Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 080 - The Stone Man

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THE STONE MAN

A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson

http://www.blackmask.com

? Chapter I. BAD MAN FLEEING

? Chapter II. STONE MAN BURNING

? Chapter III. THE ADMIRABLE MR. LOCATELLA

? Chapter IV. HANDS OUT OF DARKNESS

? Chapter V. THE MYSTERIOUS COLORADOS

? Chapter VI. BLACKJACK FIGHT

? Chapter VII. DANGEROUS KNOWLEDGE

? Chapter VIII. RADIO CLUE

? Chapter IX. TRAILS WEST

? Chapter X. CAPTURE

? Chapter XI. STRANGE CANYON

? Chapter XII. THE KEY

? Chapter XIII. THROUGH THE MISTS

? Chapter XIV. MIST MEN

? Chapter XV. THE HERMIT INDIANS

? Chapter XVI. THE POOR PROPOSITION

? Chapter XVII. THE STRANGE CAVERN

? Chapter XVIII. TO HERMIT OR NOT TO HERMIT

Scanned and Proofed

by Tom Stephens

Chapter I. BAD MAN FLEEING

SPAD AMES was a man who was an authority on certain subjects, and concerning the matters on which

he was posted, he knew just about everything that was to be known, which was undoubtedly fortunate,

because otherwise they would have hanged Mr. Spad Ames a long time ago.

His specialty was avoiding the law.

His specialty certainly was not stone men. Not only was he not posted on stone men; he would not have

believed such stuff. Spad was a realist.

He would have looked at you with those cold lobster eyes of his and said, doubtless:

"Stone men—ah, get t’hell away from me! That’s crazy talk."

The phenomena—the word phenomena was a mild description of it too—came to Spad Ames’

attention in a round-about way, and when he was not expecting anything like men of stone. As for the

additional developments, which were hair-raising enough to make the stone-man business seem

believable by comparison, Spad wasn’t expecting those, either.

In keeping with his habit of knowing much about certain subjects, Spad Ames had calculated that the

United States Border Patrol plane for that part of the Arizona-Mexico border would be safely grounded

in El Paso on Friday. This was not entirely guesswork on Spad Ames’ part; he had taken a precaution of

pouring acid into the gasoline tank of the Border Patrol plane, so that engine valves and pistons would be

eaten into a useless state.

But the Border Patrol dealt unkindly with Spad Ames, and double-crossed him by transferring another

plane, a new and fast craft equipped with two machine guns, to that portion of the Mexican Border

Patrol.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon when this new type Patrol craft sighted Spad Ames’ plane.

"The dirty blankety-blank sons of black-eyed toads," was the mildest thing that Spad Ames said during

the next few minutes.

Waldo Berlitz was less voluble, not being a fellow who talked a great deal. Waldo was a thick man and a

wide one, and extraordinarily handsome, except that one of his ears was missing. A Mexican gentleman

had removed the ear with a sharp knife a year or two ago, during the natural trend of a discussion about

the Mexican’s missus. A man less of a gentleman than the Mexican would have inserted the blade

between Waldo’s third and fourth ribs.

Waldo Berlitz was the other half of the smuggling combination of Spad Ames and Waldo Berlitz.

"How fast will this thing fly?" was all Waldo had to say.

Not fast enough, it developed. The Border Patrol craft was a late job, and it began overhauling them.

"There is a cloud over west," Waldo said, pointing. "We better get in it and unload."

Spad Ames nodded grimly. He was scared.

PART of their cargo—two cases of narcotics—would not have been such a problem. The narcotics

were in powder form, and they would have spilled the incriminating stuff overboard, thus ridding

themselves of the evidence.

The refugee—the, other part of their cargo—was a different proposition. They needed a cloud to get rid

of him. The refugee was a poor fellow from Austria who hadn’t been able to obtain a visa to enter the

United States, so he had paid Spad Ames a thousand dollars to be smuggled in. The refugee crouched in

the cabin, pale and somewhat airsick.

The cloud was not large. White and fleecy, it hung all alone in the hot vastness of the Arizona sky. It was

somewhat like a lost sheep.

Spad Ames dived his ship into the cloud.

"Work fast," he yelled at Waldo.

Waldo said to the refugee: "Get down on the cabin floor." As the refugee obeyed, Waldo struck him with

a monkey wrench, hitting several times so that some of the contents of the upper part of the refugee’s

head stuck to the wrench.

With great speed, Waldo then rolled the refugee’s body through a trapdoor in the floor of the plane. The

trapdoor had been put there for the specific purpose of jettisoning cargo according to the old Number

One rule of smuggling—first get rid of the evidence. Waldo also hurled the wrench overboard.

There was good reason for Waldo’s speed. They needed to get the job done while their plane and the

pursuing ship were hidden in the cloud.

The cloud was even smaller than it had seemed, and with sickening unexpectedness, the two planes

popped out of the other side.

The pursuing Border Patrol got an excellent view of the body falling from Spad Ames’ craft.

An officer even leaned from a window of the Border Patrol ship and took pictures of the scene with a

miniature camera. The photograph would show the falling body, and the identification numbers of Spad

Ames’ ship.

Spad Ames opened and shut his mouth. For suddenly he was sick with terror. Trapped, not for

smuggling, but for murder!

Waldo came back and sat down and asked: "Do they use a gas chamber, the electric chair or the rope in

Arizona? I’ve forgotten."

If Waldo was trying to be funny, it was a raw time for a gag, Spad thought.

Spad Ames was a long man who slouched when he walked and frequently glanced back. He had a

weather-beaten red face, an unusually high forehead—sign of receding hair, not brains, although he had

brains, too—and in addition to the cold lobster eyes, he had a mouth so lipless that, when seen from a

distance of a few yards, he appeared to have no mouth. Spad was a bad actor himself, but sometimes he

was afraid of Waldo Berlitz, who gave the impression of never seeming to think the way a normal man

should. Nothing Waldo planned to do ever seemed to worry him, and he never appeared concerned

after he did it.

Spad Ames banked around and sent their plane back into the clouds. The Border Patrol ship fired on

them, its machine guns thrusting out long whiskerlike processions of tracer bullets which came disturbingly

close.

A cloud game of hide-and-seek then lasted about half an hour.

Spad Ames would have liked to flee toward Mexico; he got no chance. And finally when a faint bank of

clouds appeared, far to the north, he made for that refuge in desperation. Luck, which distributes favors

evenly to saint and devil, gave them a long start on the Border Patrol plane; their pursuer wandered

around in the cloud for some time after they left before sighting them and taking chase.

Spad Ames peered backward, then batted his throttle open to the last notch.

"How many horsepower is this motor?" Waldo asked.

"Six hundred and sixty horses," said Spad. His face was the color of a concrete road.

"Come on, horses!" said Waldo.

The clouds got closer, and so did the Patrol ship. The latter climbed slowly, then suddenly dived, and its

machine guns shook their iron rumps and cackled.

The storm of lead caused some of the instrument panel to jump out in Spad’s lap. But the plane kept

flying. It got into the clouds.

These clouds were thin, and the Border Patrol ship managed to follow them for all of three hours, part of

which time they flew back and forth and up and down, and the rest of the time flying straight ahead at full

speed.

Finally, they lost the Border Patrol plane.

"Where are we now?" Waldo asked.

"How would I know?" Spad Ames snarled. "The compass was shot to pieces."

SPAD AMES was in a bad temper in spite of their escape from the Border Patrol officers who had

photographed them committing a murder. For a few moments, he had been elated. Then he had noticed

that the needle of the fuel gauge was knocking against the pin on the empty side.

Waldo tried placidly to light a cigarette, but the bullet holes in their ship let in such a draft that he could

not make a match function.

"Oh, well," he said, and discarded the cigarette.

The engine faltered in its roaring. For a few seconds, it sounded like a motorcycle. Then it stopped.

"What goes on?" Waldo asked.

"Get the parachutes!" Spad Ames barked. "We’re out of gas."

The plane went whistling down out of the clouds in a long glide while Waldo ambled back to get the

parachutes. Waldo returned empty-handed.

"Full of holes," he reported.

"What?" screamed Spad.

"I said," explained Waldo, "that our parachutes were hit by a burst of machine-gun bullets from that

Border Patrol plane, and they’re full of holes. You can use one of them if you want to. I don’t think I

will."

Spad Ames’ mouth worked, but he was too sick with terror to get out words. He could only level an

arm, indicating the terrain below.

An aviator’s nightmare. At first glance, there did not appear to be a spot where a hawk could have

landed, much less a plane. Everything was straight up and down, and came to points. There did not, from

this height—the height was rapidly growing less—appear to be a shred of vegetation anywhere.

"We’re over the Grand Canyon badlands somewhere, it seems to me," Waldo said.

The colors of the earth were mostly yellow, pale orange and chocolate.

Spad Ames banked clear of the spiked tip of the first peak. He avoided other peaks. There seemed to

be miles of canyon space below him, although undoubtedly it was no more than two or three thousand

feet. There seemed to be fog down here, and compared to the fairly bright late afternoon sunlight on the

peaks, the gloom was that of night, or of an infinite cavern. At least, it was an unpleasant place—and a

strange place for fog.

It was horrible. The human body is so constituted that it does not actually sweat blood, which was

probably a good thing for Spad Ames. He would have perspired himself dry of the vital fluid.

"Spad—" Waldo said.

Spad Ames was surging up in the bucket seat and straining against the safety belt like a man being

electrocuted. He couldn’t say anything.

"—pick a soft spot," Waldo requested.

Waldo scrambled back in the cabin and scooped up cushions and the ruined parachute packs and

fashioned a crash pad in front of himself, a preparation which he had barely completed when the plane

began knocking itself to pieces on the rocks.

SPAD AMES had been knocked senseless a number of times during his hell-colored past, and on each

of these occasions his period of blankness had been made hideous by nightmares of being shoved into a

gas chamber of type used in some states to execute criminals. He had once witnessed such an execution,

and apparently it had given him a permanent case of the subconscious creeps.

Now, when Spad Ames regained his senses and realized that his mind had been a blank, and not haunted

by gas-chamber nightmares, his first frightened conclusion was that he had died. The fact that his eyes

were seeing only complete darkness heightened the possibility that he was now a disembodied soul.

"Hell and damnation!" he snarled.

Sound of his own robust profanity made the situation more real. He reached out, and found twisted metal

with his fingers. He seemed to be lying under a portion of the mangled plane.

There was sand underneath. He dug with his hands, made room to use his arms, then heaved. Metal

grunted, whined and shifted a little. He kept trying. Some time later, he managed to crawl out.

There were matches in his pockets, so he struck them and searched, but did not find any trace of Waldo

Berlitz. However, part of the plane was buried deep in the sand.

"Waldo must be mashed under there," Spad muttered. "Serves the dirty buzzard right."

Spad Ames had never liked Waldo Berlitz, and he’d held a suspicion that the feeling was mutual.

Spad wandered away for a few rods, trying to ascertain in exactly what surroundings the plane had

crashed. He could see stars overhead, but apparently there were great sheer walls everywhere else. The

air was dry, and rather hot. Nothing whatever seemed to grow in the vicinity; at least, Spad Ames did not

stumble over anything in the darkness that resembled a growing plant.

When he came back to the plane, he saw Waldo Berlitz at once. Waldo was sitting on a rock, examining

a black arrowhead by the light of a match.

There was something strange about Waldo’s manner.

Chapter II. STONE MAN BURNING

THE sand was soft—the plane had fallen in the bed of a canyon—and Spad Ames managed to approach

without making any particular sound until he could look at the arrowhead which Waldo was inspecting.

The arrowhead, about the length of Waldo’s longest finger, was thin and streamlined. It had striking

perfection of line. Its color was black, a peculiar polished kind of black.

Spad had intended to speak up and ask why the infernal blazes Waldo had gone off and left him, Spad,

pinned under the wrecked plane. But he held his words. Waldo, unaware that Spad stood behind him,

was showing a distinctly peculiar curiosity in the arrowhead.

The match went out, and Waldo struck another with almost frantic eagerness. Indian arrowheads were

plentiful through the West, and Spad had seen Waldo kick a number of them contemptuously with a boot

toe in the past. So Waldo’s absorption in this particular arrowhead seemed strange.

"It stopped the river," he muttered.

This remark did nothing to enlighten Spad Ames. He stood there, puzzled, watching Waldo turn the

arrowhead over and over in his hands and peer at it as if the thing were some kind of a puzzle.

"It stopped the river," Waldo repeated to himself.

Then he began to swear. Waldo was cursing his inability to understand why the arrowhead had stopped

a river, Spad Ames realized, and this did not contribute much toward clarifying the growing mystery.

Spad Ames decided to ask questions; he stepped around boldly into the match light. Waldo yelped in

astonishment and the nervous jerk of his fingers sent the match arching in the darkness.

"You’re kind of jumpy, ain’t you?" Spad suggested.

"I—uh—" Waldo said, swallowing.

It was the first time Spad had ever seen Waldo speechless.

"By the way," Spad continued, "what is that thing you were looking at? Arrowhead, isn’t it?"

"Oh—just a piece of rock," Waldo said, far too quickly.

"You generally do a better job than that of lying, Waldo."

"It was only a rock."

"Let’s see."

"I—dropped it somewhere."

Spad Ames was tempted to hand Waldo a couple of hard rights to the jaw, because the fellow was

obviously lying.

"Incidentally," growled Spad, "what was the idea of going off and leaving me fast under the wrecked

plane?"

"Did I do that?" Waldo asked queerly.

Strangeness in Waldo’s voice caused Spad to strike a match for himself. Waldo’s eyes were too wide

and there was a foolish expression on his face.

Spad Ames thereupon made a slight error, and concluded that Waldo had suffered a bump on the head

in the plane crash, and that this had addled his wits.

"Sit there and rest, Waldo," Spad advised. "I’ll see if I can find the seat cushion and make a fire out of it.

By that light, I’ll examine your head."

While Spad Ames was feeling around for the seat cushions, Waldo silently removed one of his shoes and

took off a sock. He filled the sock with sand. Then Waldo crept over and brought the sand-filled sock

down on Spad Ames’ head with a roundhouse swing.

THIS time, Spad Ames held no doubts about merely having been unconscious because he had his usual

nightmare of being thrust into a lethal gas chamber. On this occasion, in the beast-dream, they got him as

far as jamming his head in the chamber door, and he was fighting them wildly when he awakened with a

splitting headache. He lay for a minute, getting it all clear in his mind.

Spad got to his feet, but his legs shook and bent and let him collapse on the sand again. He ground his

teeth.

"I’ll kill him for that!" he snarled, dragging a revolver out of his clothing. "I’ll blow him apart!"

Once when the plane crashed he had been knocked out, and again by the sand-filled sock, and his head

did not feel so good, nor did his gangling body seem to want to co-operate with his pain-seared brain.

He struggled to get himself organized.

"I’ll blow him to pieces," he said grindingly.

Rage jacked him onto his feet, and he staggered a few yards through the darkness, then came to a stop,

snarling with futile wrath. He had no idea which way Waldo had gone, did not know where to search. He

stood there, pointing his gun this way and that, so inflamed with rage that he wanted to hear a sound, and

shoot at it.

When sound did come, he failed to shoot. Instead, he jumped a foot, and would have jumped higher, had

his strength permitted. Weakened as he was, he fell to his knees, where he remained, wincing while the

shrieking noise ripped again at his eardrums.

Spad Ames was experienced. Once he had held a man close to his chest with his left arm and with his

right hand had thrust a knife again and again into the victim’s back while the fellow screamed his life out in

Spad’s ear. These present sounds had somewhat the same rip to them.

Waldo’s voice. No doubt of that, because Waldo had a whanging tone that was as distinctive as a police

whistle.

Waldo screeched his lungs out for fully a minute, which was a long time to keep screaming steadily, then

silence fell.

Spad Ames crept toward the source of the shriek to investigate; he took his time, because he had no

desire to rescue Waldo, but rather wished to satisfy an intense curiosity as to what had led Waldo to emit

such a banshee squall. Spad listened, but heard nothing. Finally, he lighted matches, and discovered that

the sand was grooved and gouged as though a struggle had taken place. Spad, down on his knees, tried

to ascertain what had made the tracks, and found the arrowhead.

It was the same arrowhead, black, polished, exquisitely made, which Waldo Berlitz had been examining

with peculiar interest.

"I’ll be darned," Spad grunted.

The unexpected weight of the arrowhead caused him to emit the exclamation.

"Gold!" he chortled excitedly, and scratched the arrowhead with the sharp metal sight of his gun.

But it was not gold, as its weight had led him to hope. He couldn’t tell what it was. Heavy, though.

A few moments later, he found Waldo’s body, although he did not immediately touch it and get burned.

AT first, Spad was almost relieved to find Waldo’s body. Lurid explanations for the scream had been

galloping through his mind—possibly a bear had grabbed Waldo; maybe the bear was still around—so it

was a relief to find the body, apparently unmarked.

The smoke arising from the body was something that Spad Ames noticed at once, but he thought it was

merely a small breeze blowing dust.

Spad Ames summarized the whole situation aloud, as he saw it.

"The guy got bopped on the head when the plane fell," Spad muttered, "and was knocked nuts. Then he

had a screaming fit and fell over dead." He rubbed his jaw and grinned. He had an idea. "I’ll put Waldo’s

body in the plane wreckage," he chuckled, "and make it look like there never was more than one man in

the ship. I’ll fix myself an alibi somewhere, and get out of that murder the Border Patrol saw us pull."

While he was being happy over that, he got another good thought. Waldo usually carried a large roll of

money on his person.

Spad Ames, getting down on his knees to search Waldo for money, touched the body. Instantly, he

squawked and snatched his hands back. Then, because there was a terrible burning sensation in his

hands, he jabbed them repeatedly into the sand.

His next thought: something had bitten him. He found his matches—his fingers stung so that he could

hardly hold a match—and made light. There was no rattler or scorpion on or around the body. There

was just the smoke.

Smoke! Not dust swirled by the night wind, as he had thought at first, but something else. It was

like—well, smoke was the word that most closely described it.

Rage jumped through Spad Ames. He did not like things he could not understand. He held the burning

match in his left hand, seized his gun in his right and struck the body of Waldo Berlitz. It was purely a

gesture of rage. But the effects were horrifying.

Spad Ames shrieked, sprang up and ran wildly. He took no particular direction; he just wanted to get

away from there. He crashed into the canyon wall, bruising his face. But even that agony could not wipe

from his mind the impossible thing that had happened when he struck the body of Waldo Berlitz.

For the body—the clothing, too—had broken, as if turned to glass, or brittle stone.

SPAD AMES was a badly battered specimen. He found he could not readily rise. His fingers, where

they had touched Waldo Berlitz’s strange body, were still full of stinging sensation, and he kept wiping

them on the sand.

After a while, he was aware of the sound of water running.

The running water was weird, too. He had noticed no sound of a stream earlier, but now there was no

doubt about it. The flow of water seemed to start gradually, then increase, until there was a sizable

stream gurgling and splashing.

"I must be going crazy," Spad mumbled, believing it.

But when he got the strength, and struck a match, he saw that the river was no phantasm. It poured out

from the base of the cliff-steep canyon side into which Spad had dived in his flight.

Spad said: "Well, that ain’t so damn mysterious. Just an underground river."

When his match burned out, he struck another to continue his examination. A few yards from the foot of

the cliff, the stream was fully twenty feet wide and two or three feet deep, and had worn a considerable

channel in the stone.

Out of a hole at the cliff base the water spouted with geyser force, boiling, throwing up foam. The

escaping water filled every inch of the opening.

"At least," Spad mumbled, "I won’t die of thirst."

He had been afraid of that.

Then he noticed the second arrowhead. This one was black, also, but much larger—more than a foot in

length—and seemed to be inlaid in the cliff face. Or was it carved and painted on the cliff? Spad stepped

closer to see. Inlaid, he decided.

The striking resemblance of this large arrowhead to the small black one intrigued him. Spad fished the

smaller arrowhead from his pocket, held it close to the inlay on the cliff for comparison.

"What the devil!" Spad exploded.

The water had stopped running. The roaring, splashing flow had ceased with weird unexpectedness.

Swiftly, the water flowed away and the gaping hole out of which it had been coming was left exposed.

Spad stood there, too startled to swear, until curiosity got the best of him. He crouched with a match

beside the hole, and leaned to peer into it.

He made a mewing sound, and in his first spasm of effort to get up and flee, he skidded on the

water-slick rocks and went over and over. Spad Ames knew, now, what had made Waldo Berlitz

scream in such a horrible way. He felt like screeching himself, and did try, but could only emit awful

mewing noises.

What he had found in the hole came out and overpowered him.

"Oh, mother!" Spad Ames croaked, just before he became unconscious.

Which was as near as Spad Ames had come to a prayer in many years.

Chapter III. THE ADMIRABLE MR. LOCATELLA

WHEN the United States government assigned several billion dollars for the building of roads, one of the

things it accomplished was to make the Navaho Indian trading post of Cameron, Arizona, more

accessible. Hitherto there had only been a wagon track across the Painted Desert to Cameron; this was

improved, and during the season, a stream of tourists began to flow. A sparse stream, it was true; three

or four cars a day was a fair average.

The trading post, a picturesque structure, perched on the edge of a crack in the desert, a crack that

seemed a couple of thousand feet deep and so narrow at the top that a man could throw a rock across,

and in the bottom flowed the Little Colorado River. There was a suspension bridge, the crossing of which

was nothing for nervous old ladies.

In all directions to the horizon was heat and the disappointing baldness of the Painted Desert. To make

the speeding tourists say, "Oh!" and "Ah!" there was now and then a herd of grazing sheep, tended by a

Navaho squaw and one papoose or more, and sometimes the beehive-shaped hodags in which the

Navahos wintered.

Seven weeks and three days after the United States Border Patrol plane chased Spad Ames and Waldo

Berlitz northward, there was something else to interest one tourist, however. The unusual article was a

man lying on the road. Apparently the man was unconscious or dead. His hair was slightly white.

The tourist stopped his car and alighted to examine the poor unfortunate.

The man lying on the road lunged up and smacked the tourist on the head with a rock. The tourist

collapsed. The man with the rock then ran to the car, but the tourist’s wife and daughter got out and fled.

They were long, lean women and they were scared. The would-be assailant with the rock failed to catch

them, although he swore terribly and hurled his stone after them.

The man then entered the car, turned it around and drove toward Flagstaff. He did a good deal of cursing

because he had to leave the tourists behind where they would be picked up by the next passing car.

There was a lunch basket in the tourists’ car, and the man wolfed the contents of this. After eating, he

stared grimly ahead, looking a little sick. He was thinking of his diet for the past three weeks. It had

consisted of pack rats, gophers, rattlesnakes, and once, a jackrabbit. Principal item had been the

rattlesnakes, which were easy to catch.

At Flagstaff, the man got a break. An eastbound freight train was pulling out; he swung into a box car.

There were two hobos in the box car, and that night, he bludgeoned them in their sleep, and got a dollar

and eighty-three cents and a better pair of shoes. In Marceline, Missouri, a division point on the railroad,

he robbed a plumber, and to his astonishment, got over two hundred dollars in cash. When he got to

Chicago, he took a plane on to Newark airport, and a taxicab from there into New York City, to the

office of Herman Locatella.

"Hello, Herman, you slimy bat," he said, and sank into a comfortable chair.

Herman Locatella stared at the man and said, "I don’t know you!" indignantly.

HERMAN LOCATELLA was a man who took pains not to know a great many people. Socially, in

particular, there seemed to be very few persons whom he considered worth knowing. He was a prize

snob, but there were plenty of snobs in New York who liked that sort of thing, so Locatella did a

remunerative law business.

Herman Locatella dressed the part; his attire was correct for every occasion. That morning, he had worn

the correct striped trousers, morning coat, lap-over fawn vest and ascot tie. Just now, however, he was

planning to attend the horse races with one of his snob clients, so he had changed to sports attire

consisting of woolly brown trousers, checkered sports coat, and scarf knotted at the throat. He

maintained a dressing room off his sumptuous office for making these changes.

On the desk rested a folded newspaper which contained an article on the society page, stating that

Herman Locatella, society lawyer, was beginning to be mentioned as the best-dressed man in America.

"So you don’t know me," growled the visitor disgustedly.

"I never saw you before." Herman Locatella fingered the telephone. "Will you get out of here, or shall I

call the police."

"Why not call the Kansas City police?" the visitor asked dryly.

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THESTONEMANADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.BADMANFLEEING?ChapterII.STONEMANBURNING?ChapterIII.THEADMIRABLEMR.LOCATELLA?ChapterIV.HANDSOUTOFDARKNESS?ChapterV.THEMYSTERIOUSCOLORADOS?ChapterVI.BLACKJACKFIGHT?ChapterVII.DANGEROUS...

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