Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 036 - Mystery Under the Sea

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MYSTERY UNDER THE SEA
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter 1. THE MAN WITH NO TONGUE
? Chapter 2. THE MUTE AND THE DEAD
? Chapter 3. DIAMOND EVE
? Chapter 4. "TROPIC SEAS"
? Chapter 5. THE SCIENTIST
? Chapter 6. THE BRASS CASE
? Chapter 7. MONK HUNTS DOC
? Chapter 8. FOUR SLEEPERS
? Chapter 9. PASSENGERS FOR NASSAU
? Chapter 10. PIRACY
? Chapter 11. HIDDEN CARGO
? Chapter 12. MYSTERY—AND HASH
? Chapter 13. MONSTERS UNDER WATER
? Chapter 14. THE INCREDIBLE DOMAIN
? Chapter 15. OUT OF MYTHOLOGY
? Chapter 16. TAZ
? Chapter 17. DEATH IN THE DEPTHS
? Chapter 18. THE TREASURE FABULOUS
? Chapter 19. THE DEVIL IS A RABBIT
? Chapter 20. THE LOST
Scanned and Proofed by Tom Stephens
Chapter 1. THE MAN WITH NO TONGUE
PARADISE is a beach. It is on Long Island Sound near New York City and, being one of the most convenient
spots for swimming, is much frequented during the summer. The patrons are jaded citizens of Manhattan
who, having struggled for a living in the great city all week, come for a rest.
Paradise Beach was quiet. That was another reason why it was so popular.
On the first Saturday of September, however, the quiet of Paradise Beach was rudely shattered.
The life guard—he sat atop a tower which stood out where the water was deep—was first to see the thing in
the water. It was night, about two hours after sunset. Big floodlights blazed along the locker house, while
others were on high poles out beyond the life guard’s tower. It was the illumination of these which first
disclosed the thing in the water.
"Drowning man!" yelled the life guard, making a mistake.
The guard executed a snappy dive off his platform and swam rapidly out into the Sound. A man was
swimming feebly out there. The guard had thought he was a bather who had ventured out too far. But,
reaching the swimmer, he discovered the fellow was clothed, except for shoes and coat.
A wave came in; it was not large, for they do not have large waves on Long Island Sound during calm
weather. Yet it submerged the man swimming in his clothing, and it was some moments before he came up,
gasping feebly.
The life guard lent a hand, holding the fellow up and, at the same time, peering out into the Sound in an effort
to learn where the unfortunate had come from. It was too dark to see much. The guard decided the man must
have been in a boat, that had sunk.
"Were you alone?" he demanded. "Does anybody else need help?"
"Shut up!" said the one who was being rescued. "Either get me ashore or leggo so I can swim."
A light skiff, rowed by another life guard, arrived at that moment and both the first life guard and the man
swimming in his clothes were taken aboard and paddled to the beach. The rescued man started to get out of
the boat, as if he were in a great hurry to leave.
The fellow was restrained, however, by the life guard, who knew that persons who have been near drowning
sometimes become hysterical and do not quite know what they are doing.
"Leggo, dope," snarled the man who had been found swimming in his clothes.
"Not until the doctor looks you over," said one of the guard.
The rescued man then acted very ungallantly. He seized an oar and managed, after a short skirmish, to crack
the life guards over the head, knocking them both senseless.
The man ran away, his wet clothing making slopping noises.
A THRONG of no small proportions was on the beach, but the rescue had been executed so quietly that only
a few had realized what was happening. Most of the sharper observers had been advancing cautiously to
investigate. They broke into a run, and a loud outcry went up as they saw the brief skirmish which felled the
two life guards.
At first, there was no attempt to apprehend the fleeing man. New Yorkers learn early that attending to their
own business is a policy which avoids trouble. However, two ambitious souls did attempt to stop the runner.
One of them, a fat man, got an oar jabbed in the stomach for his pains. The other was discouraged by a blow
over the head.
The fleeing man reached a row of bathhouses and ducked between them.
At this point, it was doubtful if many persons were aware that a dark motor boat had come into the
floodlighted area from the Sound. This craft carried several men. Driven by a powerful motor, it swerved in
close to the beach, and all but one of the occupants sprang overboard and waded ashore.
The man who remained in the boat took it back out into the Sound, and it was shortly lost in the darkness.
Electric excitement suddenly swept Paradise Beach. Those men who had gotten out of the motor boat were
masked. Moreover, they carried revolvers.
The masked, armed men raced after the one who was fleeing. At first, they were not interfered with, the
patrons of the bathing beach naturally being unarmed.
Then one of the Paradise special policemen came racing forward. He shouted, and had a gun in his hand.
There was a prompt burst of shots. The special officer suddenly concluded that his salary did not cover gun
fighting, and ignominiously took shelter.
The procession—fleeing swimmers and armed pursuer—left the confines of Paradise Beach behind them. In
the pavilions, the bathhouses, half a dozen telephones were being employed to call policemen. This,
incidentally, did no good whatever.
The fugitive, by now, knew the pursuit was close on his heels. There was a parking lot beyond the bathing
beach buildings, and he ducked into this, dodging among the parked machines, peering frequently into
vehicles, obviously trying to find one that was not locked.
On the far side of the lot, an automobile engine started. It was a motorist who, blissfully unaware of what was
going on, had decided to leave. The fugitive raced madly for this machine.
His pursuers outguessed him. Hearing the car start, they surmised what he would do and directed their
course to cut him off. They succeeded. In grim silence, they sprang upon the runner.
The late swimmer was virtually exhausted, which was one reason they had caught him so easily. He was
beaten down, knocked as thoroughly senseless as had been the two life guards.
HALF an hour later, the victim regained his senses. He looked about at the grim forms of his captors, still
masked and visible in the glow of a single flashlight, and peered at thick scrub brush beyond them. This was
plainly a remote spot.
"He should be dead by now," one of the captors said, callously. "The guy has more lives than a cat."
The prisoner said nothing, tried to move and did not succeed. He was being held tightly.
"He’s bound to be in Davy Jones’s locker before long," said another of the men.
"Turn me adrift," growled the prisoner. "You swabs have your lines tangled."
"So you think," snarled one of the masked group. "You scuttled our ship for us. Fixed it so it’ll sink sure."
"I didn’t," snapped the victim.
"We caught you," the other pointed out.
"I don’t know anything about Taz, or the rest of it," wailed the prisoner. "You got me all wrong! Sure you
have!"
"We got you, all right," one echoed, and laughed. Others also laughed, not pleasantly.
"Your name is Verne, ain’t it?" demanded one of the masked men. "Twenty-Thousand-Leagues Verne they
call you, don’t they?"
The prisoner denied this vehemently. "No!"
"Oh yes, you are," said the masked man. "And Diamond Eve Post hired you!"
"
DIAMOND EVE POST?" the prisoner mumbled. "Never heard of her."
He tried to sound puzzled, earnest, but he was not a very good actor.
"Listen, guy," said the other, "don’t lie about it. We know she hired you."
"No," the man insisted.
"She sent you aboard to open the sea-cocks of our hooker, while all hands were ashore," the other told him,
grimly. "You went her one better than that. You smuggled a keg of acid aboard."
"And dumped the acid in the bilge," echoed another. "The cursed stuff ate the plates right out of the bottom of
our hooker. She’s leakin’ like a sieve!"
"This is all a mistake," insisted their captive.
"We found the empty acid keg," he was told. "It was glass lined. It was a keg you said held your private
stock of liquor."
The prisoner rolled his eyes wildly.
The captive was a small man, but he had very large bones which gave him a sturdy aspect. There was a bald
spot as round as a plate on top of his head. His clothing was rough and his pants legs had large bottoms,
sailor fashion.
One thing about his appearance was particularly striking—his skin: it looked as if some weird phenomenon
had brought all blood vessels to the surface. This gave a purple complexion which was rather hideous.
He struggled slightly, and there was a great horror coming over his features.
"I’m gonna die, if you don’t let me go," he wailed. "After what you scuts done to me, there’s only one thing—"
A captor kicked him, snarled, "Put lashing on that tongue!"
The masked group seemed to be undecided about what to do next.
"Puttin’ a knife in his ‘midships is the quickest way out," one suggested.
"Nix," another objected. "We want to give that Diamond Eve dame somethin’ to think about. We had him
fixed, only he’s tougher than we expected."
"He’s done for," said a third. "It may take a little time, but he’s done for."
The one who had suggested the knife snorted.
"What if he gets to a hospital? Some of them Manhattan hospitals are fitted up to take care of what’s gonna
happen to him."
They thought that over.
Suddenly, one grunted and drew a bottle from his clothing. He shook the bottle, so that the liquid inside
gurgled.
"This is a sample of what’s left in that glass-lined keg," he said. "I was keepin’ this stuff to show the big shot.
But I got an idea."
He fell upon the prisoner, wedged the fellow’s mouth open with a gun barrel, uncorked the bottle and poured
some of the contents into the captive’s mouth. The result was grisly. The unfortunate man emitted a series of
horrible shrieks, until they clamped a coat over his face. It was some moments before they removed the coat.
The captive’s mouth, lips, and the lower part of his face were hideously burned. His whining and gagging
noises were pitiful.
"
ACID," said the man with the bottle. "It’d eat the flukes off an anchor."
"What about his hands?" a man objected. "He’ll write a note asking to be taken to a hospital."
The man with the bottle leered. "I’ll fix that, too."
He flashed a sheath knife and used it.
"Scuttlin’ our ship is nearly gonna make us lose out on that Taz thing," he growled. "This pays you back for
that. And it’ll teach Diamond Eve a lesson!"
He released the victim and the man staggered away, making small, unearthly noises. Agony from his burned
mouth was so great that he was oblivious of the trickle of scarlet from his wrists. He began to run as best he
could.
His hands were now useless. The tendons had been severed.
A shout, ugly, full of threat, came from those who had maltreated him. But it was doubtful if he heard.
"Tell the dame—if you can—that she’ll get worse than that, if she don’t furl her sails!" advised the one who
shouted.
The mutilated man’s run was more of a stagger, which an average walk would have outpaced. He came,
unexpectedly, out of the brush and found himself on close-mown grass, beyond which glittered light on a
great shedded platform which stood on steel stilts.
The victim’s eyes were running with tears of pain and he had to peer for some moments before he recognized
the structure as the terminus of an elevated line. He ran toward it.
There was a crowd of sweltering citizens, bound for the parks, the beaches. Many gasps of horror were
brought by sight of the mutilated man. A woman fainted. Strangely enough, no one touched the fellow or
offered to help him. Possibly, the hideous sight of him kept them away.
The metal steps of the elevated stairway were slippery with scarlet before the man got to the top, and he had
fallen twice. The crowd—those who had stout stomachs, followed him up, but kept their distance, as if he
were some poisonous thing. The man faced them, made his horrible sound at them, but nothing that could be
understood.
Below, they were shouting for policemen, for an ambulance. A woman was screaming that a maniac was at
large and had butchered himself.
The mutilated man was plainly desperate. He roved his pain-hazed eyes.
And at this point, fate stepped in. Probably the fact that the victim observed a certain poster, could not be
attributed to anything but a combination of circumstances. But it was certain that he saw the poster. For he
stumbled close to it, let his blurred eyes observe it more closely.
It was merely one of the large posters exhibited on railway station platforms in the metropolitan area for
advertising purposes. This one was plugging a certain popular national magazine. The man plainly was not
interested in the title of the magazine. His attention was centered on the words which described the leading
features in the magazine for the month. It read:
DOC SAVAGE’S AMAZING SAGA—
ASTOUNDING DETAILS ABOUT THE
MAN OF MYSTERY
IN THIS MONTH’S ISSUE
What he had read suggested something to the mutilated man. He dived into a train which had been standing
at the platform.
The train was due to leave and the conductor must have been unaware of what was happening, because he
applied the current and the string of cars clanked away. The victim huddled in the rear of a coach and rebuffed
those who sought to aid him.
Chapter 2. THE MUTE AND THE DEAD
An argument was taking place behind a door on the eighty-sixth floor of a towering midtown skyscraper. The
lettering on the door read:
CLARK SAVAGE, JR.
One of the voices sounded as if its source might come from a small child. The other was suave, well
modulated, one obviously accustomed to much public speaking.
"You’re nuts, Ham," affirmed the childlike voice. "They wear ‘em that way so they can get ‘em on and off
easy."
"Monk, you thick-headed missing link," said the other voice, "they wear them that way simply because it
makes them look smart, and for no other reason!"
The pair who had been arguing, interrupted their dissension. They were as unlike as their voices. The one with
the childlike voice, in the dim light of the reception room, might easily have been mistaken for a
two-hundred-and-fifty-pound gorilla. He had practically no forehead, an incredibly homely face that was made
pleasant by an overly large mouth, and arms which extended his furry hands to well below his knees. He was
Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair.
The other was a lean-hipped man whose garments were the absolute ultimate in fashionable perfection. He
had a not unhandsome face with a high forehead, keen eyes and the mobile mouth of an orator. He carried a
slender black cane, which he had been waving in an effort to drive home his arguments. He was Brigadier
General Theodore Marley Brooks.
"You’re wrong, you ambulance-chasing shyster!" "Monk" continued the altercation. "They wear ‘em that way
because they can get out of ‘em easy when they fall overboard."
"Ham" waved his cane in Monk’s face.
"You have the mind of a child!" he shouted. "The fact that they are cut that way has no significance
whatever!"
A newcomer had silently entered the office. A huge man of bronze.
"What are you two arguing about now?" he asked.
The two dissenters—Monk and Ham—jumped as if they had suddenly found their feet in cold water.
"Doc Savage!" Ham exclaimed.
"Gosh, Doc, you gimme a scare," Monk said, surprised.
"What is the argument now?" Doc Savage asked them.
"Sailors’ pants," Monk squeaked. "Any fool would know they’re cut big at the bottom so that the sailor can
get in and out of them in a hurry, but this dumb shyster Ham—"
"This accident of nature!" Ham slashed his cane at Monk. "Just to look at him, you would know his head
could not possibly hold a brain cell! Now, sailors’ pants—"
AN elevator door clanged in the corridor. Footsteps clattered. A figure came weaving through the door.
Monk stared at the hideous apparition and his big mouth opened very nearly to its widest. He must have tried
to say something, but words did not come out.
The mutilated man stood before them. If possible, he was a more hideous specter than when he had
frightened the crowd at the elevated station. His wrists had stopped leaking. His mouth, however, was now
running scarlet, and with each of his faint breaths he blew a fine mist of spray.
He tried to speak. It was a gurgle.
"Hey," Monk squeaked at him, "what’s wrong?"
The victim weaved and went down on all fours, but his slashed wrists would not hold him and he fell on the
floor, squirmed. As they moved toward him, he scrambled to his feet with a species of mad energy. He
gurgled and coughed, as if trying to speak. He gave it up. Then he staggered to the big, inlaid desk.
An inkstand with pens was on the table. Hitting this with his elbow, he knocked it to the floor. Black and red
ink gushed over the costly rug.
"Nix, nix!" Monk shouted, too late. "The Khedive of Egypt himself gave Doc that rug."
The mutilated man was in no condition to care. He stabbed a toe into the ink, began to draw lines on the rug.
It was slow work, for his shoe proved to be no suitable brush.
It was now evident that the man was trying to print a message.
Doc Savage whisked across the reception room and through a door which gave onto a library, a huge room,
yet one which was jammed almost to capacity with ponderous-looking tomes. This was a scientific library
which was equaled by none.
Crossing the library, the bronze man entered a laboratory-workshop.
He got a can of paint—it was used in coating the unusual devices which he so frequently constructed—and a
brush, also a coil of wire for use in lashing the brush to the man’s shoe. Carrying these, he whipped back into
the reception room.
Something horrible had happened to their visitor. He was a contorted heap on the floor.
MONK, who was crouching over the fellow, looked up. "It beats me, Doc," he barked. "The poor bird got some
kind of cramps or somethin’ and just fell over in kind of a fit."
Doc Savage went to the man, bent over him, examined him.
"My instrument case," he directed Monk.
Monk ran into the laboratory and came back with the instrument case. Doc Savage had been trained in many
things, but his first, and probably his greatest, forte was surgery. He straightened from his diagnosis.
"Monk, you stay here." He pointed to the strange markings which the mistreated man had managed to ink on
the carpet. "Watch those. And try to decipher them."
Monk, who disliked being left out of anything, wailed, "But, Doc, what—"
"Only one thing will save this man," Doc Savage said. "We have that thing down at our water-front place. I
must take him there."
Doc Savage gathered up the stricken man. Then he addressed Ham.
"Endeavor to find where this fellow came from," he suggested.
"Righto," Ham agreed.
Both Monk and Ham busied themselves at their assigned tasks.
It took Doc with his burden but a short time to reach what was ostensibly a huge unused warehouse on the
Hudson River water front. The warehouse was really a combination hangar and boathouse.
Doc carried the victim to a device which resembled a large steel tank, with a hatch in the end and numerous
valves and gauges on the outside. There was nothing unique about this thing. Any professional diver would
have recognized it as an "iron doctor." Divers enter the "iron doctor" for decompression, after being subjected
to the terrific pressure of a deep dive, to prevent the formation of fatal air bubbles in their blood stream.
Doc Savage did not open the "iron doctor." Rather slowly, he laid his burden down.
The man had died!
Doc Savage worked furiously over the body, attempting to return a spark of life, even taking the corpse into
the "iron doctor" and turning on the pressure. It was, however, of no avail.
The victim had been seized with what divers call the "bends." Recently, his body had been subjected to
terrific pressure and he had not been properly decompressed. The resultant formation of nitrogen bubbles
might not, necessarily, have been fatal. The "iron doctor," perhaps, would have saved him.
But the "bends" had not killed the man. He had died from the effects of the acid burns about his mouth, the
loss of his life stream through his slashed wrists.
Doc Savage searched the fellow’s clothing, examined the body. An untrained searcher, perhaps, would have
sworn there was nothing to be found.
There were a few grains of sand in the cuff of the still-damp trousers. Doc Savage examined these under a
pocket magnifier.
"North shore of Long Island Sound," he said, as if to himself.
That would not have surprised a trained geologist. Sands from different localities frequently have as distinct a
personality as have finger prints.
On the dead man’s shirt, the left shoulder, there was a reddish brown smear, which the water had not entirely
washed away. Doc added lenses to his magnifier, increasing its power, and scrutinized the stain.
"Copper bottom paint off a ship," he concluded.
Next he got a clean metal pan and, not without some difficulty, managed to wring a few drops of water from
the man’s clothing. He carried the pan across the building.
The interior of this building, which outwardly resembled an old warehouse, was of enormous size. The walls
were thick. The roof as nearly bombproof as it could be made. The place housed a remarkable assortment of
vehicles for travel in the air, on the water, and under the water. There were several planes, ranging from a
huge speed ship to a small autogiro; there was a dirigible of unusual design; there were speed boats; and off
to one side in a drydock of its own stood a small submarine.
From a locker, Doc Savage took a metal case and opened it. An array of chemicals and chemical equipment,
ingeniously compact, was disclosed. This assortment, an unbelievably complete portable laboratory,
belonged to the homely Monk, and he invariably took it along on expeditions.
With a skill born of much study, Doc Savage set to work analyzing his water sample. It was not easy, but
neither was it impossible. Water in the vicinity of Manhattan contains a certain type of pollution, and this
diminishes with distance from the metropolis. Before long, Doc Savage knew approximately where the water
had come from.
"The neighborhood of Paradise Beach," he decided.
That was the extent of the clue. The bronze man left the body in the "iron doctor," padlocked the hatch.
Shortly afterward, he was back in the skyscraper laboratory. He listened. There was no sound.
"Monk!" he called. Then: "Ham!"
No answer.
The bronze man whipped across the laboratory, through the library, and stopped on the anteroom threshold.
He remained there poised and made for a moment a small, peculiar sound, which was among the strangest
of his characteristics. This note, a vague, eerie trilling, was indefinable as the vagaries of a wind in a denuded
forest, rose and fell. It had a quality of ventriloquism, for one looking at the bronze man could not have told
that he made the sound. It was doubtful if Doc Savage himself realized he was authoring the fantastic note.
He made the sound only in moments of intense mental excitement.
Monk lay spread-eagled on the anteroom floor, flat on his face. And there was the stillness of the dead about
his apish body.
Chapter 3. DIAMOND EVE
Part of the rug was gone.
The expensive panel of weaving had been cut with a sharp knife and a segment, roughly circular in shape,
removed. No trace of this could be seen.
The missing section bore such printing as the mutilated man had managed to accomplish with his foot before
he collapsed.
The door gaped open, and Doc Savage went to it. Half through, he found a form sprawled on the shiny tiling of
the corridor floor. The victim was senseless, apparently having been knocked out by a blow over the head.
It was dapper Ham, and he had fallen atop his innocent-looking black cane. Doc Savage carried him into the
reception room.
Monk proved upon examination, merely to be unconscious, likewise from a head blow, and Doc started
administering to him, to Ham, to bring them out of their forcibly induced slumbers.
Monk, the toughest of the pair, revived first. Lost in a mental fog, he mumbled words.
"Justa dumb shyster, Ham," he squeaked faintly. "Sailors’ pants are big at the bottoms because—"
He broke off, sat up suddenly, blinked several times, said abruptly in a rational voice, "Man, have I got bells in
my head!"
"What happened?" Doc asked him.
Monk jabbed a hairy, contemptuous thumb at Ham, who was beginning to stir. "It was the shyster’s fault. He
brought some woman and a guy with her. They—"
"It’s a lie!" Ham said, without opening his eyes. "It was Monk’s fault. He should have been on the lookout."
"Lookout!" Monk squawled. "You brought them in—"
"And they promptly knocked me senseless," Ham finished. "I met them down in the lobby, while I was trying
to trace that fellow with the burned mouth. They said they had some important information, so I brought them
up."
"It was the woman," Monk growled. "She had two guns. She tried to push one through that swell dinner I just
ate. Then she popped me over the ear with the other one. I kinda lost interest."
"They obviously tricked me into bringing them up," Ham admitted without pride.
Doc Savage indicated the missing section of the rug. "How did they know about that?"
Ham puckered his forehead, as if trying to think of the best way of admitting an indiscretion.
Homely Monk snorted, "The girl was a knockout. Boy, did she have what it takes! I’ll bet Ham told her all
about what had happened."
"Shut up, you ape!" Ham snapped. "She said the man with the burned mouth was her brother, and wanted to
know what had happened to him. She was sobbing and carrying on, and it kind of got under my skin."
"So you told her about it," Monk jeered.
"I did!" Ham yelled, angrily. "And you would have done the same thing, you missing link! She was so pretty
and so grief-stricken—"
"You know just as much about women as you know about sailors’ pants," Monk told him, unkindly.
HAM contemplated Monk, as if he would greatly relish separating the homely chemist from his gnarled ears.
"I made a mistake," he admitted, grudgingly. "Those two tricked me into getting them in here, and knocked
us out. Then they stole part of the rug, so that we would not have a chance to figure out what the poor devil
was trying to print there."
Monk scowled at Ham, as if the latter had committed some crime which could never be forgiven.
"That means the message was important," the simian chemist pointed out. "It’s gone. And I think there was
enough of it that we could have translated the thing. You couldn’t read it right off, of course, but—"
"We will see about that," Doc Savage interposed.
The bronze man now moved the massive inlaid table into the center of the room and stood upon it, from which
point he could reach the ceiling. This was decorated in modernistic fashion, with trim triangles and discs of
shiny metals and colored glass. Under his manipulation, what had appeared to be an ordinary glass plate
came away and proved itself a part of a motion picture camera, which was recessed into the ceiling.
"A few moments will be required to develop this," he said, and took the film magazine into the laboratory.
After he had been working a few minutes, Doc called to Ham, "Telephone Paradise Beach on Long Island
Sound and see if you can learn anything about a strange visitor."
Ham consumed two headache pills. Then he used the telephone.
"The fellow appeared at Paradise Beach," he said when he finished. "He swam in from the Sound, knocked
out two guards and fled. A moment later, a motor boat landed a group of masked men who pursued him. No
one at Paradise seems to know more than that."
Doc Savage was using a quick-developing process of his own on the motion picture film, which was of
miniature size. The whirring of the device which wound the film through the developer solution ceased. He
transferred the film to a reel and carried it to a projector.
摘要：

MYSTERYUNDERTHESEAADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?Chapter1.THEMANWITHNOTONGUE?Chapter2.THEMUTEANDTHEDEAD?Chapter3.DIAMONDEVE?Chapter4."TROPICSEAS"?Chapter5.THESCIENTIST?Chapter6.THEBRASSCASE?Chapter7.MONKHUNTSDOC?Chapter8.FOURSLEEPERS...

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