Thing. Kwa, who spoke the speech of the Bush, This was no Utangani whelp. Nor yet was it an "Ovengua" -- one of those powerful spirits that roam the Devil Bush. For an Ovengua would never have allowed itself to be taken in so simply by a leopard.
       He'd said it. Kwa was a white ghost who happened to have taken on the shape of a man and who'd picked up something of Utangani -- White man-magic.
       But, in any case, white. Moon color. His blood would make strong medicine. He'd almost had it.
       "O Moon!" said Bele in his thought.
       And he didn't know it -- it wouldn't have made any difference even if he had -- but when he said this he was joining his voice to a chorus that went all up and down the coasts of West Africa this night -- and far back into forests and grasslands, up dim rivers, out across the Kalahari desert where half-starved Bushmen also stared at the silver crescent and said, "O Moon!"
       "O Moon!" said Bele. "Help me make to thee this White Sacrifice!"
--------
         CHAPTER V
         *THE GREEGREE CAVE*
       Bele, the Cloven Footed, traveled smoothly and swiftly through the darkening jungle of the Devil Bush. A few leopards had caught up with him shortly after Kwa and his friends had turned him loose. But these Bele had driven away. He felt that a virtue had gone out of him by having been beaten and bound.
       It wasn't good for a Bush god to allow himself to be seen by his followers when his virtue was departed.
       Especially when these followers were leopards. Leopards were keen; they, knew too much. Leopards had risen to a point where they were no longer afraid of fire. Leopards even had ideas of fetish. For example, leopards would often take the skull of a victim and put it up in a tree. When you asked them why they did this, they'd simply grin.
       In spite of those great horned feet of his, Bele traveled as silently as any leopard could have traveled. As a matter of fact, he often ran with leopards. All the Beast Men did. The Beast Men. The Sapadi.
       And they let the leopards do their killing for them, which the leopards were glad to do.
       This reminded Bele of past banquets, and he began to take close notice of the air. It wasn't long before he scented something that whetted his already sharpened appetite.
       Niaray!'
       The niaray were a bush-buffalo almost as dainty as certain of the deer.
       And shortly, Bele, silent as a shadow, had the herd located. In less than a minute he'd made his kill -- a monthold calf that had been sleeping close up against its mother's flank. Before the mother herself had discovered what had happened he was on his way again, taking the calf along. He was getting his virtue back. Neither he nor the calf had made a sound.
       He sated himself as he traveled, then cast the drained body aside. The blood of a calf was sweet. It was nourishing. But there was no medicine in it.
       There were many creatures in the Bush whose blood was medicine. Man came first, of course; and of men the whiter they were the stronger the medicine. But, after man, lions and the big apes -- both troublesome and hard to kill. But there were those who believed that leopards, after all, were even better.
       And, strangely enough, leopards were the standby of the Sapadi Lodge -- a secret that not even the shrewdest leopard had ever learned. For the Sapadi were the gods of the leopards. And gods -- so ran the old wisdom of Black Africa -- of men as well as beasts -- always fed on those who worshiped them.
       Bele, in the dark, had pressed on through queer passages and ascending trails to a place somewhere on the steamy flanks of Sango Lobango, that huge and ragged, snow and jungle covered mountain of the Devil Bush whose native name meant the Father of Lies.
       It might have been called that for a number of reasons. Sometimes it had been seen from some point, perhaps ninety or a hundred miles away -- the fingers of its snow-peaks pointing to the sky. Yet no explorer had ever been able to find it. Or, if he had, he'd never, at any rate, returned.
       First the Devil Bush, that vast and haunted jungle into which no West Coast native nor jungle Black could be bribed to go. Then, the broken flanks of Sango Lobango himself a chaos of pits and flinty needles, craters and caverns, hot streams and cold, all jungle clotted, as if in a stupendous hot-house, almost on up to the point where the snows began.
       But all as simple as a village street to Bele.
       He found a crooked corridor-jet dark to ordinary eyes -- but where he saw plainly enough everything he might have cared to see. The floor of the corridor was a tepid stream that ran a smooth carpet of water over tilted slate. The jungle closed this in with a solidity like that of solid rock. There was, in fact, no telling, so far as appearances went, where the jungle left off and the solid rock began.
       For the river flowed from a jungle-smothered cave in the face of a cliff.
       This was the entrance to the GreeGree Cave of the Beast Men. It was known to them as such. Yet they'd come to it but recently. And none of those who had now assembled there had ever seen it before. For the Sapadi hadn't used this particular Lodge Room for nearly a thousand years. They were like that. They appeared. They disappeared. They knew in ways that they never sought to question things that they couldn't understand.
       Bele ran lightly in spite of his great weight. He came into a large chamber where there was a natural fire-pit, perhaps twenty feet in diameter and deep as a desert well.
       This filled the place with a red glow which, once the eyes were accustomed to it, served the purpose of sight as well as sunlight might have done.
       About the edge of the fire-pit were set a row of skulls -- all sorts, human and nearly human, the skulls of lions and elephants. The warm air of the place had the small partly of an unclean butcher's shop.
       Bele drew this air into his lungs a number of times as if gratefully, and exhaled it with a snorting sound.
       There were snorts and loud breathing in shadowy corners and then soft clattering of hornshod feet as from here and there, the black shapes of other Sapadi began, to appear. Some were young and some were old.
       There was one who was very old, and he spoke first.
       "Two of the Spotted Believers came," he said, in the snorting, mooing, tribal speech of the Sapadi Lodge. "They told us you were thrown and bound."
       "Where are they?" Bele asked.
       "We took their blood and threw them into the fire-pit."
       "You did well."
       "They lied?"
       "You see me here."
       "But the white sacrifice I do not see."'
       "He was surrounded by half the killers of Africa. He speaks their speech."
       "Yet white?"
       "White as a fish."
       "His medicine must be strong. I need it."
       "I'll get it for you."
       "You said that when you left."
       "I'll get it."
       "When?"
       "Tonight. Now. I know where he sleeps. I hurt him badly. To bring him to you unspoiled I'll now take others with me."
       And Bele began to look about him at the other members of the Lodge. They shifted about a little, their cloven feet scraping the stone of the floor. None of these others were as large and powerful as Bele was himself. Yet nearly so.
       Even the old Sapadi, Bele's father, who'd frightened creatures of the Bush now for upward of a century, had a look of twisted power about him, like a gnarled tree.
       The old Sapadi had two fresh leopard skins twisted about him which yielded a scent of fur and blood, and these he sniffed from time to time as medicine.
       "Choose," the old man snorted. And Bele began to choose those who would accompany him.
--------
         CHAPTER VI
         *"OVENGUA"*
       There had always been, perhaps, more reason than white people might concede, for some of those strange beliefs that lived and held and proved themselves in this part of Black Africa. Take that belief in the "Ovengua," for example -- the one to which Bele, the Beast Man, had referred in his own mind when thinking of Kwa.
       The "Ovengua" were terrible, shadowy creatures -- spirits, they were believed to be -- that roamed the jungle at night, killing men and eating them, or sending them back to their villages at last crazy and frightfully disfigured.
       There were witnesses enough to tell of having seen such things and escaped. They told these stories at night as they sat about the village fires and smoked and drank.
       Africa liked to talk all night, or drum and dance. Perhaps there was some ancient wisdom in this, as well.
       Bele and his Sapadi companions were like "Ovengua" now as they threaded their way through the black and steaming lark of the Sango Lobango bush. How could they see in the dark? How could any of the night prowlers of the Devil Bush see in the dark? The dark wasn't dark to them. It was just another sort of light. It was a light by which, they could see many things better than by sunlight. There were many things they could see in what the White Man calls the dark that would have been invisible by daylight -- things that floated, things that crawled, other things that stood and peered.
       The Night Side of Nature. Another world. A world that ordinary men dimly remember, perhaps, such times they're in the brush at night, when they look at the slim new moon, when they tell their ghost stories.
       Bele had selected only the toughest and boldest of the Sapadi for this enterprise of his.
       After the fight in the clearing where he'd been thrown and bound, one of the elephants had picked him up -- at Kwa's request -- and carried him off through the jungle to the southern slopes of Sango Lobango. While half the beasts of Africa, it seemed, trailed along to see the finish of the day. Kwa had ridden another elephant, where, for a time, an old gorilla had ridden at his side.
       This man's medicine must be very strong.
       And there, at the same warm medicine pool, Kwa himself had reset the dislocated shoulder. The pain of that was so great that Bele would have bitten Kwa just then, but gorillas and elephants had held him.
       The shoulder had been laved in the warm waters of the pool. The pain had gone.
       Kwa and a few of his companions were to pass the night at this same pool, where Kwa would soak his wounds. Bele had heard Kwa say that by morning the wounds would be as good as healed.
       Not even if they had been Ovengua, in fact as well as in the seeming, could Bele and his Sapadi band have been more silent, more cunning in the ways of darkness.
       Wherever they passed they left, it seemed, a trail of silence and of an even greater darkness about them. There would be a great chorus of frogs and crickets -- a surf of sound with regular waves; and across these waves every now and then a whoop or a whistle, a whine or a laugh, a bark or a clatter of beaks, that were like the traffic sounds of some invisible harbor.
       Then, a sudden silence at the passing of the Sapadi -- a silence that lingered -- a silence that seemed, somehow, devoted to serious thinking.
       Only the leopards kept the Sapadi company on their silent march. And even the leopards kept their distance -- ghosting far out on the flanks like the Devil's own hunting dogs.
       KWA slept without fire or cover. He lay at the side of the jungle pool that came down warm and medicinal from one of the ten thousand live craters of old Sango Lobango. Even Sango Lobango had its virtues, and not the least of these was that few insects loved the breath of it. The ants and the mosquitoes never came here, nor the gnats and buffalo flies. Anyway, since his return to Africa, Kwa had recalled all the things he'd ever learned while living with the Mu -- there in the hidden Valley of the Mu, which Sango Lobango surrounded with its castellated cliffs. There was truce with many of the insects as there was with many of the beasts.
       Some day, Kwa dreamed, he might try to explain these things to those who didn't understand. But, so far, there was too much that he didn't understand himself.
       While he slept, his animal friends came and went.
       They all had their appointments. There was an unceasing business of the jungle. And the difference between the business of the Utangani and the business of the Bush was this:
       If you neglected your business in the White World you stood to lose some money. If you neglected your business in the World of the Bush you stood to lose your life.
       Tall Golef, the young elephant bull, who'd rocked through half the night, dreaming yet awake, not far from where Kwa lay, now led his herd off into the night on elephant business and a company of TingaTinga -- the great black swamp buffalo almost as powerful as elephants -- as if casually drifted near.
       But scarcely had this happened than a yearling of the buffalo herd set up a help-cry and at the same time a leopard-cry. It seemed impossible, but there it was-two leopards simultaneously had jumped to the yearling's back practically there in the middle of the herd.
       The buffalo bulls closed round. The leopards were doomed.
       Kwa was instantly awake to the alarm among the buffalo, but he had no more idea of rousing himself on this account than a city dweller would think of leaving his bed and running to help each time the firemen pass. Even half asleep, moreover, he followed perfectly all that passed -- he was listening to that radio of the buffalos. He knew it when the bulls closed in and were about to kill the leopards.
       Out of the dark, like a velvet, suffocating cloud, something had fallen upon him checking his breath, checking all movement.
       It was the scent that told him what had happened -- the scent that came with his last gasp of breath -- a scent that was charnel, blood-tainted, hot.
       About throat and arms and legs and over his face there was a swift, enclosing pressure like the coils of a gigantic snake.
       But these coils, he knew, were of Sapadi hands.
       All this swift, silent, with the noiseless speed of a dream.
       He was far away when his breath came back. He'd been choked so nearly dead that he'd had to keep his mbuiri and his body together by sheer will-power -- the sort of will-power that won't desert some men even when they're unconscious, standing beside them like a faithful dog.
       Kwa never had been able to see in the dark as well as some of his jungle friends, but he could see well enough, after a fashion.
       Six, seven of the Beast Men, possibly more.
       He'd said that it wouldn't do any good to kill Bele -- back there today when he'd had Bele in his power. He'd made the declaration after the thought-dance. He wondered. This was Bele's answer.
       They swept him along -- half-carrying him at times, forcing him to run. But carried or afoot, he felt the clutch of one great hand in his hair and he knew that this was Bele's hand.
       They'd come through a rocky corridor into a dimly lighted cave -- a cave that smelled of slaughter-house and stable.
       And here Bele shouted: "Lo, I bring you blood of the Moon Colored."
--------
         CHAPTER VII
         *THE FIRE*
       He was king of the blooddrinkers -- Kwa remembered Bele's vaunt. And there came to Kwa a memory of the spectacle when Bele had broken the little ncheri's neck, then stood there where all could see with that leopard mouth of his clamped to the victim's throat.
       The thought and the memory ran like an overtone to what he saw, heard, scented.
       He'd been brought -- he didn't have to be told -- to the secret place of the Beast Men. Not in the knowledge of any living thing -- not in all the age-old annals of the Mu -- was there any record of one who'd ever entered such a place as a captive and escaped alive. The secrets of the Sapadi were as the secrets of Death itself.
       There was a slippering clack of horny hoofs on stone. Dimly, then more clearly, he saw the gathering of the Sapadi Clan. The Beast Men. No young. No women just men. No, neither animals nor men. Beast Men! There were forms of an ancient black magic in the world to make a carved idol shudder. So he'd been told -- by the old men of the Furry Tribe, by old gorillas and elephants, by the old chimpanzee woman who'd cared for him once before when he'd lain wounded in the Devil Bush.
       He would have none of this black magic. He wouldn't contribute to it even by his death. Not if he could help it.
       An old Beast Man was peering into his face, fingering his throat.
       At the same instant that Kwa felt an overwhelming spasm of reaction he also felt a slight loosening of that grip in his hair.
       He screamed. He struck right and left. The old Sapadi in front of him he bowled over completely.
       There was a power in the human voice -- puny compared to a hundred other voices of the Bush; yet powerful. So his jungle friends had told him. Always something about a human voice to make the nonhumans pause and reflect. Always a possibility of magic in it.
       At that sudden scream of Kwa's a touch of panic must have caught the Beast Men. Just for an instant they were weak as water. But in that instant Kwa was out of their suffocating mob.
       The walls of the cave took up his cry and magnified it. Kwa himself may have been caught in a gust of panic.
       He ran. He was like a dead leaf caught up by a hurricane. The FirePit opened just in front of him. He flung himself into the air in a flying leap.
       He almost shriveled and dropped. He'd seen that happen to birds when they carelessly crossed some open vent in the Valley of the Mu.
       But he was over.
       He stumbled into a row of skulls. He came up armed. He didn't know what with, but there was a bone cudgel in his hand. The swift thought came to him that here was some earlier victim of the Beast Men now offering him aid, ready to exact the toll of vengeance after many years.
       There was no time for consecutive thought just flashes -- flashes of sight, judgment, action.
       The Sapadi were now adding to that clamor he'd set up by that scream of his. For the moment it was as if the cavern had become a trap in which a hundred maddened cattle milled -- snorts and bellows, a drum of cloven hoofs, the walls of the place sending all this back magnified.
       A black shadow of a giant rushed toward Kwa and Kwa, with that jumping perception of his, read his intent before the enemy closed in. This hadn't been a direct attack. The Beast Man was trying to get between him and the Fire-Pit.
       That was it.
       They wanted to preserve him alive.
       KWA feinted at a scurry to escape, then turned and nailed the black monster with his bone club. The Beast Man lost his balance, turned and clutched. For a moment his hand was scraping Kwa's arm -- trying to save himself, trying to take Kwa along.
       Kwa struck again -- twice -- and twice again.
       He saw the Beast Man stagger, bellow, topple -- 
       Even while this was happening, there were others pressing in along the edge of the pit. There was a screech from the other side, piercing the general tumult with a broken shaft of sound. And that -- Kwa somehow knew -- was the voice of the old man who had fingered his throat.
       Again he heard that inverted form of speech, the meaning of which rocked into his mind.
       "Don't spill his blood! Fend him from the pit!"
       He'd keep the pit at his back -- Kwa resolved. Better a plunge into fire than to have a Minotaur at your, throat. His back was so close to the great well of fire that he could feel the scorching waves of its heat pulse up his back, lift his hair.
       But he clubbed at a pair of hands that reached for him along the stone at his feet. He shifted aside. Perhaps, if he could round the pit, he might risk a dash for the corridor by which he'd entered this place.
       Still with his bone club in his right hand he reached for a buffalo skull with his left and flung this backhanded at those who pressed along the rim.
       He saw one go, clutching -- then a double scream. One Sapadi had dragged another over the rim.
       A lull, sometimes, is a warning as much as a shout. He crouched a little and turned. He was just in time to see a black mass hurtle in his direction. One of the Sapadi had attempted to duplicate that initial leap of his.
       He fell far short.
       The gaping abyss of the Fire Pit was like the open mouth of some prehistoric serpent.
       How many Sapadi were there? Where was Bele?
       Kwa stumbled on a skull and fell. He fell on the skull and rolled. For a flaring second it seemed as if he were doomed to a plunge into that bottomless pool of flame whether he wanted to or not. But feet, legs, thighs -- these writhed to save theme selves and save him, their master, with them.
       And he curled round, with the curl of a scorched snake, just as two more enormous human paws slid toward his feet, along the floor. And now, at least one of those questions in his brain was answered.
       Here was Bele. These were the hands of Bele reaching toward him. That was Bele's face raised in the faint outer zone of light that shivered up from the pit.
       Bele's voice reached him.
       "Kwa! Kwa! You saved my life! Now I save yours!"
       But Kwa, trained to read the silence back of words, read Bele's thought.
       "Moon! Moon! Help me, Moon! I offer you this Moon Colored vow so soon as we have drained his blood!"
       Kwa pulled himself around to his knees and bashed his bone club into Bele's temple. Bele, in a paroxysm, clutched Kwa's arm. The fingers held, even as Kwa, with a gust of dread, felt that Bele's life was gone, Kwa staggered to his feet. But as he rose, he dragged up the weight of Bele's dying clutch. The clutch tightened. It held like iron.
       As he jerked backward, one of his feet slipped over the rim of the pit. Now all that saved him was the grip of the dead Beast Man.
       So Bele, dead, had been forced to keep that lying promise of his, after all. Bele had saved his life. But for what?
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         CHAPTER VIII
         *NEW MOON NIGHT*
       New moon night in the outside world; and in a thousand villages up and down the Guinea Coast of Africa the Black Men were daubing themselves with sacred chalk-white, blue, pink, in designs their fathers had taught them but which no one understood. From moon to moon the chalk lay before the main idol in the greegree house, and thus absorbed the qualities that made it powerful in the spirit world.
       Not much drumming on a New Moon Night. A time for silence, fear, meditation, magic dreams.
       So in the Bush, among the animals.
       Very close to each other, in some respects, were the animals and men of untouched Black Africa. Secretive. Occult. With ways of their own that simply were not "white man fashion."
       Indifferent to death as few white men are. Cool in the fatal emergency. Perpetually attentive to things unseen.
       There'd never been anything in the nature of a truce between the DingaDinga tribe -- the swamp buffalo -- and the Leopard People. But just as the Head Bull of the buffalo was about to rip the life from the second leopard that had attacked the yearling herder it was as if a question and answer had passed between them.
       Leopard may have talked to Buffalo, Buffalo to Leopard -- all in that unclocked speed with which so much transpires in the Bush.
       The Head Bull backed away with a snort. What he might have said was: "You, a Leopard, follow a thing like Bele! When Bele and his sort have been killing Leopards for a thousand years!"
       You don't have to describe the sky to see it. In a glance of an eye you see the thousand herds on the Nyasa plain. Jungle speech was something like that -- direct, far reaching, limpid, meant for truth.
       NewW Moon Night, and ever since the first glimmer of the slim crescent could be seen against the green of the sky, the leopards had been assembling more or less, as they always did, in the vicinity of the Fire Pit Lodge of the Beast Men.
       No one will ever know how that breeze came up in the airless night. It wasn't the sort of breeze that sways the tree tops. But all through the Devil Bush -- the hundreds of square miles of it -- the jungle tribes, the furred and the feathered, the scaled and the armor-plated -- lifted their heads and said: "The Leopards are talking!"
       Old rhinos dozing as solid as rocks under the stars, hippos at pasture in the strong grass fringing the rivers, the wide-awake sentinels of monkey-towns, lesser cats, lions, elephants. All these heard that breeze of a Leopard broadcast.
       How such things start, few ever know -- another sort of Cosmic Ray, perhaps; blowing down from somewhere out of interstellar space, giving this fresh young world an old idea from a wiser place.
       And suddenly the whole Devil Bush began to stir. It was a tradition that the great things of the Bush always happened on a New Moon Night. Sometimes it was one thing, sometimes another -- sometimes the beginning of a plague that would sweep the plains, sometimes a great fright out of nowhere as if all around there was a great war raging that none could see nor hear.
       But the jungle radio had already broadcast the story of that battle too day between Kwa and the Beast Man. Tonight there'd been a broadcast that the Beast Men were in conclave at their ancient lodge on the setting-sun side of Sango Lobango.
       Then, this stupendous broadcast that the Leopards were on their way to destroy their old gods, accept the new.
       Too late?
       Kwa was gone. The Beast Men had taken him. In their Lodge they were about to work that oldest of all magic. The Beast Men would take to themselves the virtues of Kwa -- Kwa the Golden -- by a sacrifice of blood.
       A great torment swept the Devil Bush. Rhinos plunged through the jungle -- thudding and tearing their way. Elephants shadowed along the paths they knew. Leopards ran and paid no attention to the wild dogs, the shy bush wolves, the pigs, the apes and the monkeys. High above the bush there was a beating of wings -- now and then the harsh cry of raven and heron.
       There were creatures afoot or awing that had never been known before to have ventured out in the dark.
       But the broadcast had proclaimed it. This would be a night of truce -- the night of a Great Truce, such as Kwa had set up once or twice back in the Valley of the Mu. There would be a truce, this night for all things except the Beast Men, except for the devils who'd passed themselves off for gods.
       The Bush for miles around the entrance to the Fire Pit Lodge was swarming with all the beasts of this part of Africa -- and no animal afraid of another -- as the leopards drove into the corridor of the shallow river, then into the rock entrance of the forbidden lodge room.
       The leopards were like a river that flowed upstream -- or more like some enormous serpent, with a thousand heads, glittering as if with greenfire stones, as the staring eyes of the wrapt and concentrated cats went by.
       Suddenly, there swept over the straining, silent Devil Bush another broadcast; and what it said was:
       It is over!
       What was over and how? Not a frog sang, not a cricket chirped.
       Then, from far away in all this tremendous silence, there came the chant of what the Black Men called a "cooba iga," meaning, literally, a "wild chicken" -- a jungle fowl, the crowing of a cock. And this meant that the sun was coming up.
       That, at least, was something. The sun was coming up.
       As the leopards swarmed into the cave, all in an instant, it seemed, they were everywhere. For, after all, the Leopards were the only wild Bush people who'd lost their fear of fire. In a way, they themselves were fetishes superior to the ordinary dreads of the Jungle folk.
       Three of them had swarmed over the old man who was head of the Lodge. The Beast Men fell where they stood. Their power had gone out of them entirely.
       And then, at last, the Leopards came to Kwa.
       He'd got the broadcast in some moment of inner silence even here in the cave. He'd known that the Leopards were coming. And, after that, the hand on no dead man could hold him.
       He'd swung his bone club.
       From beyond the Fire Pit someone had flung a skull that knocked him prostrate. He'd been fighting since.
       "Ho," he managed to say, "into the pit with them!"
       And the bodies of the Beast Men began to drop-by ones, by twos, by fours -- into the purifying flames. For, by this time, other animals were crowding in.
       They formed a great circle, and there, in the midst of them, around the edge of the Fire Pit, Kwa danced -- solemnly, knees up -- calling for some new message from his mbuiri -- his heart, his soul.
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         *"BWANA, BEWARE THE DEVIL'S BELLY"*
         CAPTAIN HUGH THOMASON
         In the eerie African twilight, they heard it-the jungle-devil's trump of doom that called even white men to a fate stranger than death.... 
         * * * *
       My shooting trip was coming to an end. We had just emerged from the country where, in the good days, the Masai had lived and raided, and were camped for the night by the edge of an extinct volcano, known to all the natives in the neighborhood as "Milima an Muungu" (God's Hill). Fires were lit; the safari boys were squatting round the cooking-pots, stirring their "posho" and discussing the rising price of goats, with the consequent increase of the monetary value of wives, which is today their everlasting theme. Even in Central Africa the cost of luxuries has risen.
       Old Juguna, my gun-bearer, was busy with an oily rag on the barrel of my .450 Holland & Holland rifle. Presently he finished polishing and came to where I sat in my Roorkee chair, toasting my feet by the fire. He laid the rifle down in the tent behind me, and then, squatting on his haunches by my fire, meditatively picked up the stray live embers and returned them to their proper place.
       An old object was Juguna: curly hair (resembling grey astrakhan), toothless gums, with the thick underlip projecting an inch or more, and long, slit-distorted ears, the lobes of which rested comfortably on his shoulders and carried on their points some heavy copper ornaments.
       Except for the chatter of the boys, now become only a murmur as they dived into their cooking-pots and filled their stomachs with mealie meal porridge, there was only the eerie silence of the African twilight. Suddenly, as clearly as if I were on a parade-ground, my ears caught the sound of a bugle-call. It was the "Retreat." The music appeared to rise from out of the vast jungle-clad crater below me, and as the bugle-call died away, I distinctly beard the bleating of goats!
       I gazed around in astonishment. "Did you hear that?" I asked Juguna, who, holding his scraggy black hands to the fire, seemed lost in reverie.
       "Yes, Bwana," he answered, "the spirits of the lost askaris!"
       "Spirits!" I said contemptuously. "Spirits can't play army bugle-calls like that!"
       "These can," said Juguna.
       "But why on earth," I asked, "play in the belly of an extinct volcano?"
       "Bwana," said he, "since you have heard the music which they make, and after it the sounds of voices, I will tell you the tale of the lost askaris. No other white man is acquainted with their story. I, who alone know it, have told it to none -- for all are scoffers. But tonight you cannot say I lie, for you have heard. Therefore is here no shame in telling.
         * * * *
       It was many moons ago, Bwana, when the Masai were fierce warriors and overran the earth -- before the white man had completely taken possession of our land and preventing us from proving ourselves men.
       I was a "tote" then (little one). How old I cannot say. In my tribe there is no record of birth or death, but I had not yet become a man. That I know. My village was half a day's march from Milima an Muungu.
       This place was known to all as the abode of evil spirits. Very few had dared to come as near as we are now, and none who had gone into its belly were ever known to return. So awful were the tales our fathers told, of what the evil spirits did to men, that after dark no one would venture within fifty spear-lengths throws of Milima an Muungu.
       One night at full moon, the Masai raided our village. I saw my father killed and my baby brother placed at the end of a spear into the fire, where shortly before we had been cooking our supper. My mother and a big sister, soon to become of marrying age, they carried away screaming, and they collected all our goats, which were housed for the night in an adjoining hut, ordering me to drive them. They knew the beats would give less trouble if their daily companion escorted them. Where I sit is a scar made by a Masai spear, because I did not move along fast enough with the raiders.
       We walked till the moon fell asleep. Then the Masai halted and lay down in the forest. I collected all the goats in a ring near them, and pretended that I too was drowsing, but as soon as I was sure the raiders were dead to all noise, I wriggled away on my belly, whither, I knew not, but when dawn broke I found myself on the edge of Milima an Muungu, and nowhere was a sight or sound of the Masai. It must have been many hours after noon -- for I lay hidden all day too frightened to move, and in much pain, when I heard the tramp of men's feet coming through the forest, and almost on the top of me there appeared a white man with a party of twenty askaris.
       "I flung myself at the white man's feet.
       "The toto is wounded," said he, as he noticed the dried blood on my thigh. "Is the foul work of the Masai?"
       "Last night, Bwana," I answered, "they raided the village of my fathers. Of all the family I alone remain. They dragged me along to herd our goats, which they stole, and they speared me because I did not move along fast enough with them. In the dark I escaped, and at dawn I found myself here. Oh, great white man, do not let the Masai catch me again!'
       Scarcely had I spoken when, on a not far distant hill, my eyes lit on something shining-the gleam of spears.
       "Bwana," I gasped; "the Masai!"
       He shaded his eyes and stared in the direction I indicated. Apparently he could see nothing -- white men have very poor sight -- for he took his other eyes from the skin bag slung across his shoulder.
       "Then as he flung himself to the earth, his men doing likewise, he prayed to his God. "Great Scott!" I heard him pray.
       "Boys," he said, "I am responsible for your lives, and though we are all longing to fight the murderous devils yonder, such an act would be madness. My other eyes show me thousands of Masai and thousands of spears. We must wait and hide for twenty-four hours, till the other askaris, who are only a day's march behind, Join up with us, then we will attack."
       "I can hear," he said, "down in the crater the sound of running water' (which was true enough, for in the rainy season there is much water in the belly of Milima an Muungu). "We will hide by the water in the thick jungle down yonder till the other askaris come up."
       His men agreed. They were of a far distant tribe, and did not know what an evil place he was leading them.
       But I was aghast.
       "Bwana," I exclaimed, "you cannot go into the belly of Milima an Muungu. True the Masai may kill you, for you are few and they are many, but death from Masai spears is a million times more desirable than the torture and death the evil spirits will deal you, if you go down, there!"
       "Evil spirits!" said he, and laughed. "We can tackle them, boys, can't we?"
       But his men did not laugh. Though they came from a far-distant tribe, they knew that in Central Africa there are dangerous places where evil spirits dwell, and I think fear fell upon them. But there was that about this white man which makes us of the darker skin follow his type anywhere -- aye, even into that raging fire to which your padres tell us we shall one day go if we lie and steal. So they went, into single file, down into the enveloping jungle which carpets the belly of Milima an Muungu.
       The white man stood till the last askari had passed, stroking the hair on his upper lip. It was the color of gold, and he was good to look upon.
       "Come, Toto," he said to me. "I will see that neither the evil spirits nor the Masai catch you."
       But I drew back.
       "Your blood, then, be on your own head!" he exclaimed angrily.
       When they had all disappeared I crept into the long elephant-grass which grew by the side of the vast pit. As the moon rose, all around me I heard the stealthy footsteps of the searching Masai. So near did they come I caught their whispers.
       "If the white fool and his men," I heard one of them say, "have gone down into the belly of Milima an Muungu, we need hunt no more! The evil spirits will save us the trouble of cleaning our spears!" Soon they went.
       Long after dawn had broken I crept out of the elephant-grass which had so successfully hidden me. Below me and all around was silence. And, "Bwana," said old Juguna, shaking his head till the copper ornaments on his distorted ears jangled musically, "the tale of my fathers were true. That white man and those twenty askaris were never seen nor heard of again. The evil spirits ate their bodies and turned their souls into goats."
       Sometimes men hereabouts see a herd of twenty black wild goats. They had hit them with their spears, and the spears have bounded back with the iron heads bent nearly double. And always leading the herd is one large white goat. He brings it out of the pit's jungle to graze on the sweet "malesbwa" which grows at the edge. Sometimes, too, at certain moons, the askaris play the music which you have heard tonight, and always they play when old Juguna is camping near. They remember that he warned them! They know!"
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         KI-GOR
         &
         *THE NIRVANA OF THE SEVEN VOODOOS*
         JOHN PETER DRUMMOND
       A thrilling novelette of African peril featuring the White Lord of the Jungle and his mate, Helene! No broken, haunted captive lived to flee the jackal-born terrors of Nirvana, where the King of the Living Dead, a strange, gleaming-eyed scientist, ruled with the dread hand of ancient gris-gris. And yet Ki-Gor dared enter that forbidden kraal, dared try to wrest Helene from its secret power -- and even dared challenge the proud, half-human ape-men to one last, hopeless battle...
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         CHAPTER I
         *THE GORILLA MEN STRIKE*
       Inch by inch, The GIANT figure in the leopard skin crept forward through the waving prairie grass. The fierce tropical sun beat down mercilessly on the mighty shoulders, but a fresh easterly breeze cooled the bronze forehead. Ki-Gor froze momentarily and hugged the ground, as a chorus of snorts and the thud of many sharp hoofs stamping the turf told him that the quarry he was stalking was getting uneasy. Ki-Gor cursed the inadequate little spear beside him, his sole weapon. It was a small, flimsy assegai the Pygmies had given him, and it was all but useless in the important business of hunting game. Not heavy enough to throw, not strong enough to kill anything bigger than a jackal.
       But, weapon or not, game had to be killed today. Ki-Gor was hungry. His nostrils twitched and his mouth watered as the breeze bore to him the scent of his prey, the herd of white-throated wildebeests -- the giant antelope of the East African plateau. With infinite caution he raised his head and peered through the swaying grass tops. Fifteen feet away, a young, full-grown buck stared suspiciously upwind toward the rest of the herd. He was nearly five feet tall at his thick shoulders, and the coarse, matted hairs of his mane fell over but did not conceal the cruel horns that dipped downward from his forehead, then upward and outward.
       It was going to be no easy task to subdue this creature barehanded, but Ki-Gor was desperate. He and Helene had not eaten meat for over a week, ever since they had left the friendly back of Marmo, the elephant, at the edge of the Congo jungle to trek on foot, ever eastward through the grassy uplands of East Africa. There had been game in plenty, but Ki-Gor had been remarkably unlucky in his hunting. Five times he had patiently stalked plump gazelles, only to be cheated out of his prey at the last minute by roving packs of wild dogs. On two other occasions, he had lain hidden, after dark, beside water-holes, hoping to make a kill undisturbed by the dogs who would be asleep. But each of those times he had found himself dangerously close to a half dozen lions, who apparently had the same idea. That many lions was too much competition, and Ki-Gor had gone back to Helene empty-handed, and with a very empty stomach.
       Hardly breathing, Ki-Gor slid forward another six inches through the grass. He must get that buck. For if he and Helene did not eat pretty soon, they would be so weakened from fasting, that they, too, would fall prey to some prowling carnivores, and their bones would bleach on the wind-swept veldt. Closer and closer to the gnu, the jungle man crept. If only I had a fire-stick, Ki-Gor thought -- rifles, Helene calls them. They have a potent magic which kills at incredible distances.
       But he had no rifle, only the toy spear of the Pygmies, so that he must be close enough to the gnu to be able to reach it in one spring. Once the herd discovered him, even his powerful legs could never overtake them.
       Closer and closer, Ki-Gor crept, muscles tensed for action. Suddenly, the herd upwind of him grew ominously silent. Something had disturbed the gnus. Was it he? Had they discovered him? Again, he raised his head to peer through the grass stalks. No, it wasn't he the antelopes were worried about. They were all facing away from him, muzzles raised, testing the air. A few does danced about nervously, ready at any second to break into a headlong gallop. Ki-Gor decided it was now or never.
       Gathering his feet under him, he crouched on his haunches for one precious moment. Then, noiselessly, he sprang. As he did, the entire herd jumped forward. Ki-Gor's leap carried just short of the young buck's back -- and the buck was going away. Desperately, Ki-Gor clutched at a flying hind hoof, and held on for dear life. The buck went down with a crash. Instantly Ki-Gor leaped for its head and seized a horn with each hand. The buck lunged upward, sharp hoofs scrambling. They were levers in Ki-Gor's hands. Using all his mighty strength, he twisted the shaggy head viciously around. There was a tearing sound, and a snap. The gnu sank to the ground trembling -- its neck broken.
       "Wa-a-aghrr!" shouted Ki-Gor in triumph. At last! Here was food -- meat a-plenty.
       "Wa-a-aghrr!" came an almost identical roar from behind him.
       Ki-Gor whirled around and beheld a huge, grey-maned lion crouched not twenty feet away. Its dull eyes and gaunt, mangy sides showed it to be a very old lion, slow-moving and probably toothless. Back home in the jungle, the aged beast would have presented no problem to Ki-Gor. But here on the veldt, there was no cover, and Ki-Gor's only weapon against those great raking claws, was the Pygmy spear.
       The brute looked hungry. Evidently it had been unable to knock down any of the gnus as they galloped to safety, and now it intended to take Ki-Gor's prize away from him. Stealthily Ki-Gor picked up the light spear and gripped it. Hungry man and hungry beast glared at each other across the fallen body of the gnu.
       Then, with a strangled roar, the old lion sprang. Ki-Gor poised -- waiting. And, as the lion hit the ground in front of him, Ki-Gor jammed the spear down the red, gaping maw. At the same time, he made a twisting leap, just missing a murderous swipe from a heavy front paw. The lion thrashed its great head in agony, and quickly snapped the slender haft in two. But the spearhead remained imbedded far down the beast's gullet. A torrent of blood poured out of the lion's mouth, and it staggered away, coughing and shaking its head.
       Ki-Gor watched it until it disappeared in the tall grass, then he turned his attention back to the motionless form of the gnu. He knelt down with a smile of satisfaction. It was a fat young buck. Its meat would not be tender, eaten fresh, but it would have a fine flavor, and it would be nourishing. Ki-Gor debated with himself whether to attempt to carry the big antelope back to the camp where he had left Helene, or whether to cut it up on the spot. A foreleg in each hand, he tested the weight of the animal. He shook his head. Strong as he was, it would be too great a load to carry the distance of over a mile.
       Suddenly, the smile of satisfaction died off Ki-Gor's bronzed face, to be replaced by an expression of troubled concern. How was he going to cut it up? He could have used the blade of the Pygmy spear to carve off some slabs of meat from the gnu's flanks, but the blade of the Pygmy spear was far down the throat of the dying lion!
       Ki-Gor kicked petulantly at the body of the gnu. After all his patience and his care in bringing down the antelope, he was now to be cheated out of eating it. So near, and yet so far.
       His lips drawn back in a snarl, Ki-Gor reached down and once more seized the animal's forelegs. Whether he could cut it up or not, he wasn't going to leave it behind for the dogs or the lions to eat. He heaved upward and rolled the animal over. As he did, he saw something glint in the antelope's thick mane -- something which reflected the sunlight. A brown hand swiftly explored the thick, matted hairs behind the horns. With a shout of triumph, Ki-Gor extricated a flat piece of metal. It was the wide, shovel-shaped blade of a Bantu assegai. A few splinters of wood in the hollow socket at the rear end told the story. Some black hunter had had much the same experience as Ki-Gor had had with the lion. Except that in this case, the blade of the spear, instead of piercing the thick hide of the gnu, had merely become caught in the thick tangle of hair in the creature's head. The antelope had got away, carrying the spear in it mane, and eventually the haft had worked loose, or broken off.
       Ki-Gor wasted no time conjecturing about what had happened to the haft of the spear, however. He whetted both edges of the broad blade, energetically, on a smooth stone, until he had them razorsharp. Then he set to work skinning the antelope, after which he began carving great strips of meat from its sides. As he cut each slab free, he placed it on the spread out hide. When he had finished, he gathered up the ends of the skin, slung the bundle over one shoulder, and headed across the veldt toward a thin column of smoke which represented his camp. In the antelope-hide bundle there was over twenty pounds of meat.
       Helene Vaughn looked up with a quick cry, as Ki-Gor walked into the little thicket where she was crouching over a little fire. She was carefully feeding it twigs to keep it alive.
       "Ki-Gor!" she exclaimed. "You brought home something!"
       "Yes," said Ki-Gor, subduing a complacent smile that rose to his mouth. "See? Meat. Antelope." And he dropped the bundle on the ground beside Helene.
       "Oh! Ki-Gor, that's wonderful," she said, in heartfelt tones. "I can hardly believe we're actually going to eat meat again. Did you have much trouble?"
       "No trouble" said Ki-Gor loftily. "It was easy. There was, a lion, but it was a very old lion."
       "Oh, dear!" Helene sighed. "I suppose if I stayed in Africa long enough, I'd get used to the casual way you eat leopards and lions and things. But right now, it scares me out of my wits just to think of it."
       "I'm strong," Ki-Gor said, simply, as if, that explained everything.
       "You certainly are Ki-Gor," Helene said, with an appreciative glance at the jungle man's magnificent shoulders, "but just the same, I'm glad you have agreed to come back to your own people with me."
       Ki-Gor got up abruptly and busied himself with preparations for the long-deferred meal. He didn't like to be reminded of his promise to leave the jungle and go with Helene to find some outpost of civilization, whence they could be guided to the coast and eventually to England. Up till a few weeks ago, Ki-Gor's world had been peopled only by the wild animals, the savage Bantu tribes, and the occasional Pygmies of Africa's Equatorial Forest. He knew that he was somehow different from the black men and the Pygmies but as far as he knew, he was unique. Only the dimmest memory of his missionary father remained to him, and through childhood and youth he had defended himself single-handed, and by his strength and intelligence, survived.
       Then one day, Helene Vaughn fell out of the sky practically at his feet. Her red hair, white face, and strange clothes were just as incomprehensible to him, as the red monoplane which she was flying, and which had cracked up. But, instinctively he protected her, even though he didn't know quite why. Gradually Helen's conversation had brought back the English he had once spoken as a little boy, before his father had been slain by a tribe of Bantu. With the bridge of a common language established, Helene had explained to him the astonishing facts that there were many people in the world like him, that they lived far away across the water, and that he belonged to the tribe called English. After days of argument and pleading, Helene had persuaded him to go to his own people, although he was mightily distrustful of the idea, and would have much preferred to stay in his jungle home -- provided, of course, that Helene stayed with him. But, in a weak moment, he had given in to Helene's pleadings, and now here they were, camped in a little copse on the veldt -- on their way to his own people.
       The setting sun hung low as Ki-Gor held strips of antelope meat on a forked stick over the little fire. He was already a little homesick for the dark, brooding jungle. A man knew where he stood back there, with great friendly trees to climb, and yards of strong vines to swing on from one tall trunk to another. Out here there was only the thorn boma, and the fire to protect them from the nocturnal prowlers, and with sunset there came an uncomfortable chill in the air.
       But the meat was good. Ki-Gor and Helene thrust strip after strip in the open flames, and devoured them hungrily. Finally, Helene gave up with a happy sigh, and lay back feeling stuffed. But Ki-Gor kept on. He was making up for a lot of meatless days, and like all men of the jungle, he gorged himself.
       The sun had long since set, and the sudden African night had settled down over the veldt, when he reluctantly discovered that he couldn't eat another mouthful. He got up with an effort and scoured around collecting a supply of fuel to last through the night. It was an ominous night, moonless and even starless. Even his keen eyes, were unable to see far into the inky blackness outside the ring of firelight. The back of his neck crawled uneasily. It was a night to be especially alert for unwelcome visitors, and yet his eyes were uncontrollably heavy. Drowsy though he was, he arranged the thorn boma with great care, and stocked the fagots close to the fire. Helene was already sound asleep. He stood for a moment looking down at her upturned face. He recalled an English word she had used several times, when together they had watched a rosy sun come up in the east and shed its warming rays over a calm world. She had said it was "beautiful." Then you, Helene, Ki-Gor said to himself, you are beautiful -- like the sunrise.
       He squatted on his haunches beside her, and tried to keep himself awake by whittling a handle for the assegai blade. Presently, in the middle of a stroke, his head nodded and fell forward. Still squatting on his haunches he fell into a deep sleep.
       He woke up with a guilty start and stared around him into the impenetrable blackness of the night. What had made him wake up, he didn't know. But a deep-seated sixth sense within him told him that somewhere in the darkness, some unseen danger was lurking. The little fire was almost out, only a few embers left glowing redly. Without relaxing his watchful glare, Ki-Gor reached out and dropped some dry fagots on the coals. In a few seconds a rewarding flicker of flame mounted and lighted up the ground enclosed by the boma. Helene stirred and turned her face away, but did not wake up. With the increased light, Ki-Gor peered carefully in all directions but could see nothing. He tested the still night air with his sensitive nostrils. He thought he caught a faint whiff of a familiar smell, but he was inclined to disbelieve the evidence of his nose. It was gorilla-smell.
       It couldn't be gorilla, Ki-Gor told himself. The only place he had ever seen gorillas was far away on the West Coast. And during the last ten days, as he and Helene had trekked eastward toward the great mountains of East Africa, he had not come across the slightest evidence that pointed to the presence of the giant apes. He tested the air again, but the elusive smell had gone. Ki-Gor stood up and stared out into the night.
       Suddenly his keen eyes caught a faint glitter of reflected light. Somewhere out there, a pair of cruel eyes were watching the boma. Quickly, Ki-Gor piled more fagots on the fire, and as the flames leaped higher, he strained forward trying to make out the outlines of the creature that belonged to that pair of eyes. After a few seconds, he was able to distinguish a huge mass from the surrounding darkness. Whatever the animal was, it was enormous. Suddenly the mass moved, and slowly approached the fire. The blood ran cold in Ki-Gor's veins. It was a gorilla!
       Ki-Gor reached down, shook Helene's shoulder roughly, and seized the blade of the assegai. He wished with all his heart that he had finished making a haft for it.
       Slowly and purposefully, the gorilla moved forward, until he stood right at the edge of the boma. As the firelight illuminated his hairy outlines, he looked to be by far the biggest gorilla Ki-Gor had ever seen. And then suddenly it struck Ki-Gor that this was no ordinary gorilla. This hulking creature looked man-like, and yet at the same time, subtly more bestial than a true gorilla. His little eyes glittering wickedly, the man-ape seemed strangely unafraid.
       A frightened gasp from behind him told Ki-Gor that Helene was awake.
       "Ki-Gor!" she whispered. "What does that monster want?"
       "I don't know," Ki-Gor muttered, "but don't be afraid. Maybe he wants antelope meat."
       Ki-Gor bent down without taking his eyes off the gorilla-man, and tossed a slab of meat past his head. The gorilla-man paid no attention. And then as Ki-Gor straightened up, the fang-toothed beast deliberately picked up one of the loose thorn bushes that made up the encircling boma, and flipped it expertly aside. As Ki-Gor gazed in astonishment, another bush went the same way, and the gorilla-man shuffled confidently through the opening straight toward the fire.
       His spine prickling, Ki-Gor stepped back a pace and shifted his grip on the assegai blade. Then, with a wild yell, he leaped high into the air and forward. He launched a mighty kick with both of his powerful legs straight at the gorilla-man's murderous face. The gorilla-man grunted with the force of the pile-driver blow and rocked backwards on its heels.
       Ki-Gor landed lightly on his feet and instantly struck with the assegai blade in his right hand. It was a lightning thrust, the sharp blade slashing at the monster's throat. The gorilla-man backed away with a growl and swung a thick, hairy arm with incredible speed. But Ki-Gor dodged the crushing blow, and countered with his blade at the vast abdomen. The beast howled with rage and pain and backed out of the boma. A thin trickle of blood began to flow from the folds of its throat.
       Stealthily, Ki-Gor reached down and seized one end of a long fagot, the other end of which was blazing in the fire. With a swift motion, he flung the burning brand straight at the gorilla-man's head. Again the cruel-faced beast gave ground with a howl, and frantically brushed off the flaming fagot.
       As he did, Ki-Gor charged him. Twice the sharp blade bit deep into the hairy arm, and again Ki-Gor dodged out of reach. But the man-ape appeared to have had enough. Growling horribly, he retreated to the edge of the ring of light shed by the campfire. There he stopped and slowly beat his breast. Ki-Gor walked coolly toward him, and the gorilla-man turned and ran out into the darkness.
       Determined to be rid of the beast for good, Ki-Gor gave chase. But the gorilla-man was amazingly fast, and before he had gone very far, his massive body was swallowed up in the inky blackness of the night. Ki-Gor stopped about a hundred yards from the camp and stood listening. A distant thudding told him that the beast was still running.
       Ki-Gor turned reluctantly, and started back to the camp.
       Suddenly a wild scream rent the air. It was Helene.
       "Ki-Gor! Ki-Gor! The gorilla!"
       A hundred yards away, by the light of the campfires a mammoth figure was carrying the struggling girl out of the boma. A wave of sick horror swept over Ki-Gor, and he sprinted toward the campsite. How could I have been so stupid! Ki-Gor thought bitterly. Apparently the gorilla-man had circled away in the darkness, and returned to kidnap poor helpless Helene. Faster the jungle man's feet flashed over the turf. The man-ape was running too, in the opposite direction with a terrified, shrieking Helene under a hairy arm.
       Sobbing with rage, Ki-Gor put all his strength into an effort to catch up with the brutish abductor. But the man-ape had a few seconds head-start, and by the time Ki-Gor flashed by the campfire, was out of sight in the velvet blackness of the night.
       Ki-Gor drew up short and controlled his panting long enough to listen. Ominously, Helene had stopped screaming. But the sound of feet drumming over the ground gave Ki-Gor an approximate direction the beast was taking. He plunged forward.
       Full fifteen minutes Ki-Gor ran, stopping now and then to listen and to sniff the air. But the thud of the gorilla-man's feet seemed to come from different directions each time, and the still air, heavy with the rank ape-smell, gave no clue as to which way the monster had gone. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, to find anything in the pitch dark of the plateau.
       Finally, Ki-Gor had to admit that the gorilla-man had -- temporarily, at least escaped him. He sat down on the grass, for a moment, to think. What was to be done? And what was happening to Helene? Why had her screams stopped so abruptly? Was it because -- Ki-Gor hardly dared ask himself the question -- was it because the giant ape had killed her? Ki-Gor ground his teeth, and growled savagely, deep down in his throat.
       Suddenly, a tiny puff of wind caressed the hair at his temples. Ki-Gor sprang to his feet, nerves taut, and sniffed it avidly. Faintly, there came to his nostrils a woodsy smell, the smell of trees. More faintly still came the gorilla-smell. Ki-Gor loped upwind. He knew he was going north-east, toward a towering range of mountains, whose slopes were covered by the only trees in any direction. Ki-Gor had noticed that before the sun had set. Undoubtedly, the man-ape was traveling that way. It was the type of high open forestland that gorillas liked.
       Ki-Gor pushed on steadily and swiftly through the night, following the elusive ape-smell. But, as the minutes went by, he seemed to come no nearer to the object of his pursuit.
       Gradually, the outlines of a mountain range began to take shape, ahead of him and to his right. Almost imperceptibly, the sky began to grow a little paler, and the darkness all about, to dissolve. Ki-Gor found that the grass was giving way to tall shrubs, and that here and there, tall trees reared skyward. He kept on, upwind and upgrade.
       After a while there was enough light for him to see the ground fairly clearly. The jungle man then turned abruptly to his left, and began a wide circle, eyes to the ground, studying out possible gorilla tracks. For an hour he traveled that way without discovering the spoor he was searching for. He returned to his starting place and commenced another wide circle to the right. Still, there were no gorilla-man tracks, and Ki-Gor hurried his steps, sick with disappointment and apprehension. His mind was so clouded with fear for Helene's safety that he almost didn't see the twig broken off the flowering shrub close to the ground.
       But, all of a sudden, the slight gorilla smell seemed to increase. Ki-Gor stopped and studied the ground around him. Then he saw the broken twig, and dropped to the ground beside it. A moment later, he stood up, his upper lip drawn back off his teeth in a silent snarl.
       Unquestionably, the gorilla-man had passed that way.
       Swiftly the jungle man followed the spoor, eyes glued to the ground, nostrils flared. In a very short time, he realized that not one gorilla-man had made that track, but two!
       That was how Helene's kidnapping had been accomplished! The first ape had decoyed Ki-Gor away from the camp long enough for the second one to rush into the boma and carry off the girl. The jungle man gripped the blade of the assegai, vengefully, and hastened on.
       The sky was rosy with approaching dawn, and the upgrade was getting steeper, when Ki-Gor halted. He had made another uncomfortable discovery. The trail of the two gorilla-men had separated, going each in a different direction. The jungle man was face to face with a horrible dilemma. One of those two half-human animals was bearing the limp form of Helene -- but which one?
       Ki-Gor could do no more than guess which trail to follow. He chose the one which went straight up the mountain side, and quickened his steps.
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         CHAPTER II
         *MR. ROBERT SPELVIN OF CINCINNATI*
       He was rewarded, in a; short time, by a noticeable strengthening of apesmell in the air. Apparently the giant gorilla-man had grown careless of pursuit, and was loitering along, picking nuts and fruit along the way. Ki-Gor raced uphill in an agony of suspense. Would he be in time? Was Helene still alive? Was this the man-ape who had kidnapped her?
       The sun was coming up red, as Ki-Gor halted on the edge of an open space on the mountain side. His heart sank. Upwind of him, sitting in the middle of the open space was a gorilla-man. But nowhere was there any sign of Helene. He had followed the wrong beast.
       A burning desire for revenge swept over Ki-Gor. If this shaggy monster had not actually abducted Helene it had at least assisted in the operation, and Ki-Gor determined that it should die for it.
       He crept closer to the great man-ape, unnoticed.
       The gorilla-man was sitting, shoulders hunched apathetically, licking a forearm. The coarse hairs of its chest and abdomen were caked with dried blood. Evidently it was the same animal that Ki-Gor had fought the night before. Relentlessly, Ki-Gor crept forward, until he was behind the gorilla-man, though still down-wind from him. Then, silently, he sprang.
       The weight of his body hitting the gorilla-man's back flung it face-forward on the ground. He pounced on the thick hairy brute, and stabbed at its neck with his spear. The beast reared up unsteadily on its hind legs, heaved and screamed with pain, and reached a huge black hand over its shoulder. Ki-Gor was plucked off and hurled twenty feet away, as if he were a terrier.
       He lay stunned for a moment, then began to collect his senses as the gorilla-man slowly reared itself off the ground. The brute stood up unsteadily on its hind legs for a moment, gave a terrible roar, and started toward Ki-Gor's recumbent form. But, blood was gushing from the wound in the neck, and its short legs suddenly buckled. Before it could reach the helpless Ki-Gor, the gorilla-man's evil little eyes glazed, and it wavered and fell in a crumpled heap.
       Ki-Gor picked himself up, made sure none of his bones were broken, and approached the fallen gorilla-man warily. There was no doubt about it, the strange monster was stone dead, its jugular severed. In death it looked more simian than in life.
       The jungle man's blue eyes flashed. He uttered a bellow of triumph, and started back down the man-ape's trail. He was going back to pick up the spoor of the other monster, the one who was carrying off Helene.
       But his triumph was short-lived. His nose was assailed by a strong smell of Bantu. A moment later he was surrounded by a dozen or more tall, well-formed blacks, armed with broad-bladed assegais.
       "Stay, O strange inkosi," said the tallest one in halting Swahili, "and tell us how it is possible that you could thus slay the fearsome brute, single-handed and without a fire-stick."
       "Nay, stand aside, black men," Ki-Gor answered. "I have no time for idle chatter. There yet is another gorilla-man I must slay -- a murdering beast that is carrying off my woman. I must find him before he kills her -- if he has not already done so."
       "Indeed, inkosi," said the tribesman, "that is a dreadful story. This other gorilla-man, then, is not far away?"
       "That I do not know," said Ki-Gor. "I must first pick up his trail which I left before sunrise. So, let me pass."
       "Nay, inkosi," said the tall black, "if the gorilla-man bearing your woman has that much of a head-start, then indeed, you are on a fool's errand."
       "What do you mean, black man?" said Ki-Gor, sternly. "I will catch him and I will kill him, as you have seen me do with this other ape up the hill."
       "It is this way, inkosi," the tribesman said patiently, "when you catch up with the man-ape bearing your woman, you will find not one man-ape but hundreds. By now, he has undoubtedly carried her into the Land of the Living Dead. The entrances to that Land are guarded by hordes of these ferocious gorilla-men. And it is said that these man-apes, furthermore, are not wild man-apes, but trained beasts who obey the wicked commands of some mysterious human."
       "O cowardly black man," said Ki-Gor, "chicken-hearted Bantu, why do you tell me old woman's stories like that? There is no slightest word of truth in what you say!"
       "I am no, chicken-hearted coward," replied the tribesman, stoutly. "I am as brave as you, O strange inkosi, and I tell you truth. Many from about here have been kidnapped by these hulking gorilla-men and carried into the Valley on the other side of the mountain. If you do not believe me come with us in friendly fashion, back to our village. Our chief speaks N-glush fluently, and he will tell you of this dread place."
       Ki-Gor stared long and hard at the tall black man, and his heart sank. There was the ring of truth in the man's voice.
       "Lead on," he said, gruffly.
       As the little party wound down the mountain side, Ki-Gor watched the blacks around him, narrowly. They were Bantu, his traditional enemies back in the Congo jungle. But there was a difference. These men were taller, better looking, prouder than the forest blacks. In spite of himself, Ki-Gor trusted them a little.
       Although the story of a mysterious Valley guarded by gorillas sounded almost too fantastic to believe, Ki-Gor suspended judgment until such time as he could talk to the Chief.
       After a considerable trek, the party neared a good-sized village which was enclosed by a large stockade. They went through a gate and proceeded straight toward a large house that stood in the middle of the village and dominated all the other huts. Strangely, Ki-Gor felt no fear for his safety. In fact, he hardly thought about it. Uppermost in his mind was the desire to hear about the strange valley from the Chief, himself.
       The door to the large house was guarded by two warriors with assegais. The men with Ki-Gor spoke rapidly to them, and they turned and disappeared into the house. A moment later, they reappeared, and behind them towered a huge, bull-necked negro, with alert little eyes, and an oddly humorous face. His clothes, a white shirt and white shorts, set him apart from the others -- he was evidently the chief. He spoke at once, in a rolling, rumbling basso.
       "Man, it's sure good to see a white face ag'in -- " then he stopped, and his little eyes blinked in astonishment at Ki-Gor's leopard-skin loincloth. "Say, you is a white man, ain't you? American? English?"
       Ki-Gor in his turn blinked with astonishment. He had never before heard a black speak what sounded like English. He studied the Chief for a moment, then said, "Yes. N-glush. I am of the N-glush people."
       "I thought you-all looked kind of English," the Chief rumbled. "Underneath all that tan. Whut-all's yo' idea? Back-to-nature stuff?"
       Ki-Gor had not the slightest idea of what the Chief was saying, even though he recognized most of the English words. So he said nothing. Then the Chief spoke again, hastily.
       "Nem-mind, Boss, let it go. I'm kinda fergettin' my Southe'n hospitality, standin' yere askin' questions. C'mon in an' have a bite of breakfast."
       He smiled and beckoned the jungle man into the house. Gravely Ki-Gor followed him. He regarded the table and chairs with suspicion, but sat down at the Chief's invitation.
       "Well, now, I'll tell you who I am," the Chief began, "'n' then you c'n tell me who you are. I'm the head-man around yere, but I ain't been yere but about a year. My name is Robert Spelvin, and I come from Cincinnati. I been a Pullman porter, an' a ship's cook. I jumped ship one day in Mombassa, and took myself a little walk. An' first thing you know, I'm headman of the M'balla. It's a full-time job, but they're real nice folks, an' I like it. Only now and then, I git a little homesick. Tell me where you-all come from."
       Ki-Gor thought for a moment. He was thoroughly bewildered by the flow of English from the Chief, very little of which he comprehended, but he kept a grave face.
       "I come from far over there," he said, finally, pointing to the west, "from the dark jungle. One day a woman, a white woman, came out of the sky in a red birdmachine. She told me I was of the N-glush, and that I must go with her to my own people. So we left the jungle and traveled this way for many nights. Last night, two gorilla-men came to our camp. While I was fighting one of them, the other one carried my woman away. I trailed them through the night, but this morning the tracks separated, and I followed the gorilla-man who did not have my woman."
       "An' you caught up with him, my boys told me," said Chief Robert Spelvin, "and really polished him off."
       "I killed him," Ki-Gor corrected, "and now I must find the other gorilla-man and take my woman away from him."
       "Um," said Robert, "that's real bad. I'm sorry to say this, but I'm awful afraid you ain't goin' to see your woman, again. There's some awful queer doin's over th' other side of the mountain. I don't know just what it is. But these yere great big gorilla-men comes around in pairs and grabs people and carries 'em away and don't nobody ever see 'em again."
       "Where do the gorilla-men carry those people?" Ki-Gor demanded.
       "Over th' other side of the mountain is all I know," Robert replied. "There's a story around yere about a queer kind of place over there, where there's a man who's kind of King of the gorilla-men. They say the big apes kidnaps the people, an' then they is just slaves in this place for the rest of their lives. They never come out, once they is carried in."
       "Then I must go there quickly," said Ki-Gor, "and take my woman away. She must not be a slave."
       "Man, you haven't got a chance,"' Robert said, earnestly. "I went over the east shoulder of the mountain, once with some of my boys, and we come out on to the entrance of a deep rocky canyon. The boys told me that was the entrance to the Land of the Living Dead, and there was a whole lot of the biggest gorilla-men I ever seen around there. I just said, 'C'mon boys,' an' walked away from there.
       "I once went two rounds with Dempsey 'fore he was champ, but I don't believe in messing around with no gorilla."
       The jungle man stood up, blue eyes flashing, "I am Ki-Gor, Lord of the Jungle," he said, "and I am going into the Land of the Living Dead, and take my woman away from the gorilla-men, no matter how many they are. Give me a boy to guide me to that entrance, I am going now."
       "But, Mr. Ki-Gor," said Robert, "you ain't got a chance. One man can't lick an army, no matter how big or strong he is."
       "I will find a way," said Ki-Gor.
       "Say, you must set a great store by your woman," Robert said, with an admiring shake of his head, "is she English, too?"
       "Her name is Helene" said Ki-Gor. "She has a white face and red hair, and she says she is of the tribe of 'Mericans."
       "An American girl!" Robert shouted. "Wait a minute! That's different! Hold on, now, we can't let them apes take an American girl into that awful place."
       "You know her tribe?" Ki-Gor asked, curiously.
       "Know 'em!" cried Robert. "I'm American, myself."
       "But you have a black skin," Ki-Gor said, blankly.
       "Don' make no difference," said Robert, stoutly. "I'm jus' as good an American as anybody else. An' I suttinly don' aim to leave another American lay in the Land of the Livin' Dead, I don' care how many gorillas is guardin' the place."
       "You mean you will come with me?" said Ki-Gor.
       "I do," said Robert, emphatically, "an' moreover, we'll take my army along. As head man of this yere M'balla tribe I c'n call out about seventy good fightin' spearmen. I got a rifle and a Luger of my own with plenty of bullets. I'll let you use the rifle -- "
       "I don't know how to shoot a rifle," Ki-Gor interrupted. "Give me some assegais."
       "Mr. Ki-Gor," said Robert, "someday when we got mo' time, I'm going to set down and really ask you-. Right now we better get goin'."
       The huge negro stood up and bellowed some orders. Feet padded out of the house, and a moment later, a great drum began to throb.
       "C'mon out an watch this," Robert said. "I got to give the boys a fight talk."
       Outside, in the open space in the middle of the village, men, women and children were assembling. They came running from all directions, and squatted on the ground, arranging themselves in a wide circle. Into the middle of the circle, Robert strode, carrying his giant frame like an Emperor. The excited crowd ceased its chattering and fell silent under his commanding gaze. Then Robert's deep voice rolled forth in the rapid dialect of the M'balla.
       He had hardly begun before he was interrupted by cries of anguish and terror from all about him. He whirled about and raised a threatening hand, and the crowd quieted down. Then Robert launched into an impassioned oration.
       Presently the crowd began to sway and murmur. As Robert's emotions mounted higher and higher, the responsive murmur grew louder and rhythmic. And finally, when he wound up his oration at fever heat, the men of the Whalla leaped to their feet shouting and brandishing their assegais.
       Robert made his way through the howling gesticulating mob over to Ki-Gor.
       "Well, I got the ahmy lined up," he said. "They didn't like the idea so good, at first, but I talked 'em around. In about an hour we-all'll be ready to go beat up on the gorilla-men, an' see whut kin' of a place this yere Land of the Livin' Dead is."
       Ki-Gor and Robert Spelvin, Chief of the M'balla regarded each other with mutual respect. In spite of the fact that each one was a complete puzzle to the other. Together they went into the Chief's house to plan their strategy.
       An hour later, when the little army filed out of the village and headed eastward toward the mountain, each warrior, at Ki-Gor's, suggestion, carried a long, throwing spear, in addition to the short stabbing assegai. Ki-Gor's reasoning was that if they met gorilla-men in any quantity they could do considerable preliminary damage with the throwing spears at long range, before they closed in on the powerful brutes.
       Robert carried his rifle in his hand and the Luger holstered on a belt. Over each shoulder he had draped a bandolier with ammunition for both weapons. Ki-Gor wore a long knife in a scabbard strapped around his waist, and in each hand he carried a broad-bladed M'balla assegai.
       After a half a day's brisk climb, the swift African dusk caught the party still several miles short of their destination. They made camp on a bare shoulder of the mountain, taking care to build many bright fires, and detailing plenty of sentries. They had no intention of allowing themselves to be surprised by a night raid of gorilla-men.
       The night passed without incident, and before sunup the little army was on its way again, climbing once, more. Ki-Gor noticed that many of the strapping M'balla warriors seemed to be less than enthusiastic over the expedition, as they drew nearer to the high, mountain gateway to the Land of the Living Dead, and its dread defenders. But if Chief Robert noticed it he gave no sign of it.
       The line of march lay down hill for a while, down the eastern slope of the great mountain. But still in front of them was an even higher mountain, or rather, range of mountains. High up in a niche between two peaks, Robert said, was the Gateway. Soon the M'balla army skirted a rim, and started on the final upgrade. A nervous silence settled down over the party, and the rate of speed noticeably slackened. As they toiled higher and higher up the mountainside, the vegetation began to thin out a little. Tall trees gave way to more stunted growths, and odd-shaped bushes, twisted by high winds.
       And a hot, dry west wind baked the bent backs of the M'balla.
       Suddenly the party came in at right angles on what appeared to be a well-worn trail. It was a strip of bare, hard-packed ground, six feet wide, that twisted up the slope, flanked on either side by high banks. Ki-Gor crinkled his nose.
       "Gorilla!" he said, laconically.
       Robert nodded and detailed two of the M'balla to go up the trail as scouts, in advance of the party. Then, he growled an order over his shoulder and led the little army forward.
       They had not proceeded far, when the two scouts came tumbling down the path, faces gray with fear. They immediately started babbling about gorillas, but Robert hushed them with a stern command, and with Ki-Gor, took them off to one side, out of earshot of the rest of the M'balla. Then, he listened to the scouts as they described what they had seen. The Gateway, which was hardly more than a thousand yards away, up the trail, was fairly swarming with gorilla-men. They had evidently scented the approaching M'balla, and reinforcements were pouring out of the narrow opening in the natural rock bastion.
       "You have done well," Robert commented, and turned to Ki-Gor. "This ain't goin' to be so easy, Mr. Ki-Gor. I think you-all better take this yere Luger. There ain't no trick to usin' it. Jest point it like you'd point your finger at somethin', and squeeze this yere little thing. And when it stops goin' 'bang,' jest give it back to me, and I'll reload for you."
       Then Robert wheeled and strode back to his army.
       "Follow me up the bank," he said, in the M'balla dialect, "we will ambush the men-apes from above as they come down the path. Do not throw your spears until you hear the order. Have no fear -- you are being led by your invincible chief, and by Ki-Gor, the Gorilla-man Slayer."
       The M'balla looked at each other fearfully, but loyally followed Robert up the bank. The giant American Negro led the way cautiously through the twisted brush, one hundred yards, two hundred yards. Then he halted, abruptly, and pointed. Ki-Gor, beside him in instant, followed the pointing finger with his eyes and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen.
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         CHAPTER III
         *LAND OF THE LIVING DEAD*
       They were standing on the edge of the brush cover. Before them a wide strip of rubbly, rocky ground sloped gently up to a natural rock palisade. There was no vegetation of any kind on the desolate stretch of shale and rubble, and beyond, the line of low cliffs marked the crest of the ridge. Directly in front of them, there was a cleft in the rock barrier -- a narrow cleft that looked to be no more than ten feet wide. Through that cleft, a seemingly endless line of huge black gorillas was moving out to the open ground. And the open ground was already occupied by at least fifty or sixty of the monsters. A low murmur ran through the M'balla.
       Robert whirled, eyes flashing.
       "There are your enemies!" he hissed, "the filthy beasts who have terrorized your neighborhood for so many years, who have carried your relatives and friends into a horrible, unknown captivity. Let every man look to his throwing spear."
       Slowly the gorilla-men began moving down toward them in a disorganized mob. The M'balla, grim-faced, crouched down in the bushes behind Robert and Ki-Gor. There was something hideously menacing about the way the mass of man-apes ambled down over the rubble. They made no sound, but came on with a sort of contemptuous calmness.
       When they were less than a hundred yards away, Robert fingering his big express rifle, clutched Ki-Gor's arm in glee. The gorilla-men were turning away to the right.
       They were going down the path, directly beneath the ambuscade!
       Robert waited until the ravine below them was choked with the black monsters, then he drew a bead on one of them, and bellowed a command. A shower of spears rained down on to the seething mass of hairy bodies. The instant they struck, Robert fired.
       Then pandemonium reigned in the ravine.
       With screams of pain and rage, the great man-apes milled around trying to pluck the spears out. Robert kept on firing into their midst as fast as he could reload.
       In five minutes, full half the gorilla-men lay dead or dying. But as they had originally outnumbered the M'balla by two to one, that merely evened matters up. For the brutes quickly discovered the source of the, rain of death, and started clambering up the side of the ravine.
       But the M'balla, encouraged by the initial success of the ambush, stood confidently on the edge of the bank. Into their midst, Ki-Gor stepped, an assegai in each hand. After he had emptied the Luger, he had returned the weapon in disgust to Robert, and had gone back to what seemed to him the more satisfactory method of fighting.
       A titanic gorilla-man more agile than the rest, reared its head over the bank at Ki-Gor's feet. The jungle man thrust viciously downward, and impaled the monster by the throat. The beast gave a gurgling bellow and fell backwards.
       "Hai! Hai!" the M'balla yelped, and they cut and stabbed as more of the gigantic apes gained the bank. All along the line, huge hairy forms poised for seconds on the brink, great arms thrashing, only to waver and plunge downwards, pierced by a dozen assegais. Here and there, single gorilla-men gained a momentary foothold, crushing out M'balla lives with sledge-hammer blows of their mighty arms. Desperately the tribesman swarmed around, thrusting and hacking. And wherever the M'balla were forced to give ground, Ki-Gor flashed in, muscles rippling, and tawny mane flying.
       The fighting was so close now, that Robert could no longer use his rifle, so he, too, waded in to the combat, the Luger spitting in his left hand, an assegai lifting and dipping in his right. But the rifle had done its job. The monstrous gorilla-men, terrifying as they were, were clearly outnumbered. The struggling line along the bank swayed back and forth, and finally a handful of surviving gorilla-men broke away and leaped down through the shaly gravel to the path below.
       But the blood-lust of the M'balla was up, and they followed relentlessly. As Ki-Gor and Robert leaned panting on their assegais, the tribesman hunted down the dozen or so remaining gorilla-men, ringed each one with a bristling wall of steel, and cut them down.
       One-half hour after Robert had fired the first shot the gorilla-men were completely annihilated. But it was a costly victory.
       Among the heaped up dead on the bank, thirty-one M'balla tribesman lay crushed and dying. High up in the sky, the vultures began circling downward to their grisly feast.
       The sun was hanging low as the little army, having buried its dead, climbed with Ki-Gor and Robert up to the Gateway. However, their steps lagged a little across the stony ground. For one thing, they were undergoing a natural reaction from the shock of the battle. For another they felt a nameless dread of what they might find on the other side of the Gateway. They were courageous warriors, as shown by their behavior against the gorilla-men. But gorilla-men, fearsome though they were, were tangible enemies that could be faced and beaten in combat. And this cleft in the mountain bastion they were approaching was the Gateway to the Land of the Living Dead. The fear of the Unknown clutched at the stout hearts of the M'balla.
       Ki-Gor's finely tuned senses made him aware of this situation in the ranks of the little army. If the truth be told, he felt a little uneasy himself. But far overshadowing any fears for himself was the determination to penetrate into this awesome place, and find out what had happened to Helene. And if Helene were alive, he would probably need the assistance of the M'balla to rescue her. Therefore he felt a responsibility in maintaining the morale of the army.
       So when the little force reached the cleft in the rock, Ki-Gor touched Robert lightly on the arm, and stepped in front of him. Then looking neither to right nor to left, he marched boldly through the opening.
       A broad path lay before him, winding off downhill to one side. Sheer cliffs towered on either side of the path, so that Ki-Gor could not see beyond the first bend, which was about fifty feet away. But as far as he could see, there was no sign of life anywhere on the path. He shouted encouragingly over his shoulder and went forward.
       As he did, he felt a noticeable drop in the temperature, and saw that the sun no longer shone around him. Looking up he observed a pall of mist or clouds stretching eastward from the crest of the ridge. But he pressed on down the path, grim-faced, and the M'balla, quaking with superstitious dread, crept silently after him.
       It seemed to grow colder and colder, and darker and darker, as they descended the narrow mountain gorge. But still they saw no signs of life. Gradually, the cliffs on either side began to flatten out and disappear, and here and there they saw patches of vegetation, bushes and dwarf trees and stringy vines.
       But it was the most extraordinary vegetation any of them had ever seen, and the farther they went, the more extraordinary it became. The bushes were wildly luxuriant, with hundreds of branches, wide leaves and long cruel thorns. And the trees had gnarled trunks, twisted into the most fantastic and grotesque shapes. An eerie silence hung over everything, broken only by the whistling of the chill wind as it whipped shreds of mist across the path.
       It was getting so dark, now, that Ki-Gor was unable to see very far. The strange bushes and trees loomed up in terrifying shapes in the gray gloom. The M'balla huddled as close to each other as they could and still walk. From time to time, they peered fearfully around them, and the pace of the march slowed down to a crawl, even though the path sloped downhill.
       At the head of the party, Ki-Gor picked his way cautiously, an assegai held ready in his right hand. Although he wouldn't admit it -- even to himself -- he was feeling extremely uneasy. The supernatural spookiness of the surroundings was having an effect on even his stout heart. And besides, the visibility was so poor that he couldn't tell what kind of a trap he might be walking into. His bare body, too, was chilled to the bone with the clammy, gusty wind.
       Shivering, he reflected that a good hot campfire would not only revive the sagging spirits of the expedition, but would furnish some valuable protection in this strange and desolate situation. He turned to Robert just behind him, and suggested that they halt for the night as soon as possible. He agreed to the idea with alacrity, and immediately bellowed a command to the M'balla.
       A murmur of relief swept through h the column, and the tribesmen eagerly bunched up on the path touching shoulders to regain their confidence. A few braver than the rest spread out and began hacking at the bushes with their assegais for fuel.
       When some fagots had been piled up, Robert squatted on the ground to start the fire. Ki-Gor bent over him, watching. The flames were slow in coming. The wood was damp, and the wind increased. Suddenly, Ki-Gor's scalp began to crawl as he heard a sound from the outer darkness.
       "Listen!" he hissed, clutching Robert's shoulder. But Robert had heard it, too, and so had the M'balla. They stood transfixed, eyes rolling.
       It was a kind of soft, melodious wail that rose and fell with ineffable sweetness. It seemed to come from all directions, or from no direction. There was an almost-human quality in the sound, and yet no human ever made a sound like that. Mournfully sweet, it hung on the air and died away, as if some sad, disembodied spirit were wandering disconsolately through the darkness, crooning a tuneless song.
       The M'balla looked at Ki-Gor and Robert, and Ki-Gor and Robert looked at each other. No one said a word. Then the wind blew strongly on their faces again, and again the ghostly voice rose. This time there were two voices! Another melancholy wail, pitched lower than the first, sang out in perfect harmony. Then a third -- a fourth! And finally a whole choir of unearthly voices rose and fell in a terribly sweet, terribly sad hymn.
       "Ghosts!" a tribesman blurted out. "Living Ghosts!"
       At that moment there was a distant, menacing rumble, and the ground under their feet seemed to tremble. The rumble grew louder, and far away to one side, the sky grew pale. Starkly outlined against it was a conical mountain peak. Little tongues of green and yellow flame licked upwards from the mountain top, shedding a ghastly light over everything. Underfoot, the ground trembled more violently than ever. The wind blew harder, and the ghostly voices rose to a felonious shriek.
       The horrified tribesmen swayed against each other for a moment. Then, with a wild yell, they broke and ran headlong, back up the path. Robert roared at them to stop, but they didn't even hear him. He ran after the howling, frantic mob, and fired in the air twice, but it did not the slightest good. The M'balla had had enough.
       Trembling, Ki-Gor stood and watched his allies until they disappeared from view. He was badly frightened himself, but it never occurred to him to run. He stood glaring about him, assegai ready. Very soon the ground ceased to shake, and the light from the mountain peak dimmed and died out. The wind lowered and the ghostly voices faded away to a sorrowful moan.
       Ki-Gor squatted on the ground and collected his thoughts. So far, he was unharmed in spite of the spectacular and terrifying phenomena that had occurred. But the sturdy little army which was to invade the Land of the Living Dead with him, and help him rescue Helene had vanished into the night. So now, if he was to rescue Helene, he would have to do it himself.
       A pebble rattle up the path, above him. He started up, and took two stealthy steps in that direction when he was arrested by the sound of a deep voice speaking very softly.
       "Is you there, Mr. Ki-Gor?"
       Robert Spelvin had returned.
       "I am in front of you," Ki-Gor whispered. "How many are with you?"
       "They ain't nary one with me," Robert answered dolefully. "I is all by myse'f, Mr. Ki-Gor. Them po' bush negros is still goin' to be runnin' this time next week, I guess. They was reely scared."
       "And you?" said Ki-Gor. "Aren't you afraid?"
       "Well, I don't feel so awful good. Seems like they's an awful mess of han'ts around these yere parts, and I don't like han'ts, no suh!"
       "Why did you come back?"
       "Man, they's an American girl down yere and somebody's got to git her out. An' if I cain't bring muh ahmy, I c'n bring myse'f. I don' know if the two of us pull off this rescue, but we c'n try awful hard."
       "Robert, you are a brave man."
       "Well, Mr. Ki-Gor, tha's a real compliment when you say it. Cause I guess, when it comes to bravery, you wrote the book."
       Ki-Gor ignored the returned compliment, mainly because he didn't understand it and got down to business.
       "This place is not good for a camp," he said. "Let us go farther down the trail."
       "You said it, Mr. Ki-Gor," said Robert, heartily. "Le's git on away from yere. Oh My Lawd there goes them ha'nts again!"
       The jungle man shivered as the mysterious, mournful voices began their lament again. Silently, he offered the butt end of his assegai for Robert to hold, and the oddly assorted pair moved slowly down the path.
       Enough light from the stars filtered through the clouds to illuminate their way, though very dimly. It was enough, at any rate, to bring Ki-Gor up with a start after they had only gone about fifty yards. The trail suddenly narrowed. On one side -- the uphill side -- a sheer cliff wall rose and lost itself in the misty darkness. On the other side was -- a drop into nothingness! Cautiously, Ki-Gor and Robert crept down the trail, hugging the cliff. It was a long and terrible night for the two invaders of the Land of the Living Dead. Inadequately dressed as they were, they nearly perished from the cold winds that whistled against the cliffs. And the almost total absence of light made their progress along the hazardous trail extremely slow. But with the coming of daylight, they found an improvement in their condition.
       They were down among trees, now, tall trees that rose from gently sloping parkland, free from underbrush. The constant fog and cold winds were left behind, and the two companions hurried along the smooth, hard-packed trail to restore their circulation. The first slanting rays of the sun were pouring through the trees, when they reached a clearing in the forest. It was evidently an open bluff on the mountain side, as they could see the tops of trees peeping up on the other side of the open space. They ran forward to the edge of the bluff, to see what the surrounding country was like. What they saw made them gasp.
       They were looking down on a broad, fertile valley that was surrounded on all sides by great mountains. The valley floor was entirely cleared, and looked to be one great green pasture. It was dotted with snow-white cattle grazing peacefully, and through the middle of it ran a placid stream. At the far end, on rising ground, a score or more of buildings was grouped in a symmetrical arrangement. They stretched out on either side of a large, palace-like structure, which seemed to dominate the whole group.
       The architecture of all the buildings was uniform. They were all one story high, except for the palace, which had three or four floors. They were all startlingly white, and had large, flat, overhanging roofs, also white. As Ki-Gor and Robert watched the scene, fascinated, the sun's rays touched those roofs. Instantly, they seemed to catch fire. The rays were caught and reflected by billions of tiny diamondlike surfaces that dazzled the eyes of the two men on the bluff.
       But, except for the buildings themselves, there was not a sign of a human being.
       Suddenly Ki-Gor's nostrils flared and he glanced sharply around.
       "I smell gorilla," he stated.
       "You do?" said Robert startled. "My glory, I sho' wish I had a'nuh ahmy around."
       He moved down the face of the bluff several feet and peered into the base of the trees.
       "Man, your nose don't tell you no lies," he called back, "these yere woods is full of gorilla-men. Le's you an' I get outa yere!"
       Robert scrambled back to the edge of the bluff. Then he and Ki-Gor rapidly retraced their steps across the clearing. Suddenly Ki-Gor halted.
       An immense gorilla-man was standing in front of them at the edge of the trees.
       Robert raised his rifle, then lowered it again. A second gorilla-man was coming through the trees to join the first one. And another one, and another one-. A rapid glance around the clearing showed the two men only too plainly that they were completely surrounded by at least thirty of the great man-apes.
       "Man, we sho' walked right into a spot," Robert grunted.
       "They were hiding," said Ki-Gor, "waiting for us."
       "Whut we goin' to do?" said Robert, "we cain't lick this many. Kill a few maybe, but when I stop to reload, the rest of 'em will come and git us."
       Ki-Gor did not answer for a moment, but stood fingering his assegai, and watching the gorilla-men. He was puzzled by their attitude. The great men-apes were not attempting to come any closer to the two men, but merely stood quietly around the edge of the clearing.
       "Let us go slowly in the direction of the valley," Ki-Gor said, finally, "and do not shoot until they attack us."
--------
         CHAPTER IV
         *LORD OF THE LIVING DEAD*
       Ki-Gor moved cautiously downhill across the grass, and Robert followed, his rifle held ready. As they approached the ring of gorilla-men at that point, the shaggy brutes silently gave way to either side, making room for the men to pass. They still showed no inclination to attack. With a fast-beating heart, Ki-Gor stepped past the gorilla-men, his eyes darting from side to side. The oddly human brutes remained motionless.
       Not until the two men had gone twenty paces or so, did the gorilla-men move. They then, very deliberately, began to follow at a safe distance to the rear.
       "Mr. Ki-Gor, I think you-all got the right idea," Robert muttered. "I truly b'lieve them big fellers wants us to go this way."
       And so it seemed. Ki-Gor and Robert went unmolested down through the forest, and emerged on to the valley floor. Behind them was a silent procession of giant man-apes.
       The two men hesitated a moment, and then Ki-Gor said, "To the houses." Apparently it was what the gorilla-men wanted. They continued to follow at a respectable distance as the jungle man and his Negro companion traversed the long fields to the dazzling white houses.
       The valley had an extraordinary beauty. The grass was lush and unbelievably green. Here and there, wild flowers, brilliantly colored, grew in profusion. And in every direction, mountains reached majestically to the sky.
       As the adventurers approached the houses, the gorilla-men behind them spread out fanwise and one of them uttered a great roar. Ki-Gor and Robert whirled about. Was it the sign for a sudden attack?
       Apparently not, as none of the monsters came any closer. It was a signal, though. From every direction of the valley, and from the houses, hordes of gorilla-men came running. Ki-Gor and Robert stood back to back bewildered, as hundreds of clattering brutes gathered and formed a vast ring around them. Still there was no hostile move.
       Just then, a piercing whistle shrilled from the direction of the houses. Immediately the man-apes on that side of the ring separated from each other, and formed a broad avenue straight up to the steps of the palace. And at the head of the steps stood a man.
       Wonderingly, Ki-Gor and Robert walked between the two lines of gorilla-men to the foot of the steps where they halted and scrutinized the man standing above them. He was an erect, handsome man, dressed in white flowing robes. He was middle-aged, judging from the long, gray mustache and the long gray hair that fell to his shoulders, framing an aquiline, brown face. But the most remarkable feature about him was his eyes. They were large and luminous, and had a disturbing penetrating quality. He smiled down at the two adventurers and spoke.
       "Welcome! thrice welcome, Ki-Gor," he said, in perfect English. "Welcome to Nirvana. I expected you sooner than this, and I expected that you would come alone. Who is this black man?"
       The tone was friendly, but Ki-Gor didn't like it, for some reason. And how did this King of the Gorilla-men know his name? Then it came to him. From Helene of course! Eyes flashing and fists clenched, Ki-Gor moved forward a step and spoke. As he did, the man-apes stirred restlessly.
       "Where is my woman? Is she safe?"
       The King of the Gorilla-men made a discreet motion with his right hand. "Your woman is unhurt," he said, quietly. "She was tired and a little hysterical from her long journey so I put her to sleep. You will see her soon. In the meantime, let me warn you against making any threatening gestures. These large, hairy creatures are my subjects. They adore and reverence me, and if they ever got the idea that you meant to do me harm, I could not be responsible for their actions."
       "Well, jes'a minute now, King," Robert broke in with a careless drawl. "I'm pointin' a high-powered gun right straight at your guts. You jes' better be responsible fer the way these yere babies act, or you-all jes' ain' gonna live very long."
       The King's eyelids flickered ever so slightly in surprise.
       "You are an American black," he observed. "How very interesting. I was going to send you to the mines, but I will reconsider. I will ask you to come into the Palace with Ki-Gor. Very interesting."
       The King gathered up one side of his robe and stepped down the white stairs with immense dignity. When he reached the ground in front of Ki-Gor and Robert he extended his right hand, and inclined his head, eyes half-closed.
       "Let us not talk of fighting and shooting," he said, gently. "Believe me, if you kill me, my subjects will destroy you instantly. No. Let us be friends."
       As Ki-Gor watched suspiciously, the King looked at Robert sleepily, and smiled. Suddenly, the huge brown eyes flew open and glittered at the big Negro.
       "You are very tired," he said, in a low voice. "You are extremely tired from your long march. You need to rest -- rest. Just relax all your muscles and -- rest. You need to sleep more than anything else in the world. Sleep. Why don't you go to sleep? Just close your eyes and sleep. Don't try to hold your eyelids open. Let them fall, and go to sleep. Go to sleep on your feet standing up. Go to sleep."
       At those last words, Robert swayed like a tree in a high wind. Ki-Gor, in amazement, saw the big Negro was fighting to keep his eyes open. The King backed up the steps slowly, and Robert staggered forward after him. Suddenly, the King's right hand flicked out, seized the lowered barrel of Robert's rifle, and wrested it away. As Ki-Gor leaped forward, the King sprang agilely up the steps and leveled the rifle at the jungle man's breast.
       "Carefully, Ki-Gor," said the King. "I now have the gun."
       Ki-Gor stood bewildered. He couldn't understand what had happened to Robert, that he should allow himself to be disarmed so easily. The big Negro groaned beside him and shook his head.
       "Look out for the King," Robert croaked. "Man, he sho-nough almost had me laid out cold. I ain't never been hypnotized befo', but I nearly was this time."
       Ki-Gor reached out to steady Robert, thinking fast. He didn't know what "hypnotize" meant, but he had seen Robert almost go to sleep on his feet, and he felt a sense of terrible danger from the cool, composed person of the King. More than ever, he wanted to find Helene, and see for himself whether she was safe. The King's voice interrupted his thoughts.
       "Now, shall we be friends?"
       Ki-Gor and Robert looked helplessly at the man in the white robe, and nodded slowly.
       "Then, be so kind as to follow me into the Palace," said the King, "and we will start getting better acquainted."
       He reached the top of the steps and backed across the wide portico, gun still leveled. Then he pulled a whistle from the folds of his robe, and blew two shrill blasts. It was evidently a signal of dismissal to the gorilla-men, and the vast crowd of them began to break up and move away. Ki-Gor and Robert hesitated a moment, then leaped up the white stone steps after the King.
       He was standing at one side of a wide doorway, and; with an ironic smile, he waved his two prisoners through the doorway ahead of him. They proceeded through a spacious hallway, and at the King's command, turned to the right, through another doorway, and found themselves in a large, high-ceilinged room. The white walls of the room were unadorned, but a deep, rich looking carpet covered the floor, and low tables, chairs and divans made up the furniture.
       Ki-Gor pivoted on his heel and addressed the King humbly.
       "Helene!" he said. "My woman. Where is she?"
       "She is coming to join us now," the King replied with an inscrutable smile. "In fact, here she is."
       At that moment, Ki-Gor's heart leaped within him as Helene walked into the room at the opposite end. He started down the room toward her, but stopped half-way with a thrill of horror.
       It was Helene, all right, but something was terribly wrong. She was clothed in a white robe, sandals on her feet. Her face was deathly pale, and her eyes looked straight ahead, unfocused on anything in the room.
       She walked carefully around the furniture without seeming to see it.
       "Here is Ki-Gor," said the King. "You may recognize him, Helene."
       Helene swayed a moment, uncertainly, then she turned a perfectly blank face to Ki-Gor.
       "Hello, Ki-Gor," she said in a hollow voice.
       "Helene!" cried Ki-Gor in anguished tones. "What is the matter? Are you all right?"
       There was a dreadful moment of silence. Then the King's voice broke in gently.
       "Tell him, Helene," he said. "Tell him how you feel."
       Monotonously, as if she were repeating lesson, Helene said, "I am all right, Ki-Gor. I am very happy here in Nirvana -- happy to be with Krishna, King of the Living Dead."
       Ki-Gor swung around, his face contorted in an uncontrollable snarl. Disregarding the rifle aimed at him, he sprang at the King. So sudden and so swift was his movement that the King had not time to pull the trigger, before the jungle man was upon him.
       "Mr. Ki-Gor!" cried Robert. "Don't kill, him! Don't kill him yet!" He's got the woman hypnotized, an' she won't ever recover until he snaps her out of it."
       But Ki-Gor had the King on the floor choking the life out of him in a blind rage. The powerful Negro bent over and wrenched him away from the supine figure in the white robe.
       "Now, hold on, Mr. Ki-Gor," Robert sputtered, as the jungle man spun out of his grasp. "If you kill the King now, tha's just the same as killing Miss Helene, yere."
       Ki-Gor hesitated, eyes blazing.
       "What do you mean?" he cried, hoarsely.
       "Jes' whut I said," replied Robert. "He's done put her into a hypnotic trance, an' he's the only one c'n bring her out of it. If you kill him, she jes' ain' never goin' to wake up."
       Ki-Gor whirled around at Krishna, King of the Living Dead.
       "Wake her up!" Ki-Gor said savagely.
       Krishna drew himself up to a sitting position, and brushed the long gray hair out of his eyes.
       "I will release her," he said, with a cool smile, "as soon as you two hand your weapons over to me."
       "Now, listen yere, King," Robert bit out. "I wouldn't kid you-all. Don' go tryin' to drive a bargain, because you'll never be closer to dyin' than you is, right this minute. You better wake her up, and wake her up quick, or Ki-Gor'll kill you, and he'll kill you slow."
       Krishna's dark face grew paler. He reflected a moment, then smiled again.
       "Very well," he said, pleasantly, "I will do as you say."
       "You better do a smooth job," Robert warned, as Krishna got to his feet and approached Helene, "because if she comes out cryin' an' hysterical, they's no power on earth could stop you from bein' beaten to a pulp."
       Krishna nodded, and passed his hand over Helene's eyes.
       "I am going to release you from my control," he said quietly. "You will wake up, and you will remember nothing of what happened while you were asleep. Now. You are no longer under my control. Wake up!"
       He stepped backward and watched the girl. Helene's eyes were tight shut, and she held herself rigid, Krishna paled.
       "Wake up!" he said, sharply, and reaching out a hand, snapped his fingers beside her ear.
       Helene shivered. Slowly her eyes opened. She stared uncomprehendingly about her, and then saw Ki-Gor. She gave a glad cry and rushed into his arms.
       "Ki-Gor!" she exclaimed." You came after me! Oh, I'm so happy! I've never been so frightened in my life as when the gorilla-man snatched me away from the camp. But he didn't hurt me at all. And when he brought me here, Krishna was so kind. I think this is a heavenly place, don't you?"
       Ki-Gor held her tightly to him for a moment, without speaking. Then he released one arm and pointed to Robert Spelvin, one-time Pullman porter, ship's cook, and Chief of the M'balla.
       "This is Robert," said Ki-Gor. "He is a Bantu, but he is a brave man, and he is our friend."
       "Pleased to meet you-all, Ma'am," said Robert, with a grin. "I may be a Bantu, but fust of all, I is an American, an I's real proud to be your friend."
       Before Helene could express her astonishment at meeting an American Negro in this fantastic corner of Africa, Ki-Gor took command of the situation, again.
       "This man," he said grimly, and pointed at Krishna, "is not our friend. He is bad. We are going away from here quickly.
       "Krishna? Bad?" said Helene, puzzled. "I don't understand. He has been very kind to me."
       "He is bad," Ki-Gor reiterated, "and we are going away, right now."
       "If you will pardon me," Krishna broke in, with a sleepy smile, "it is not a question of whether I am good or bad. It happens that I am the ruler of this valley, which is sometimes called the Land of the Living Dead. My own name for it is Nirvana. You see, in the Hindu religion, and Nirvana is an ancient conception of the Ultimate of human desire. It is not like the Christian Heaven, exactly, it is merely a removal from the world, a complete absence of desire, of illusion. I removed myself from the outer world many years ago, and found a kind of Nirvana here in this secluded valley. Thus, I took the name of Krishna, one of the Hindu supreme deities. Here I remain until I die. But this Nirvana, unlike the spiritual Nirvana of the ancient Buddhists, is somewhat concerned with matters of the flesh. I like beauty and comfort and good food. At the same time, I require solitude when I feel like it. My solution was to come here and be served by slaves, and remain undiscovered by the outer world. Human beings built this palace and the surrounding buildings. Human beings grow my food, tend my cattle -- I have also discarded the Hindu taboo on beef. My soldiers, however, are these curious man-apes. They are considerably more trustworthy than any human warriors I have ever known."
       "But, Krishna," Helene interrupted, "how can you be sure that one of your human slaves won't escape, someday, and reveal the secret of your Nirvana?"
       "For one thing," Krishna replied, "I hypnotize them. For another if any attempted to leave the Valley, he would immediately be killed by my soldiers. You see, these are no ordinary gorillas. You may have noticed that they are astonishingly human in some ways. They are the product of highly intensive selective breeding."
       "Selective breeding!" Helene exclaimed. "I thought that was impossible. I thought that gorillas could not reproduce in captivity."
       "The original specimens which I brought here from West Africa years ago, were given the illusion of freedom. They had the run of the valley. But they learned to eat food which I left out for them, and frequently the food was drugged. In that way I had opportunities to observe them closely, control their mating, and sometimes to experiment with their ductless glands. The second generation was more tractable. From then on, I bred them for size, intelligence and docility. These giant creatures you see around here are the result."
       "Good Heavens!" gasped Helene. "Where did you get your education?"
       "At the University of Cambridge," Krishna smiled, "and later at the University of Bonn. It was at the German university that I became interested in racial evolution and, what might be termed, constructive anthropology. Some bullet-headed Prussian students were busy with a racial theory concerning their Aryan origin. That was vastly amusing to me, who come from the only true Aryan race left in the world -- the high-caste Brahmans of Northern India. The appearance of those Prussians indicated to me that they were more likely to be descended from Neanderthal Man. And from that, I conceived the idea of trying to create modern Neanderthalers. Hence the experiment with the gorillas. The experiment is not yet complete, but my man-apes are many times more intelligent than their original progenitors. And the one thing they have learned thoroughly, is that anyone may enter the Valley, but no one may leave! That is one of the voodoos I have placed upon this land. There are six others.
       "The first is that my will is the supreme throughout this land.
       "The second is that all who live within it must be made my slaves.
       "The third that anyone may enter my domain, but none may leave.
       "The fourth that all women here belong to me."
       Here Helene blanched and Ki-Gor's eyes narrowed.
       "The fifth that my gorilla-men guard stand guard day and night.
       "The sixth that I be obeyed absolutely.
       "The last that death shall be the lot of all who oppose me.
       "You know," Krishna smiled mockingly, I sometimes call my home the Nirvana of the Seven Voodoos."
       "You mean we are prisoners here?" said Helene.
       "For the rest of your lives," said Krishna, simply. "And, as I have already told your companions, it will do no good to kill me. Because whether I am alive or not, the man-apes will not permit you to get out of the valley. And with me dead, their master, the probabilities are that they would destroy every human being they could find."
       "Oh!" Helene shuddered with loathing. "I thought you were so charming at first. I can't believe that you are such a monster."
       "I am not a monster at all," Krishna smiled. "I am just a very practical man who does the things that please him. In this comfortable domain of mine, I let no wish go ungratified. My own happiness is my chiefest concern. Surely, that is not a monster, is it?"
       Helene made no answer, and for a while there was an electric silence. Finally Robert broke it.
       "Man!" he said, heavily. "We sho'ly caught ourse'ves a cold fish!"
       "You know," said Krishna, "there is no reason why you should take this situation so gravely. Only technically, will you be prisoners. In a sense you will be freer than you could ever be outside the boundaries of my Lotus Land. By the time you have been here six months, I am quite sure you will feel not the slightest desire ever to go away."
       Helene cast a frightened glance at Ki-Gor, who, up to now, had taken no part in the conversation. The jungle man frowned and spoke abruptly.
       "How is it that you are master of the gorilla-men? How do you do that?"
       "I drug them, my dear Ki-Gor," Krishna replied, candidly, "with a rare substance which I distill from a rare plant that grows in this valley in great quantity. The drug puts them into a deep sleep, and when they wake up, they are especially susceptible to hypnosis. I then hypnotize them. I have hypnotized so many of them so often, that the merest suggestion that they prevent people from leaving acts now as a perpetual command to all of them. In the meantime, of course, they have become strong addicts of this drug, and I have to give them a daily portion of it. If this sounds hard to believe, just come out with me now and I will arrange to give them their ration for the day. You may see with your own eyes that I am telling you the truth."
       "No funny business, now, King," warned Robert.
       "There would be no purpose in my doing any funny business," Krishna replied, blandly. "I could have you killed, but I don't want you killed. I want you alive. You see, I have many hobbies, of all kinds. And, for a time now, I intend to make a hobby of you three. You interest me. Therefore, instead of sending you to work my mines, which is my usual procedure with newcomers, I shall keep you near me in the palace. No, there will be no funny business. Besides, you have guns which you might be foolish enough to kill me with. Follow me now, and you will see a strange sight."
       Krishna stood up and walked briskly toward the doorway. Robert followed him closely, covering him with the rifle. Ki-Gor dropped back with Helene and whispered into her ear.
       "'What does 'hypnotize' mean?"
       Helene thought for a moment and shook her head.
       "It's a little too complicated to explain right now, Ki-Gor," she said. "Wait until we are alone, and I'll try to straighten it out for you."
       Krishna led them out of the palace, down the white steps, and across the great square of the settlement to a long narrow building, which had small, heavily barred windows along its length, and two doors, a small one and a large one, at one end. Several gorilla-men appeared from other buildings, moved over to the large door and stood there, hopefully.
       "This is my drug laboratory and dispensary," Krishna explained, as he led the way to the smaller door. "Slaves gather the plants and bring them here where I extract the drug and produce it in crystalline form by a formula known only to me."
       He opened the smaller door with a small key and motioned them to follow him.
       "Then more slaves," Krishna continued, "place quantities of the drug tablets in a long trough on one side of a corridor which extends the length of this building on the inside. I open the large door and the gorilla-men file through and pick up the drug tablets as they go along. And here you see some of the slaves preparing the feast for my simian warriors."
       Helene, Ki-Gor, and Robert found themselves in a long room which looked like a chemical laboratory. A dozen or more blacks moved slowly around emptying sacks into a long bin that stretched along the inside wall.
       "The tablets fall through a slit in the wall into the trough on the other side," Krishna explained. "In that way, the anthropoids get all they need of the drug without having access to the source of supply.
       But Helene hardly heard him. She was staring in horrified fascination at the slaves. They were every one, unbelievably gaunt and emaciated. They moved with dragging steps. Their eyes were lackluster, and they seemed to be walking in a stupor.
       "In heaven's name, what is the matter with these poor men?" Helene cried. "Are they victims of a disease?"
       "Oh, no," said Krishna, matter-of-factly. "They are drug-addicts. Everybody in the valley, except myself, is a habitual user of the drug. For some reason, it seems not to have any ill-effects on the gorilla-men, but it destroys human tissue inevitably in course of time. That is why I need constant replacements for my slaves, and have to send my man-apes out of the valley on kidnapping expeditions."
       Robert Spelvin exploded.
       "Man, you is jes' plain bad an' nothin' else!"
       Krishna smiled, blandly.
       "You are the most interesting black man I have ever seen," he said. "You are going to provide me with a fascinating subject of investigation. You have something, a quality I have never seen in a Negro before."
       "Well, I'll tell you this," said Robert, and his voice had a dangerous edge, "I ain' awful good slave material."
       "No, I can see that," Krishna replied with an amused glance, "compared to these specimens in here. But, perhaps I should explain that these men are the dregs of the valley. They are so far gone in the drug habit, that I put them in here where the work is light, and where they can eat all they want of the tablets. They die off very quickly, after they come in here."
       "Oh!" Helene cried, impatiently. "I can't understand why your slaves haven't long ago rebelled or run away."
       "Only because of my incorruptible apes," said Krishna, imperturbably. "Here, I will give you an example."
       He called to one of the slaves. The creature crawled over to him on hands and knees and looked up dully into the King's face. With a careless wave of a hand, Krishna quickly threw the slave into a trance. He got up slowly on his skinny legs and tottered to the door. Mechanically, he opened it and walked outside.
       "Come and watch this," said Krishna, "it's great sport. I have hypnotized him with the suggestion that he try to escape from the valley."
       With faces expressive of the dreadful premonition in their minds, Helene and Robert went to the door and looked out. After a minute, Ki-Gor joined them.
       Outside, the gorilla-men were massing in the square, waiting for the door to open to admit them to the supply of the drug they craved. The wretched slave was picking his way through the crowd. They looked at him uncuriously and seemed to pay little attention. But when he emerged from the crowd on the other side and walked slowly out on the green pasture, two hulking man-apes were following him.
       Farther and farther, the doomed creature went across the lovely green valley floor. And behind him, inevitably, stalked his sinister escort. When the slave was about a quarter of a mile away, he suddenly broke into a staggering run. And as Helene gasped, the man-apes started after him. The first one overtook him in ten steps, seized him by the arm, and flung him high in the air. As the poor creature landed, both gorilla-men pounced on him. Helene closed her eyes to the rest of the spectacle.
       "Ah! that is excellent sport!" Krishna exclaimed, eyes gleaming. "Now, you see, perhaps, why nobody tries to leave the Valley. And why, you three will never leave the valley."
       "We will leave the Valley, Krishna," said Ki-Gor, quietly, "and when we do, you will be killed by your own gorillas -- torn to pieces like the slave out there."
       "Your optimism is delightful, Ki-Gor," replied Krishna. "You forget that the gorilla-men regard me, and me alone, as the source of the drug that they crave. Step outside the door with me, and I will demonstrate the truth of that statement, too,"
       The throngs of ape-men crowded eagerly around Krishna as he strolled over to the large door. Avidly their little eyes watched him insert the big key, and when he swung the door open, there was a concerted dash for the corridor. Krishna stepped back with a smile as the gorilla-men jammed themselves into the doorway.
       "How do they get out?" Ki-Gor asked.
       "They go out the other end of the building," Krishna replied. "The door at that end swings outward under the pressure of their weight and springs back into position afterward. There is no handle on the outside of it, and it cannot swing inwards. So they have learned always to go through the building this way.
       Ki-Gor grunted, then was lost in thought for a moment. Abruptly he asked another question.
       "How soon do they go to sleep, after they eat the drug?"
       "Almost immediately," was the answer. "They walk out of the door at the other end, find some spot of ground they like, and lie down and sleep for about four hours."
       Again Ki-Gor grunted and bent his head in thought.
       "If you are planning," said Krishna, with a sardonic smile, "to strike at me while the gorilla-men are asleep, you may abandon the idea. There are always latecomers to the feast -- gorilla-men, who come down from their posts on the mountainsides. I shall lock this door before they get here. So that while most of the anthropoids will be in a stupor, there will still be plenty around here in full possession of their faculties -- more than enough to protect me."
       Ki-Gor appeared not to have heard the warning. He drew Robert aside and talked to him in low tones. Krishna gave the pair a narrow look, and then shook his head with a pitying smile.
       "Fools!" he said, contemptuously, to Helene. "It is doubly stupid to contemplate escape. For not only is it impossible, but it should be highly undesirable. Life here is extremely pleasant, and also very interesting. I have, by no means, confined my scientific activities to the creation of gorilla-men. Besides this laboratory, I have three others, and in all of them, I am conducting fascinating experiments. At the moment, I am especially absorbed in a study of the endocrines -- the ductless glands. As a matter of fact, I have wished for a new subject of experimentation for a long time. One like yourself, a lovely white woman. With what I already know, I could change you in two weeks' time, from a fair lithe Nordic, to an obese, swarthy Latin type. I could make your hair fall out. I could grow a beard on your smooth face. And, I assure you the operations would be completely painless to yourself. The only thing I am not quite sure of yet, is whether, after making these changes in you, I could change you back to your original self. That is what we will find out."
       Helene shrank back against the wall of the laboratory, eyes dilated with horror, and unable to say a word in reply to the grotesque suggestions she had been forced to hear. Krishna calmly turned his attention the gorilla-men.
--------
         CHAPTER V
         *CHOICE OF DEATHS*
       The crowd of them around the doorway was rapidly growing smaller, as more and more of them filed through the corridor of the building. Off to either side, other gorilla-men could be seen wandering aimlessly around, on their faces, fatuous expressions of sleepy ecstasy. One by one, these dropped to the ground, curled up and went to sleep. Krishna moved toward the door cautiously. There was only a handful of the man-apes left, now, clamoring to get into the dispensary. Krishna waited, his hand on the door, until there was room enough for this rear-guard to get inside. His eyes swept the green fields, and a crafty smile came over his dark face, as two little knots of late-coming gorilla-men could be seen running in from the mountain slopes. As the last man-ape in the square crowded into the dispensary, Krishna slammed the door, hid the key in the folds of his robe, and walked toward Ki-Gor and Robert, smiling.
       But the smile died on his face, as Ki-Gor swung around and started for him. He looked around wildly, but the late-arriving gorilla-men were still a hundred yards away out in the field. His hand fumbled for the cord at his throat on which the whistle hung. He ran two steps, blowing a shrill blast, as Ki-Gor hit him.
       Frantically, Krishna tried to fight off the jungle man, but he was over-matched. Ki-Gor slung the screaming King over his shoulder and ran back to the doorway of the laboratory. One or two of the drugged man-apes tried to sit up, then fell back in drowsy disgust.
       Helene was holding the laboratory door open and Robert was standing beside her, rifle held ready. Ki-Gor flashed through inside with his struggling burden, and Helene and Robert ducked in after him. Robert slammed the door shut and bolted it just as the fresh gorilla-men thundered into the square.
       The gaunt slaves shrank back against the wall of the laboratory as Ki-Gor flung Krishna crashing to the floor. Outside a dozen gorilla-men hammered against the door.
       "Fools!" Krishna screamed, struggling up from the floor. "You have signed your death warrant by this action! The minute I open that door, my warriors will come in and tear you to pieces!"
       "But you will not open the door," said Ki-Gor.
       "Somebody will have to open it, some time or other," Krishna shouted, "or do you intend to stay in here until you starve to death?"
       "No," said Ki-Gor, with lowered brows. "We will not stay here long. We will go away and you, Krishna, will go with us!"
       "You are mad! Absolutely mad!" Krishna yelled.
       "Watch him," Ki-Gor directed Robert, and walked over to one of the slaves who was holding a sack full of the drug tablets in his hand. The jungle man took the sack from the unresisting hand of the slave, went to one of the barred windows, and began throwing handfuls of the tablets out between the bars.
       It took the gorilla-men outside the door a very few minutes to discover that the coveted tables were being dispensed in an unusual way. With glad cries they pounced on the little white cubes and stuffed them into their huge mouths.
       Krishna turned gray, as the full consequences of the stratagem were borne in on him. He staggered back, then flung himself at Robert. The big Negro swung his left hand at Krishna's chin, and the King of the gorilla-men fell inert to the floor. He did not move.
       Outside the barred windows, the gorilla-men finished up the drug tablets, and stood around, gaping expectantly. Ki-Gor obligingly threw another sackful out, and a few minutes later, not one of the man-apes in the square was left on his feet.
       Swiftly Ki-Gor set to work, knotting several of the sacks containing the drug together on a piece of rope. As he was finishing this task, Krishna groaned and opened his eyes.
       "Stand up," Ki-Gor commanded, "we are going now. We are leaving the Valley and you are going with us."
       Krishna fell to his knees.
       "Ki-Gor," he pleaded, "it is sure death. You are bound to run into more gorilla-men along the trail. They will kill you even if I am with you. Not even my commands could save you if they catch you leaving the Valley."
       "We are wasting time talking," said .Ki-Gor, sternly, "get up and walk out of the door or Robert will shoot you through the head.
       Whimpering, Krishna picked himself up under the watchful eye of Robert and walked slowly to the door.
       Ki-Gor slung the sacks over his shoulder and paused to address the forlorn slaves in Swahili.
       "O miserable ones," he said." You are free. Go and collect your fellows, and join us. We will take you out of this accursed Valley, and once more you may see your homes again."
       There was a heavy silence. The slaves looked stupidly at one another, and looked back at Ki-Gor. Finally one of them spoke.
       "A thousand thanks, O Madman," he said, haltingly, "but this is our home, now. We know no other place. If we went away, how would we find a supply of the drug which we must have now, or die? Go, Madman, hasten, and may luck attend you -- "
       Ki-Gor stared at them incredulously, and spun on his heel.
       "So be it," he said. "A thousand pities that we cannot spare the time to stay and persuade you out of this mode of life, which is but a living death. But we must go. Farewell, O miserable ones."
       Robert snapped the bolt back on the door, swung it open, and pushed Krishna out ahead of him. Then Helene and Ki-Gor followed and the journey out of the Land of the Living Dead was begun.
       They threaded their way among the recumbent bodies of the snoring gorilla-men, and struck out across the great pasture. They headed straight for the edge of the forest, and when they reached it, skirted it until they picked up the broad trail which led up the mountain.
       As they turned on to the trail, Krishna once more rebelled.
       "This is madness!" he cried. "I tell you if we meet any gorilla-men, and we will, I can't save you. They will not obey me!"
       "If we meet any gorilla-men," Ki-Gor retorted, "and they do not obey you, Robert will shoot at them with the rifle. But he will shoot you first."
       Krishna gave the jungle man a long look. Then a crafty gleam came into his eyes. He raised his hands, palm upward in resignation, and said, "Very well. I have warned you." And the strange quartet began the ascent from the Valley.
       It was a long, nerve-wracking climb. At any moment a great hairy monster might rise up in the path and challenge the way. Ki-Gor's normal alertness was doubled, his keen eyes searching the surrounding forest ceaselessly. And Robert held the rifle ever ready.
       But hours and miles went by without incident. The trees grew less tall, and the air grew cooler. Now and then the travelers could look up through openings in the foliage and see above them their destination -- the rocky ridge, partly obscured by its perpetual mists.
       It was late afternoon, and the travelers were climbing into the region of weird vegetation, when they first ran into danger. Some sixth sense prompted Ki-Gor, who was in the lead, to look backwards as he rounded a bend in the trail. A huge gorilla-man was shuffling rapidly up the path behind Robert who was bringing up the rear. There was hardly time to warn the big Negro, and give him an opportunity to swing around with the gun.
       Automatically, Ki-Gor ripped one of the drug-sacks loose from the rope on his shoulder. He shouted at Robert to duck, and then flung the sack full in the face of the charging man-ape. As the sack hit, it burst and spilled its contents all over the path. The gorilla-man staggered momentarily, and uttered a smothered roar. It started forward again, but suddenly caught sight of the familiar little white cubes, and halted. A hairy arm reached down and scooped up a handful of the drug tablets. As the man-ape crushed them into his mouth a foolish expression of ecstasy came over his savage face. And as the travelers watched, the gorilla-man completely harmless, sat down on the spot and proceeded to eat all the tablets he could find. In a very few minutes the hairy brute fell over backwards in a stupor, and the travelers resumed their journey.
       "You wasted a valuable quantity of the drug," Krishna commented. "Six of those tablets are enough to subdue one of the man-apes, and you threw a whole sackful at him. If we meet more of them in any large numbers, you will only have five sacks left to deal with them."
       Although Ki-Gor wouldn't admit it, he was worried about that very thing. But there was nothing to be done about it. It was the only way he could have saved Robert's life. And aside from the fact that Robert was a powerful friend and ally, Ki-Gor had come to regard the burly Negro with a strong affection. Ki-Gor hoped fervently that they would meet no more gorilla-men.
       In a short while they climbed in to the mists, and Ki-Gor called a halt as they arrived at what appeared to be a fork in the trail. He did not remember seeing the fork on the way down, although, he reflected that it had been so dark that he could easily have missed it.
       "Which way?" he asked Krishna.
       "The way to the right is the way you came in.," was the answer. "Just above here it gets very narrow for a short distance as it crosses the face of a cliff. After that it goes on up to the Western Gateway, the cleft in the rock."
       "And the way to the left?" said Ki-Gor.
       "It is a perilous trail which the gorilla-men don't bother to guard, for the reason that it leads you to the crater of an active volcano. Once you traverse that crater, you are safe, but your chances are a hundred to one against crossing it alive."
       "Volcano, huh?" said Robert, coming up. "So that's what all that spooky rumblin' was, and earthquakin', and fire shootin' up out of the top of the mountain. Hoo-wee! An' we thought it was ha'nts! But still that don't explain the singin'."
       "Singing?" said Krishna.
       "Yeh, they was a whole mess of banshees all wailin' together."
       "Oh, yes," said Krishna, "of course. I once had a set of Aeolian harps set up in a particularly windy spot. I thought that the peculiar quality of the instruments might set up superstitious dread in the minds of unwelcome visitors."
       "Come, we must go," said Ki-Gor, "and we will take the right fork. The smoking mountain is more dangerous than gorilla-men. We cannot give white tablets to a mountain."
       A few paces farther on, the trail narrowed, and Ki-Gor hesitated before embarking on the passage across the face of the cliff. The wind in their faces swirled the mist around the rocks terrifyingly.
       All of a sudden, through some freak of wind currents, the mist lifted. The travelers could see four or five hundred yards ahead, past the cliff, above which the trail broadened again as it climbed toward the crest of the ridge and safety.
       And there, less than four hundred yards away, a company of at least forty gorilla-men was standing.
       As yet they were unaware of the presence of the travelers, but Ki-Gor shivered a little as he thought of trying to pacify that many of the brutes with the limited supply of the drug that remained. But it had to be done, somehow. The idea of crossing the crater of the volcano was unthinkable.
       As if he had read his mind, Krishna came up and stood beside the jungle man.
       "Unless you give them the tablets by hand, six at a time," Krishna said, "you will not have enough to go around. And if you get close enough to give them the tablets by hand, they will kill you."
       "Then what are we going to do?" said Ki-Gor.
       "There is only one thing to do," said the King of the Gorilla-men. "Give me the drug and I will walk on ahead and feed it to them by hand. I, alone, have the authority to go among them unmolested."
       "I do not trust you Krishna," said Ki-Gor, "you are an evil man."
       "Very well, then. Die," said Krishna with a shrug. "As soon as they see you, they will come down here and kill you. And I could not stop them."
       "Mm," Ki-Gor bit his lip. "All right. Take the drug and give it to every gorilla-man. Robert will be watching you with the gun, and he will kill you if you do not do as you promise."
       "Give me the sacks," said Krishna, and bent his head to hide the light of triumph in his eyes.
       The mist stayed lifted as Krishna, King of the Gorilla-men, set forth on the narrow path across the face of the cliff. Over his shoulders he carried the sacks containing the drug tablets. Silently, Ki-Gor, Helene and Robert watched him gain the other side of the cliff and hesitate. A tall boulder stood beside the trail where it began to broaden again.
       With a quick movement, Krishna slipped the sacks off his shoulders. And before the watchers down the trail realized what was happening, be tossed the sacks over the edge of the cliffs, and dodged behind the boulder. Ki-Gor shouted, and Robert fired, but not in time. The bullet ricocheted off the protecting boulder, and a second later, three shrill blasts of a whistle were heard.
       "He's betrayed us" Helene screamed. "He's commanding the gorilla-men to come down and kill us!"
       "We'll have to run!" Robert shouted. "I haven't got enough ammunition left to hold em, off. Well have to go across the crater of the volcano!"
       "But there's only one chance in a hundred of our making it alive!" Helen cried.
       "Well, we ain't got even one chance, if we stay yere," Robert replied.
       The gorilla-men were swarming down the trail, moving incredibly fast. The whistle kept summoning them from behind the boulder.
       "You run back to the fork," Robert shouted, "and I'll try, an' hold 'em, back long enough fo' you-all to git up to the crater."
       "No!" said Ki-Gor. "We three are friends. We stay together."
       The gorilla-men had reached the boulder, and Robert drew a bead on the monster in the lead. But before he could fire, there was a shrill scream of terror. It was the agonized voice of Krishna, the King of the Gorillas. He had transgressed his own Law, and his subjects were visiting the familiar punishment on him. Two great simians appeared around the boulder. Each had one of Krishna's arms as he struggled between them, pealing shriek after shriek. Then each gorilla pulled...
       Even Ki-Gor's hardened nerves quivered, as the mist descended, drawing a veil over the scene.
       "Come!" said Ki-Gor, in a hoarse whisper, "they may not have seen us. Let us run for the volcano crater, while there is time!"
       The three turned and fled down the path. Ki-Gor hesitated a fraction of a second when they reached the fork, then plunged up the volcano trail.
       It was rough going, and steep, and after a while, Helene stumbled and gasped. Ki-Gor picked her up like a baby, and the flight was resumed. Soon the mist lifted and they found themselves hurrying over black laval rock. The ground underneath their feet trembled constantly. Eventually, even Ki-Gor's tremendous endurance sagged, and they paused to get their breath.
       Robert clutched Ki-Gor's arm and pointed. Not far down the bleak mountainside, the gorilla-men were patiently climbing after them.
       The big Negro lifted his rifle and sighted down the barrel. But his first shot had no effect. The difficult downhill angle had resulted in the bullet going over the head of the target. Robert lowered his sights, and a moment later the gorilla-man in the lead toppled over.
       Still panting from the exertion of the uphill flight, the three fugitives wearily continued their climb over the rough lava. They were about a half-mile from the top, the rim of the crater. The pursuing gorilla-men were less than a quarter of a mile behind them. How long, thought Helene with a sob, could she and her protectors stay ahead of the relentless man-apes?
       Up and up they struggled. Robert paused every now and then to pick off a gorilla-man. But the rest came on resolutely, and slowly the gap between pursuers and pursued narrowed. Robert had killed nine, but several of his bullets had missed, and his precious supply of ammunition was running dangerously low. There were still twenty-six of the monsters left -- many more than there were bullets left in Robert's pouch.
       "If we -- c'n jes' make it -- to the top!" the big Negro panted. "Maybe we c'n hold 'em off fer a little while."
       They were a hundred yards from the top now, but the gorilla-men were getting closer and closer. Ki-Gor lifted Helene up in his arms, and, calling on his last reserves of strength, sprinted desperately up the steep incline. This can't be true, Helene thought dully -- this is a nightmare. If the gorilla-men don't get us, what will we do when we get to the crater?
       Four gigantic man-apes, slavering with rage were only ten yards behind. Robert whirled and fired point-blank. A scream of pain died out in a gurgle, and Robert fired again. A second gorilla-man fell. Despairingly, Robert pulled the trigger again. It was his last bullet. It reached its mark, but the last gorilla-man closed in on the Negro. Robert eluded a swinging blow of the giant arm and pumped his aching legs uphill. Above him, Ki-Gor was just gaining the crater's edge. The jungle man shouted down a warning. Robert threw an agonized look over his shoulder. The gorilla-man was almost upon him.
       Gripping the rifle far down on the barrel, the Negro whirled and swung the gun like a baseball bat. The butt crashed into the gorilla-man's black face, and the monster reeled back. Lungs fighting for air, Robert staggered toward the top, still gripping the shattered rifle. He looked once more over his shoulder and groaned. He knew now that he was never going to make it.
       One more brute had come up and was reaching an immense arm out toward him. Robert struck at it feebly with the rifle barrel, but the monster bared its fangs in a horrible grin. Robert wanted to close his eyes to death, but he couldn't.
       Suddenly Ki-Gor was beside him, hacking and stabbing with the assegai. Blood spouted from the gorilla-man's neck, as the jungle man struck with, the strength of a demon. The monster roared and lurched back. Then slowly and heavily it toppled over.
       Ten seconds before the rest of the gorilla-men could reach them Ki-Gor and Robert struggled over the rim of the crater. With Helene, they poised on the edge of a sharp declivity for a moment. Then with hardly a glance before them, ran, slipped, and slid down into the crater of the volcano.
       But that glance had been enough to show them that the volcano was momentarily inactive. When they reached the bottom of the slope, Ki-Gor looked back. Twenty gorilla-men stood in a row on the rim above them. But not one of them made a move to follow.
       "They are afraid!" Ki-Gor shouted exultantly. "They are afraid to come down here after us!"
       The three fugitives stood for a moment, dazed. It didn't seem possible that they were, for the moment, safe. Around them stretched the black desolation of the crater floor. Here and there thin columns of smoke spiraled up from black cones -- new little volcano craters within the crater. The ground vibrated uneasily under them. But they were safe from the gorillas!
       "I can't believe it," Helene said, tremulously, "but we had better hurry across this place before the volcano starts to act up."
       "I don' know," said Robert, "if you dead, you dead. Don't matter if a gorilla-man kill you, or a volcayno. Hey, and this yere ground is sho' hot, too."
       Already, Ki-Gor was dancing on the hot dried lava.
       "Over there," he pointed to a break in the rim, half a mile across the crater. "We go there and get out through that opening. Let us hurry."
       "Wait a minute," said Robert, and ripped off the once-white shirt he was wearing. Quickly, he tore it into strips. Then he bent down and wrapped Ki-Gor's bare feet in the strips. He, himself, was wearing shoes as was Helene, and he knew that Ki-Gor could not long stand the heat of the crater-floor without some kind of foot covering.
       With that operation over, the fugitives set forth. Behind them on the rim, the gorilla-men were still standing. Robert made a last derisive gesture and turned to follow Helene and Ki-Gor.
       The ground continued to mutter, and the columns of smoke still stood up from the little cones scattered about the crater. But that was the limit of the volcano's activity. It was as if the mountain had a personality, and was deliberately holding its fires until the weary travelers could safely traverse the crater. Now and then, they had to dodge jets of steam and boiling water that spouted up from cracks in the lava. But by hastening their steps, they made it across the shaking crater floor in a short time, and climbed safely up through the wedge-shaped opening in the opposite side of the rim. Far back on the other side, the gorilla-men were still standing in a baffled row.
       Safe at last!
       They were standing on the eastern slope of the volcanic peak, looking eastward at a magnificent panorama of endless ranges of mountains. Behind them the sun was setting in red glory. Suddenly the volcano gave a menacing rumble. A dozen of the little cones in the crater burst into action, shooting flames and black mud high into the air. The trio looked at each other. A few short minutes before, they were walking through the very spots where, now, molten lava and flaming death we're raining down. Ki-Gor stood up.
--------
         *EPILOGUE*
       An hour later, the travelers were a safe distance down the mountainside, looking for trees big enough to spend the night in. And the next morning, greatly refreshed after a long night of undisturbed sleep, they breakfasted on fruit, and headed eastward down the mountain.
       Late in the afternoon, they stepped out of the forest onto the sandy shore of a vast blue lake.
       "Oh! how beautiful!" Helene gasped. "I wonder where we are!"
       But Ki-Gor was gripping her shoulder and pointing up the shore.
       "What is that?" he exclaimed.
       "I be dam' if that ain' a young battleship!" Robert cried. "Hey, let's hail 'em."
       Coming toward them, quite close in to shore, a long white-hulled boat was gliding. Smoke poured from its single tall funnel.
       Robert ran up the beach, shouting and waving his arms. As the boat came abreast of him, several startled figures appeared on the single deck. The water churned under the stern of the little vessel and it slowed down. The deck swarmed with men in white, and a small boat was lowered away. Ki-Gor watched fascinated as the gig, propelled by four oarsmen, moved rapidly toward shore, and slid up on the beach.
       A tall, blue-eyed young man in a white uniform stepped out of the stern holding an automatic in his hand. An expression of bewilderment came over his face as he beheld the white girl in tattered white robe, the tall bronzed man in leopard-skin loincloth, and the huge Negro.
       "Lord in Heaven!" said the stranger in English. "Who the deuce are you, and where have you come from?"
       Helene felt tears of relief coming into her eyes, and her voice was unsteady as she replied, "We have come a long way. My name is Helene Vaughn and this -- "
       "Helene Vaughn!" the young man shouted. "The lost American aviatrix! Oh, I say, dash it all -- this is extrawdnry! You've been more or less given up for dead, you know. Oh, I say, this is a bit luck! I'm Sub-Leftenant Tiverton of His Majesty's Sloop 'Rhododendron,' on duty here on Lake Victoria. You must come aboard immediately and we'll make arrangements to get you out to the Coast."
       "Thank you," said Helene with a misty smile, "and will you take my companions aboard, too? This is Ki-Gor. And this is Robert."
       "Ki-Gor? Robert?" said the young officer, passing a hand over his bewildered eyes, and staring first at one and then the other.
       "Yassuh, Cap'n" said the Negro. "Robert Spelvin of Cincinnati, U.S.A. An' I sho' could pile into some civilized vittles right now."
       "Extrawdnry!" Sub-Leftenant Tiverton muttered. "Extrawdnry!"
       Ki-Gor moved forward and touched the dazed young man on the shoulder.
       "Are you N-Glush?" he said, shyly.
       "N-Glush?" replied the young man, stupidly. "Oh, English! Oh, yes! Rather. You know, I'm awf'ly sorry, old man, but I don't think I quite caught your name."
       Ki-Gor stepped back without answering. A smile lighted up his bronzed face. He liked the looks of this blue-eyed young man. And yet even then he knew he would never go back to his people. His home was the jungle, and there he would stay.
         *THE END*
--------
       Reprinted from Jungle Stories Winter 1941
--------
         *SCIENCE FICTION, FANTASY, HORROR IN PAGETURNER EDITIONS*
         AWARD WINNING & NOMINEE STORIES AND AUTHORS
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         The Toymaker & Other SF Stories-Raymond F. Jones
         The Alien-Raymond F. Jones
         This Island Earth-Raymond F. Jones (Hugo nominee author)
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         Rat Race &Other SF Novelettes and Short Novels-Raymond F. Jones (Hugo nominee author)
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         A Martian Odyssey-Stanley G. Weinbaum (SFWA Hall of Fame)
         Dawn of Flame-Stanley G. Weinbaum (SFWA Hall of Fame)
         Scout-Octavio Ramos, Jr. (Best Original Fiction)
         Smoke Signals-Octavio Ramos, Jr. (Best Original Fiction winning author)
         The City at World's End-Edmond Hamilton
         The Star Kings-Edmond Hamilton (Sense of Wonder Award winning author)
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         STEFAN VUCAK'S EPPIE NOMINEE SPACE OPERA "THE SHADOW GODS SAGA"
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         A Whisper from Shadow, Sequel (2002 EPPIE Award finalist)
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         THE AGENT OF TERRA
         #1 The Flying Saucer Gambit
         #2 The Emerald Elephant Gambit
         #3 The Golden Goddess Gambit
         #4 The Time Trap Gambit
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         #1. Featuring Gun Moll, the 1920s Undercover Nemesis of Crime in "Tentacles of Evil," an all-new, complete book-length novel; plus a Nick Bancroft mystery by Bob Liter, "The Greensox Murders" by Jean Marie Stine, and a classic mystery short reprinted from the heyday of the pulps.
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         Ralph 124c41+ Hugo Gernsback
         The Cosmic Wheel-J. D. Crayne
         The Forbidden Garden-John Taine
         The City at World's End-Edmond Hamilton
         The Ghost Pirates-W. H. Hodgson
         The Girl in the Golden Atom -- Ray Cummings
         The House on the Borderland-William Hope Hodgson
         The Insidious Fu Manchu-Sax Rohmer
         The Interplanetary Huntress-Arthur K. Barnes
         The Interplanetary Huntress Returns-Arthur K. Barnes
         The Interplanetary Huntress Last Case-Arthur K. Barnes
         The Lightning Witch, or The Metal Monster-A. Merritt
         The Thief of Bagdad-Achmed Abdullah
         Women of the Wood and Other Stories-A. Merritt
         BARGAIN SF/F EBOOKS IN OMNIBUS EDITIONS
         (Complete & Unabridged)
         The First Lord Dunsany Omnibus: 5 Complete Books -- Lord Dunsany
         The First William Morris Omnibus: 4 Complete Classic Fantasy Books
         The Barsoom Omnibus: A Princess of Mars; The Gods of Mars; The Warlord of Mars-Burroughs
         The Second Barsoom Omnibus: Thuvia, Maid of Mars; The Chessmen of Mars-Burroughs
         The Third Barsoom Omnibus: The Mastermind of Mars; A Fighting Man of Mars-Burroughs
         The First Tarzan Omnibus: Tarzan of the Apes; The Return of Tarzan; Jungle Tales of Tarzan-Burroughs
         The Second Tarzan Omnibus: The Beasts of Tarzan; The Son of Tarzan; Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar-Burroughs
         The Third Tarzan Omnibus: Tarzan the Untamed; Tarzan the Terrible; Tarzan and the Golden Lion-Burroughs
         The Pellucidar Omnibus: At the Earth's Core; Pellucidar-Burroughs
         The Caspak Omnibus: The Land that Time Forgot; The People that Time Forgot; Out of Time's Abyss-Burroughs
         The First H. G. Wells Omnibus: The Invisible Man: War of the Worlds; The Island of Dr. Moreau
         The Second H. G. Wells Omnibus: The Time Machine; The First Men in the Moon; When the Sleeper Wakes
         The Third H. G. Wells Omnibus: The Food of the Gods; Shape of Things to Come; In the Days of the Comet
         The First Jules Verne Omnibus: Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea; The Mysterious Island; From the Earth to the Moon
         The Homer Eon Flint: All 4 of the Clasic "Dr. Kenney" Novels: The Lord of Death; The Queen of Life; The Devolutionist; The Emancipatrix
         The Second Jules Verne Omnibus: Around the World in 80 Days; A Journey to the Center of the Earth; Off on a Comet
         Three Great Horror Novels: Dracula; Frankenstein; Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
         The Darkness and Dawn Omnibus: The Classic Science Fiction Trilogy-George Allan England
         The Garrett P. Serviss Omnibus: The Second Deluge; The Moon Metal; A Columbus of Space
         ADDITIONAL TITLES IN PREPARATION
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