Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 034 - The Fantastic Island

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THE FANTASTIC ISLAND
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. SHIPWRECKS TO ORDER
? Chapter II. ISLAND OF HORROR
? Chapter III. PRISONERS OF THE PITS
? Chapter IV. RADIO TRAP
? Chapter V. RUSSIAN TEA PARTY
? Chapter VI. THE PLATINUM PACKET
? Chapter VII. SUBWAY SEIZURE
? Chapter VIII. THE THUMB-HOLE DEATH
? Chapter IX. FLAMING FURY
? Chapter X. EQUATORIAL FLIGHT
? Chapter XI. SHREDDED DEATH
? Chapter XII. THE HONEYCOMB HORROR
? Chapter XIII. BITS OF HELL
? Chapter XIV. JUNGLE PALACE
? Chapter XV. MANGROVE MURDER
? Chapter XVI. PORTUGUESE FREEBOOTER
? Chapter XVII. THE RED RING
? Chapter XVIII. THE MOUNTAIN MAKERS
? Chapter XIX. HONEYCOMB OF THE DEVIL
Chapter I. SHIPWRECKS TO ORDER
THE disappearance of William Harper Littlejohn attracted no public attention whatever. The reason for
this was simple. The public never learned about it.
William Harper Littlejohn was a very famous man. It was impossible that, if ten average men on the street
should be stopped and asked who William Harper Littlejohn was, they would not have had the slightest
idea; but, in his field, William Harper Littlejohn was tops. His field was archaeology and geology.
Wherever men are interested in such things, he was known.
William Harper Littlejohn's disappearance was simple. He had chartered a ship and was taking an
archaeological expedition to the Galapagos Islands, below the equator in the Pacific Ocean. The
Galapagos are said to be the world's strangest islands. William Harper Littlejohn simply disappeared.
The ship vanished also. The whole expedition, too.
It could not have been that their radio merely failed. There were three radio transmitters on the expedition
ship. No, there was some other reason. It was strange.
Just how strange it was, no one had any idea at the beginning of the thing.
William Harper Littlejohn happened to be one of the five men associated with that remarkable man of
mystery, Doc Savage. Word of his disappearance reached Doc Savage at his New York headquarters.
Doc Savage acted promptly.
Two of Doc Savage's aids -- he had five of them altogether -- were on a vacation cruise in the yacht
Seven Seas, which chanced to be off the coast of Panama, in the Pacific. Aboard the yacht also was
Patricia Savage, a remarkable young woman, whose relationship to Doc Savage was that of cousin. Pat
had gone along for the trip, she claimed; but it was to be suspected that she was looking for excitement.
If she was looking for excitement, she was certainly destined to find it.
Doc Savage, man of bronze, individual of mystery, mental wizard and physical marvel -- to quote the
newspapers -- sent a radiogram to the yacht Seven Seas headed for the Galapagos to look for William
Harper Littlejohn, who was better known as "Johnny," and his expedition.
The Seven Seas was now about to slam headlong into more trouble than those aboard would ever have
believed possible.
THE Seven Seas was riding a radio beam radiated, by special courtesy on the part of the powerful
United States Naval radio station, from the Panama Canal Zone. This beam simplified navigation, and
they were riding it straight for the Galapagos.
Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks stood on the dripping deck of the Seven Seas and stared
into an immensity of black sky and blacker water. Occasionally he scowled anxiously upward at the
radio rigging. Water slapped and phosphoresced around the bow.
Right now, the yacht was rolling in a huge ground swell, rolling alarmingly. Rivets strained and bulkheads
creaked. There was at least half a gale blowing, and it made noises in the rigging like the sighs of dying
men.
Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks was commonly called "Ham," a name which he did not like.
He now frowned darkly and made his way to the pitching bridge.
"This is dangerous," he snapped. "We may run onto a reef any minute."
"Don't I know it?" a surprisingly childlike voice retorted from the semidarkness of the bridge. "This
ground swell is bad -- mighty bad. When it piles up like this, it means the water is getting shallow."
Ham snapped, "But I thought you said -- "
"Something screwy," piped the childlike voice. "According to your log, we're supposed to have more
than a hundred miles between us and the. nearest land."
A young woman joined them on the bridge. She was a very striking young woman to look at, having not
only a lovely face, but hair of a very unusual bronze color and eyes which actually looked golden. She
was Patricia Savage, who loved excitement.
"I wish you'd ask your old ocean to behave," she requested, cheerfully. "I've been thrown out of my bunk
three times in the last fifteen minutes. I gave it up."
"Something is wrong, Pat," Ham told her. "We're getting into a big ground swell. That means we are near
land, or at least in shoal water. And that is very much impossible."
Pat walked over to the second man on the bridge. "Just what is the trouble, Monk?" she asked.
The man addressed as "Monk" sat in the shadows, hunched like a bulky Buddha over an
audio-frequency amplifier. His thick hands indicated the apparatus containing vacuum tubes for increasing
the voltage and power of radio beacon signals.
"These direction-finding doodads have gone plain haywire," he insisted in that small squeaky voice.
Ham joined them and listened to the signal pulsations coming from the loudspeaker. He said, "The beat
frequency is sounding just as it should. We are certainly not off the course as broadcast to us from the
government radio beacon in the Canal Zone."
"We're right in the beam, all right," Monk grunted. "The A wave is jammed with the N waves so you
don't hear any dots -- just a blur of dashes. We can't be off our course, but we must be."
"Impossible!" snapped Ham. "Our goniometer, with its new type amplifier developed by Doc Savage
himself, insures that the direction finder couldn't go wrong. And the United States government station is
transmitting the beam to us."
THE word exchange had the rather unexpected effect of throwing Monk into what looked like a very
violent rage.
"You tellin' me, you courtroom fop?" Monk growled belligerently at Ham.
"Don't get tough with me, you missing link," Ham snapped. "I'll make shark bait out of you!"
Monk pushed back from the radio apparatus and squared off threateningly before Ham.
"Who says I'm wrong?" he demanded in a voice no longer mouselike.
"I did, you ape," Ham snapped.
"You're a liar besides bein' a shyster lawyer," Monk bellowed. "I'm right, and you know darned well that
I'm right!"
Pat said dryly, "I wonder if you know what you're quarreling over."
The two men pretended not to hear. Ham and Monk seemed always on the point of taking each other
apart violently. The mildest word from one was likely to set the other off in a rage; but it was only on rare
occasions that their enmity extended beyond the talking stage.
Patricia Savage cast an idle glance around the horizon, She started violently.
"Look!" she cried. "Ahead there, a bit to port. Green and red lights!"
"Huh?" Monk jerked around. "Channel lights that sounds like."
Ham stared intently, forgot himself and his feud with Monk. "Channel lights they are, but they were not
there a minute ago."
Monk's small eyes blinked rapidly. "It ain't possible."
"Some mistake," Ham muttered. "No lights are indicated on the chart."
Pat pointed at them and said, "There they are," with inescapable feminine logic.
Ham and Monk crowded forward for another inspection of the charts. They offered a strange contrast in
appearance, these two men. Ham was meticulously attired in a blue marine uniform, a blue cap with its
insignia in gold set jauntily on his head. He carried a slender black cane. He was handsome, lithe, and
wore his clothes like a fashion plate.
Monk, on the contrary, wore a not too white pair of duck pants, wrinkled across the thighs and bagged
at the knees. An enormous green-and-white-striped undershirt fitted around his barrel chest like a circus
tent slipped on over an elephant. Rusty hair stuck out on his bulletlike head like mashed bristles on a wire
brush. The hair grew low down on his forehead, half burying his ears, almost meeting his scrubby
eyebrows. His homely face was mostly mouth and flat nose. His body was nearly as wide as it was long
and his fists hung down almost to his knees. In fact, he did not look like a man. He resembled an amiable
ape.
It was a mistake to judge either of these two by appearances. Ham was no fop. He was one of the most
astute lawyers Harvard had ever turned out. And Monk, as Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Biodgett
Mayfair, was recognized as one of the greatest, living, industrial chemists.
The greatest claim to distinction of these two men, however, was that they were members of Doc
Savage's group of five remarkable aids. That alone made them unusual, for each of the bronze man's five
aids was a master of some particular profession.
Pat went over now and disconnected the robot control which had been steering the ship.
"Shall I hold to the channel lights?" she asked, swinging the wheel slightly over.
"I don't like this," Ham said, uneasily. "There should be no harbor at all near us, least of all a lighted
harbor, even a lighted channel. But there is nothing else to do."
"Why not?" Monk demanded. "We don't have to go in that channel, do we? --if there is a channel."
Ham snapped, "It's worth investigating. That is what I mean."
It looked as if their perpetual quarrel were going to break out again.
Pat solved the problem by turning the Seven Seas toward the channel markers.
THE yacht was caught in a choppy cross-current now, and the wind was rising. It no longer sighed like
men at death's door. It wailed and howled.
Ham went to the end of the bridge and clung to the railing to keep from being pitched off the violently
tilting craft into the boil of black water around them. In spite of the wind, the night was oppressive,
muggy, with a faint sulphurous smell. Suddenly a flickering glow, as of sheet lightning, sprang into life,
tinging the low-hanging clouds.
Ham made a mistake. He dismissed it at first as ordinary lightning. Then he saw that there was something
different about these luminous flashes. They were weird, unearthy. They stained the low-hanging clouds a
bloody red.
Ham heard a rasped breath behind him and was startled into whirling. It was Monk.
"Red lightnin'," Monk uttered, hanging on against the fetid, sulphurous wind at the deck tip. "That's
funny-lookin', ain't it?"
Again the gory light mushroomed out under the clouds. It was more sustained, brighter this time, and it
showed them things. Off to one side bulked a shore line; but this did not strike them with terror. Pat
called attention to the thing that did.
"Look!" she screamed. "Look! All around us!"
"Hard alee!" Monk squalled. "Engines reversed!"
The fantastic red light went out.
"Did you see?" Ham gasped in the silence that followed. "There must be two dozen ships, big and little,
wrecked all around us."
"And the devil only knows where we are," Monk gulped. "I'm gonna back this boat, turn around, get
outta here an' wait for daylight."
"A whole graveyard of wrecked ships," Pat gasped. "Red lightning that smells of sulphur!"
Pat's voice sounded, it seemed, rather cheerful.
"You always did like trouble, didn't you?" Monk grunted at her.
"And mystery," Pat added. "I eat it up."
There must have been a tide that carried the Seven Seas to one side, or something. They were in reverse,
exactly retracing the course they had been sailing, when it happened.
A curling wave lifted the bow of the Seven Seas high in the water and hurled it down. The yacht
shuddered with a wrenching shock that knocked Monk and Ham sprawling on the wet deck. There was
a nightmare of grinding and scrapings as steel plates were wrenched from the hull by jagged coral.
Caught fast on the submerged reef, the craft did not rise with the next wave. She heeled half over instead,
with a groaning of tortured steel; and the wave washed in an avalanche of water over the deck.
Ham and Monk were battered against the anchor winch. They staggered up, half drowned, to claw their
way toward the bridge.
"Aid Pat, if she needs it," Monk bellowed. "Me, I'm goin' for Habeas Corpus!"
Habeas Corpus was Monk's cherished pet pig. He never went anywhere without the animal, much to
Ham's disgust and frequent infuriation.
A streak of light, blue-white, darted from the Seven Sea's bridge, knifed across the rock-fanged water.
"Turn that searchlight off," Ham shouted to Pat, as he went down again under a drenching cross-wave.
"It'll help us see to swim ashore," Pat protested.
"It'll draw sharks," Ham snapped, as he caught the life preserver Pat threw him.
"So you're afraid of sharks," Pat said.
But she switched off the searchlight and joined Ham at the submerged rail. Monk appeared on deck an
instant later with the squealing, kicking armful of razorback hog that was Habeas Corpus.
Habeas Corpus had a snout like a wood-rasp, flopping coal-scuttle ears, long ungainly legs. The special
life preserver which Monk had previously fashioned for Habeas did not improve his appearance. It
added to his buoyancy, however. Monk jumped into the water with the wet pig.
"That hog'll draw sharks," Ham yelled.
"Habeas, he fights sharks!" Monk roared back. "Come on!"
PAT and Ham went overboard, Ham still holding tightly to his slim black cane which was almost as much
a part of him as his shirt. The cane was in reality a formidable weapon -- a sword cane. Its
innocent-appearing exterior sheathed a length of gleaming steel, the point of which had been impregnated
with a chemical capable of producing almost instant unconsciousness.
Under the red lightning glare, surf on all sides broke against hidden reefs, churning the water to a bloody
froth. But Pat and Ham came through the barrage of wave-dashed rocks and reeled, half drowned and
gasping, onto a mangrove-studded beach. Monk swashed ashore close behind them, holding the
squirming Habeas Corpus under an arm with difficulty.
"That hog'll kick a rib out for you some day," Ham warned, breathing hard.
"Lay off Habeas Corpus," Monk gasped, "or I'll be kickin' out some ribs on my own account."
The red luminance bloomed again against the clouds. It crawled and writhed, disappeared, and blanketed
out again like a bloody mist floating in air.
"What is it?" Pat demanded, shivering in spite of the sultry night.
"Nothing supernatural," Ham explained. "You notice the color on the clouds does not seep through from
above. The light is reflected from underneath -- "
"There's an active volcano somewhere on the island," Monk summed up.
Pat pressed water out of her drenched hair. "Do you suppose here's where Johnny is?"
"We'll have to find out," Ham said, grimly.
"One thing I'd like to clear myself on," Pat said earnestly. "The shipwreck. I was holding dead in the
middle of the channel when it happened."
"Yeah," Monk agreed, "it wasn't your fault."
"This shipwreck was arranged," Ham said, ominously.
"Some one on this island set those lights so we'd run slam on the reef, you mean?" Monk muttered.
Ham said soberly, "Some one drew us a hundred miles off our course and wrecked us. We're up against
something really sinister."
"Kinda wish Doc was here," Monk announced. The next moment he was wishing it even more violently.
Attracted perhaps by the blue-white searchlight beam which had lanced out from the Seven Seas a
moment after she had gone on the rocks, shadowy man-figures loosened from the darkly entwined
mangrove thicket and bore down upon the castaways, brandishing short clubs and shrieking a harsh un
intelligible gibberish.
Chapter II. ISLAND OF HORROR
THE dimly seen attackers, twenty or more, rushed out of the mangroves in a solid wave. Ham and Monk
thrust Pat behind, then met the attack -- Ham with his sword cane, Monk with his granite-knuckled fists.
Ham dropped two of the assailants with deft thrusts of the sword cane. He was careful not to allow the
valuable cane, tipped with the unconsciousness-producing chemical, to be struck; in fact, Ham was more
regardful of the cane than of himself.
Unexpectedly, there was an ugly-sounding whack, and Ham staggered back groggily from a club which
had bludgeoned past his guard. Dazedly, he saw the club lift again. But it did not descend. Not with any
weight behind it. There was a rap of knuckles against a jaw as Monk's long arm jabbed out and knocked
the club-swinger off his feet.
Ham recovered his balance and got his deadly sword cane into use again.
"Let's charge 'em," Monk squawled.
"Righto," Ham agreed. "We'll try to break through into the mangroves!"
Side by side, they advanced into a rain of clubs -- Monk's pummeling fists working like locomotive
driving rods, Ham's sword cane darting in and out like an aroused snake. Pat, pressing forward behind
them, scooped up rocks from the beach and threw them as fast as she could. Even Habeas Corpus did
his part, squealing and grunting and gouging his sharp tusks into every foot and ankle that came within
reach of his wood-rasp snout.
The varied strategy was too much for the attackers. They thought Ham's sword cane was dealing out
death, and they broke suddenly, with hideous yells, to go crashing away and disappear in the black
recesses of the mangrove sink.
Monk picked up Habeas Corpus and swung him lustily by the long ears, much to the pig's squealing
delight. Monk grinned, and the action lighted up his unbelievably homely face, making it very pleasant to
look at.
There was a little light now from the stars. Ham was making a quick examination of the anesthetized
victims of his sword cane.
They were of different races and colors -- and all wore loin cloths. Their necks were encircled with
copper-studded collars made, seemingly, out of lizard hide.
A great blast of noise riveted Ham's attention. It was only Monk laughing.
"What's the matter, you hairy ape?" Ham demanded, suspiciously.
"I was thinkin' how you'd look in the costume of the country -- a loin cloth and a dog collar."
Ham bristled and gripped his sword cane tighter. "You wide-mouthed macaw -- " he began.
Pat silenced him with tight-lipped words. "If you want more fighting, save your strength," she said.
"They're coming back."
A LOUD "plud" sounded in the wet sand near Ham's feet. In a second the air was filled with heavy
missiles. Habeas Corpus squealed.
"They're heaving rocks!" Ham shouted.
"They can throw more rocks than we can," Monk growled. "Let's get outta here."
Monk tucked one of the short, thick clubs under his arm, grabbed up Habeas Corpus by the ears, and
lunged into the shadowed thicket. Pat and Ham followed closely.
Pressing through the mangrove sink, they came out upon a height of land that was nothing. if not weird.
Volcanic rock, black lava sharp as broken glass, swallowed them up in a welter of fantastically shaped
hills and gullies. Much of the razor-edged glass was in tilted sheets which were prone to slip and shatter
under the weight of a footfall. Giant cactuses rooted in the crevices and dangled their spiny pads
overhead, like hooded cobras ready to strike.
They lost all sounds of pursuit.
The low-raking clouds lifted and the three pressed on under the pale white light of equatorial stars.
"I hope we get somewhere quick," Pat said, appalled.
"They speak of the Galapagos archipelago as the 'world's end,' " Ham remarked.
"They don't miss it much," Monk grumbled. "How we're goin' to find Johnny in this volcanic scrap heap, I
dunno."
"Did either of you get the impression," Pat asked suddenly, "that our League-of-Nations attackers were
being careful not to kill us?"
"Yeah," Monk admitted. "Even those rocks were not thrown too hard."
"They wanted us alive, I guess," Ham supplied.
"My guess, too. But why?"
"That's anybody's guess."
"We could sure use Doc Savage about now." Climbing higher up the glassy slope, they passed through a
belt of cold volcanic pits and cones, where, ages before, the molten rock had bubbled like mush and
cooled in scabrous pockmarks.
They came out on a wide plateau where nothing grew, not even the cobra-head cactus, and where the
pits were smaller, clogged with earth and so close together that it was necessary to skirt the region to
make any forward progress.
Monk stopped suddenly.
"These pits are all in geometric order," he declared. "They're not volcanic pits like the ones below.
They're manmade."
Ham stared. On the plain, the glassy rock had given way to a kind of reddish clay, or hard-packed
volcanic ash.
"Right," he clipped. "The pits are crumbling away now and mostly buried under loose earth. Hard to tell,
but they must have been laid out originally with the regularity of cells in a honeycomb."
As they continued on, the honeycomb pattern became more apparent as the pits were revealed in a less
crumbling condition.
"These were dug later," Ham observed.
"Yeah," Monk agreed. "The farther we go, the fresher the pits look."
"Rut what are they for?" Pat wondered. "Say, this all gets queerer and queerer. What's it all about?"
"LISTEN," Ham said, tensely.
Wafted on the miasmatic breeze came sharp, cracking sounds. There was unearthliness about the
sounds, as though they sprang from the air of their own volition.
"What is it?" Pat asked uneasily.
"No animal ever made a sound like that," Monk blurted.
Suddenly through and above the cracking sounds, came a long-drawn wail which quavered up and down
the scale in agony so appalling that a trickle of icy water seemed to be loosened on the back of each of
the three listeners.
Pat gasped: "I never heard anything like it. Horrible!"
"A dying animal of some kind," Ham said.
"Dying man!" Monk corrected, grimly.
"Come on," Ham said, gripping his sword cane.
As they pressed forward, the pits in the rocklike ash actually became as sharply delineated as the cells in
a honeycomb. A giant honeycomb. These pits were about ten feet in diameter, and some ten feet where
they were not filled with loose earth. The mysterious cracking noises sounded louder.
"Ahead there," Ham rapped under his breath. "Look!"
"Shadows!" Pat gasped. "Like men moving!"
The three worked closer, holding to the concealment of the fringing thicket. White-pointed thorns tore at
them, viciously shredding their clothes and piercing flesh. But they succeeded in approaching opposite the
place where the shadows moved, and from where the cracking, cutting noises issued. Here the plain
stretched on, but the advancing line of pits came to an end.
They crouched down, watching. Stars dripped pale light. And suddenly a close, bulking mountain
disgorged a red glare into the sky. Bathed in the baleful light of volcanic fires, huge-muscled men could
be seen moving ceaselessly up and down at the edge of the honeycombed ground. The men were clothed
as those others had been -- in loin cloths and leather collars. They carried long whips, which they swung
over their heads and cracked down into the row of pits.
Hideous groans and jabberings issued from the unseen depths of the pits. The whip-crackers, their
half-naked bodies in the red volcanic glare sleek with glistening sweat looked like satanic apparitions
come to earth.
"Back on the yacht I said maybe we were headed for hell," Monk muttered. "Now, I know it!"
"The cracking noises we heard were from the whips," Ham observed.
"What's in the pits, I wonder?" Pat asked, in a hushed tone.
Monk was already edging forward, crawling on his stomach.
"Hold Habeas Corpus," he whispered back. "I'll find out."
"Blast your hog," Ham complained, but he held the pig.
As he muscled to a position where he could look down into the pits, Monk gasped with grim surprise. In
every one of the circular holes, as far as he could see down the long line, stakes were driven, and to the
stakes were attached chains, and to the end of the chains were fastened men.
There was one man with a shovel in each pit, digging. The diggers wore loin cloths only, lacking the
lizardleather collars worn by the whip-cracking overseers. These collars Monk correctly assumed to be
emblems of authority.
Each of the pit-men was digging a hole of a circumference allowed by the length of his chain. The holes,
extending across the plain in a straight line, were of uniform width -- about ten feet.
Under the lash of the whips, in the hellish red volcano glare, the chained men were actually digging their
way to death.
SUDDENLY, from behind Monk, sounded a fast thudding on the hardpacked ground. Something thrust
hard against his back as he swerved around. A shrill squeal sounded.
Monk clamped his huge hands over Habeas Corpus's snout to smother the affectionate squeals of the pig
which had burst away from Ham and had run straight to Monk.
He throttled the squeals. But the damage was already done. Whip-cracking overseers jabbered sharply
at each other and clumped forward to investigate the disturbance.
Monk's squat bulk reared upward. Brandishing his stout club, he lunged forward to meet the attack of
the nearest man. But before Monk could close in, a deadly swish sounded. Monk's enemy was still six or
eight paces away, but Monk felt his knees gripped as though by iron hands, jerked tightly together and
pulled out from under him. He fell, striking the ground with stunning force.
Monk knew what had thrown him, and his hands raked down to jerk away the lead-tipped thong which
had whipped out of the night murk and entwined his legs. Before he could free himself, his assailant was
standing over him, the weighted whip handle raised high to crash against Monk's head.
Ham's sword cane slithered in that instant, dropped the overseer, and saved Monk from the blow. But
another whip swished out of the night, wrapped around Ham's legs and hurled him to the ground on top
of Monk.
Clubs battered them both to unconsciousness before they could claw free from the knee-binding thongs.
WHEN they came to, a few minutes later, they found themselves bound and lying on the ground at the
edge of the line of pits. Ham focused his groggy glance at the nearest pit worker. The man had sunk his
hole about five feet down, so that his face was practically on ground level. That pain-racked face was
almost within hand's reach of Ham.
Ham started violently. In a red volcanic flare he had recognized the man as being one of the members of
Johnny's expedition.
"Tony!" Ham whispered hoarsely.
A shudder went over the man as his crazed eyes turned to Ham's. His lips widened in startled
recognition. He said nothing, but kept on digging.
摘要：

THEFANTASTICISLANDADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.SHIPWRECKSTOORDER?ChapterII.ISLANDOFHORROR?ChapterIII.PRISONERSOFTHEPITS?ChapterIV.RADIOTRAP?ChapterV.RUSSIANTEAPARTY?ChapterVI.THEPLATINUMPACKET?ChapterVII.SUBWAYSEIZURE?Chap...

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