Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 161 - Fire and Ice

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Fire And Ice
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson
This page formatted 2004 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I
? Chapter II
? Chapter III
? Chapter IV
? Chapter V
? Chapter VI
? Chapter VII
? Chapter VIII
? Chapter IX
? Chapter X
? Chapter XI
? Chapter XII
? Chapter XIII
? Chapter XIV
Addition proofing by Moe The Cat
Originally published in Doc Savage Magazine, July 1946
There was nothing surprising about a girl pilot ... not even a girl pilot named Patience ... but there were
plenty of surprises to follow in a fast and furious chase around the country! Doc Savage and the boys find
hot and cold trouble in FIRE AND ICE ... read it now and see if you don't think it's a swell novel.
Chapter I
THE hushed quiet of late afternoon lay over the wilderness. It was one of the most majestic sights in the
world. Sweeping downward from the mountain ridge was an endless vista of tall, stately firs,
purplish-green in the fading sunlight and slanting shadows.
The mountain range, down there below, broke up into smaller ridges, each falling away to a great plain
that was the valley floor. Across this huge flat a highway slashed as straight as a taut string, as though it
had been placed there by drawing a line across a mammoth ruler.
The highway was smooth, modern macadam. Two wide automobile lanes made up its spacious width.
Viewed from the mountain range, the sedan moving across the great stretch of highway seemed to be a
snail out for a leisurely afternoon stroll. Actually, the machine was flashing along at better than sixty miles
an hour.
That gives you some idea of the distances in the amazing Yukon-Alaskan country. The highway was part
of the famous Alcan Road — sixteen hundred miles of deluxe highway straight through the Yukon and
Alaska to faraway Fairbanks. Right through the land of the midnight sun and the northern lights.
During the war they called it the “Road To Tokyo”. Now it was soon to become the vacation route of
many thousands of tourists. It was an engineering marvel.
The mountain range from which one could see the tiny ant of a car was just a slight knoll compared to
other mountain peaks beyond. Snow capped many of the distant ridges. Fifteen thousand feet would
catch some of their heights.
But down here the soft hush of late afternoon was warm and slumberous. Not even a bird chirped. There
was a slight amount of dampness on the earth, caused by heavy rains the night before. The rain had wet
the earth sufficiently that there was no immediate danger of forest fires.
That probably explained why the fire warden was absent from the lookout platform atop the shaftlike
tower that jutted skyward from the small mountain top. Ordinarily, he would have been up there for a last
inspection before night closed in.
At the moment, he was inside the small shack built at the foot of the lookout tower. He was a tall,
red-headed young man who looked old. He looked old because he had not shaved in several weeks. He
had grown quite a beard, a red, bristly thing that was about as stiff as the hairs on a sow's back.
The young fire warden's name was Sparks. That was because of the radio gadgets that practically filled
the cabin, leaving barely enough room for the single narrow cot and the cook stove. Sparks was
somewhat of a radio “ham”.
Being a radio ham kept him from going completely balmy in this great, endless world atop a mountain
where there wasn't a soul to talk to for days on end.
Sparks was talking now. Plenty! — into the radiophone mike that he clutched fiercely in his hand. The set
was a two-way affair, built for sending and receiving.
The tall, red-bearded young man jumped up and down and yelled into the mike, “Calling any pilot in this
vicinity! Calling any airfield! Pilot in trouble. Somebody's got to help a pilot who's in trouble—plane going
to make a forced landing—private plane number NC-8546—they need help!”
The young man kept screaming into the microphone. Once he looked at the telephone, on his cluttered
desk, and started swearing like a mule-skinner. Already he had attempted to put through a call on the
telephone. But last night's storm had knocked down a wire somewhere. The line was dead.
For ten minutes now he had been trying to relay the pilot's call for assistance. Sparks had been fooling
around with his set when he had suddenly picked up the frantic call for help. A pilot forced down in this
vast region might be lost for days — forever! That's why it was so urgent for Sparks to locate some
other pilot and have him spot the location where the troubled plane was forced down.
In fifteen more minutes it would be too late. Darkness closed in quickly in the mountains.
“Won't someone answer?” bellowed the red-bearded young man into the mike. He was getting more
excited now. “Calling for help—pilot in trouble—someone answer!”
He got no response.
Frantic now, he dropped the mike on the desk and ran outside. He jumped up and down and yelled at
the top of his lungs. He had a tremendous voice built for hog-calling. His bellow rolled up and down the
mountain-side.
“Help! Help! Help!”
After awhile the words came tumbling back out of the primeval stillness and almost caused him to jump
out of his skin.
SOMEWHERE approximately four thousand feet above the Alcan Highway, the pilot of the speedy
single-engine plane heard Sparks' mule-skinner bellowing.
The plane was a trim Sparton Executive, a cabin with ample room for six passengers. But the pilot was
the only occupant of the ship.
Just about every kind of modern flying gadget decorated the instrument panel. Two-way radio was
naturally part of the complete equipment.
The pilot, for some time now, had been guiding the plane with one hand and making notations on the map
with the other. The aeronautical chart was fastened to a board spread across his knees. Various
markings had been checked and noted on the map.
Now the sun was a red ball of fire skidding down beyond the distant mountain top. Shadows were
starting to crawl along the ridges and toward the valley that snuggled around the Alcan Road — a tiny
ribbon of a thing far below.
The pilot lifted the portable microphone from the hook. Transmitting equipment was already tuned in to a
wave-length back in the States.
“All right,” the pilot said, “that's about all for today. Too dark now to check the new route any further. I'll
pick up the Whitehorse radio beam and put down there for the night.”
The speaker crackled. Then a voice said, “How does it look?”
“Good,” answered the pilot.
“You think it will make a good air route for profitable operation?”
“Certain of it.”
“Mountains?”
“All over the place,” said the pilot, his glance going to one on his left, about five miles distant, that rose
skyward well above the plane's present altitude.
He added, “The road, however, follows a natural course between the mountain ridges. So can our
proposed air route. Altitude averages about four thousand feet. The altimeter's only on 4600 right now.”
“We wouldn't have to use pressurized cabins for vacation travel, then?”
“I doubt it.”
“That'll save investing in half-million dollar planes. They might not pay, to start.”
“Hardly,” agreed the pilot. “But there will be plenty of postwar vacation business up here, and a lot of it
by air.”
“You bet.” Then, over the speaker, “We'll hear more from you tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“There's a board meeting here at the airline headquarters tomorrow morning. They'll sure be pleased to
hear your report — especially since it comes from their director.”
“I trust so,” said the pilot. “Well—I'm signing off now. Roger.”
“Roger.”
Doc Savage then turned the dials as he prepared to pick up the field at Whitehorse, some miles behind
him. At the same time he opened the throttle and put the powerful plane into a fairly steep climb, in order
to circle and skirt a mountain ridge not far away.
It was while he was changing wave-lengths that he happened to pick up the “Ham” radio operator's
excited yelling. Doc Savage heard the word “Help!”
He swung the dial back on the wave-length and listened.
Next his unusual flake-gold eyes flickered with intensity. His features, a deep bronze, became taut.
The ham radio operator's words tumbled over one another. He sounded as though he had been chased
by a hungry bear. He was yelling:
“Pilot—trouble—going to make forced landing—private plane number NC-8546—somebody
help—somebody please go to their aid …”
There was a jumble of unintelligible words.
Then: “Approximate location of plane is four miles south of Kluane Lake flats. Going down for a forced
landing. Hurry—hurry—hurry!”
After that the amateur operator's voice became so excited Doc Savage could understand nothing at all.
MEANWHILE, Doc Savage's sturdy plane had climbed several thousand feet. He leveled off, tried once
more to dial in words that made sense. He caught a single word — “Sparks” — and surmised this to be
the fellow's name. But now the fellow's wild jargon sounded like a Donald Duck crackling in the receiver.
Doc checked his map. The southern tip of Kluane Lake was seven miles away, directly northeast of
Whitehorse. He put the plane into a 180-degree about-turn and watched the tachometer climb as he
opened the throttle wide.
The sun had disappeared beyond the horizon. There would be light — sufficient light for any landing at
any field other than a flood-lighted airport — for only fifteen more minutes at the outside.
He wondered if the disabled plane had already crashed.
Doc checked his instruments and knew his exact destination now. He placed the chart aside and gave his
attention to piloting the plane. His hair, the same unusual bronze hue as his features, rumpled slightly in the
breeze coming in a panel window that had been slid open beside him.
That Doc Savage was somewhat of a muscular marvel was evident in the size of his figure behind the
controls.
Doc's head kept turning slowly, left to right, right to left, as an alert pilot does in flight. Mainly, however,
he centered most of his attention straight ahead.
Exactly two minutes later he picked up the fly speck in the darkening sky. Doc's plane had already
traveled five miles since he had set his new course.
The tiny ink-spot-speck became a plane. It became a plane in assorted kinds of trouble.
First, it slid off on one wing and lost a thousand feet of altitude, as fast as you could say Jack Spratt.
Next, it climbed. Wearily, as a kid who has been shoved down a snow bank six times and it desperately
trying to reclimb for the seventh time.
The plane regained maybe five hundred feet altitude, then flopped off in a side slip again. This time, Doc
estimated, the drop ended no more than five hundred feet above the earth.
The earth was flat down there, a wide sweeping plain. It looked like a great airfield set down in the
middle of nowhere. Northward, stretching out for many miles, was a lake, looking like a splatter of dull
quicksilver in the growing dusk.
Doc was diving now. Fast. The disabled plane had started a climb again. It rose only a few hundred feet.
The next time it fell off, it went all the way to the earth.
Or seemed to. It couldn't have crashed, because there was no burst of flame indicating an explosion.
Doc gave a sigh of relief. Somehow, the pilot had managed to level off at the last possible instant. It was
amazing flying, Doc decided.
Doc's own plane was plunging earthward at tremendous speed now. He pulled out of the dive close
enough to the wide, sun-baked flats to see the other plane — a single-engine private coupe — skimming
along only feet above the ground.
Doc was coming right in behind it, his throttle off. He merely gave the throttle a little yank now and then in
order to clear the engines of accumulated gas.
One wheel of the plane ahead touched the earth. Dust shot up. The craft held a straight course for a
while, then suddenly went into a ground loop. It spun around as fast as a top.
Doc, tense, let his own craft slip, came down fast, leveled off close above the ground and landed. It was
a sloppy landing. He bounced hard, once, but this was no time for fancy flying.
He braked his own plane to a stop a hundred feet away from the other ship, cut the ignition and leaped
out.
The other plane sat motionless, one wheel collapsed beneath it. Luckily it had not turned over.
The pilot got out of the plane while Doc Savage was still running toward it. He staggered around as
though just hit on the jaw by a club.
He wore fancy knickers and expensive, high leather boots. As Doc approached, the pilot grasped a strut
and steadied himself. A hand went shakily to a light-weight flying helmet and started to pull it off.
“I hope you're all right,” Doc called as he ran. “I thought for a moment —”
He stopped saying that and started, drawing up three paces from the pilot.
Dark, brunette hair tumbled down as the pilot whipped off the flying helmet.
Chapter II
“OH!” Doc Savage said. After that he added, “My!”
Not that it was unusual, in this modern era, for a girl to be flying her own plane. It was simply that he had
taken for granted that pilot would be a man. He had heard only one side of the radio conversation — that
of the excited ham operator. Doc reminded himself that it did not pay to jump to conclusions, no matter
what the circumstances.
He seldom did.
“You're positive you're not hurt?”
She jerked her head. Her hand, however, still clutched the plane support and she had not moved.
Regaining her equilibrium, Doc thought. No wonder, after a jolt like that!
“Sure?” he prodded.
Again the head shake.
She was small, slender and as trim as a minute. Disturbingly pretty. Her eyes were deep brown and
about as large and round as Doc had ever seen.
“Look,” Doc advised, “perhaps you'd better walk around a bit. Start the circulation, you know.”
She didn't move. For a brief instant she tilted her head back slightly in order to glance up at him. It was
necessary for her to do that because of the difference in their sizes. The mere glance sent electric flashes
coursing through him.
Suffering from a slight amount of shock, Doc guessed. He was positive she was not injured. Her eyes
were clear. Blasted disturbing eyes, too. Like wondrous little-girl eyes.
“Here —” he said, and reached inside the plane.
It was a small, two-place job, but well equipped. He had quickly noted the large numbers on the wing:
NC-8546. The same plane that had been in trouble, all right.
Doc removed one of the seat cushions and placed it on the ground.
“It might be better,” he suggested, “if you sit down for a moment.”
She followed his suggestion. Still, she had said nothing.
There was good color in her cheeks. Doc was positive she'd snap out of it in a moment, so he swung his
big figure inside the cabin and made a swift inspection.
He worked various controls. The collapsed wheel was bad enough. He frowned when he discovered that
one of the cables to the rudder was snapped. Finding a flashlight in a clip fastened to the cowling, he
looked further.
And he saw now why the plane had been going into the side slips. He put the flashlight in his pocket —
Doc wore a plain gray business suit, because it had been a warm day — and climbed out of the plane
again. A slight drop in the temperature and the approaching darkness reminded him that night was fast
closing. Shortly it would be chilly and dark.
“We'll have to leave your plane here,” he told the girl. “I'll see what I can do about sending a repair crew
out here tomorrow. It's a wonder you weren't killed.”
Oddly, she did not move. He stepped a little closer. Evening twilight was deceiving now. He had
imagined she was watching him intently, but her eyes were such a deep, dark brown that he could not be
certain.
He must have been mistaken.
“I'll fly you to the nearest airport,” Doc said. “The sooner we get started, the better. It will be pitch black
shortly.”
He leaned down to help her to her feet, and thought she stiffened slightly. He said, “I'm Clark Savage,
Jr.—Doc Savage, to some.” He smiled. “Now, if I knew yours, we wouldn't have to be quite so formal.”
“Patience,” she said.
It was the very first time she had spoken. Sound of her voice gave Doc Savage a double shock. First
because she had spoken so suddenly — also, because it was such a sweet, pleasant, well modulated
voice. An unusual mixture of young-girl-voice and reserved, well-trained older woman's'.
“Patience?” Doc repeated.
She jerked her head.
A nice name, Doc thought. It suited her sweet-looking personality.
He said, smiling, “Well, now that we have the formalities over with, shall we start? We ought to take off
pretty quick.”
He reached down to take her arm.
Patience jumped to her feet with a little startled cry on her lips.
She began going away from there as though a pack of coyotes were on her heels.
THE girl named Patience ran like a frightened fawn. Straight out across the table-smooth flats that
stretched for miles between Kluane Lake and the Alcan Road, somewhere far off to the right hidden now
by approaching darkness. Beyond — dark, slumbering giants — were the mountains.
Nothing else.
Running away from something in that great, quiet vastness was like trying to escape a thunderstorm on a
raft in the middle of the Atlantic.
Patience must have realized this after she ran a hundred yards. She drew up, turned to look back at Doc
Savage, stood very still.
Doc walked up to her. He didn't run. He didn't want to frighten her further — if he had frightened her.
But he didn't think he had. It was something else, an expression that had been in her eyes just before she
took off. He had a feeling she was terrified about whatever it was that frightened her.
She wasn't hurt. Otherwise, she couldn't have run like that. The terror, or whatever it was, accounted for
the speechless way she had stat motionless on the seat cushion.
Doc had reached her side again.
“You'd better,” said Doc, “get whatever traveling essentials you need out of your plane. You understand
you can't stay out here all night?”
Her deep brown eyes surveyed him a moment, went away, came back again. There was a hint of
confidence in their depths.
“I've never heard of Doc Savage,” she said. She had managed to regain her breath waiting her approach.
“You'll have to take my word for it — about my identity,” Doc told her.
“I have only a single light handbag,” she said, starting toward her disabled plane.
Doc walked at her side. He was not surprised that his name made no impression on her. After all, a
number of people not involved or interested in the pursuit of evildoers to the far-flung corners of the
world would know of Doc Savage.
Doc was, in fact, glad he could meet her on equal ground. He thought she needed help.
BACK at her broken ship, her slim figure disappeared inside for a moment and then she reappeared with
a small overnight bag. Doc took it and led the way to his own plane.
“Where to?” he asked, helping her into the cabin.
“Watson Lake. There's an airport back there.”
“We couldn't possibly make it,” Doc pointed out. “There's almost back in British Columbia, and
hundreds of miles away. I haven't enough gas in the tanks.”
He had slammed the cabin door and was not switching on the inertia starters.
“Fairbanks,” said Patience.
“Worse yet,” Doc's eyebrows raised slightly. “That's farther still.” She certainly seemed to want to get as
far away from here as possible.
“Well —” she started.
The motors caught and drowned out her words. Doc held the breaks on, made his checkup, then they
were taking off. Any part of the smooth flats would have served for a runway. Doc was using landing
lights for the takeoff.
In the air, he continued, “I was going to put in at Whitehorse. That's closest.”
“Whitehorse?”
“You'll find a hotel there.”
“I know —” she bit her lip and was silent.
Doc kept the ship in a steady climb, gaining plenty of altitude. Stars were popping out of the sky. He
checked the stars and his instruments, turning his head back and forth as he watched the night sky.
Running lights had been switched off immediately after the takeoff. They moved through an awe-inspiring,
vaulted world.
Once, glancing back to check star points, Doc frowned. He looked back again a moment later. Then he
gave his attention to the girl.
“Just what,” he queried solicitously, “are you running away from?”
The girl named Patience continued to worry her lower lip with her small even teeth. Abruptly she stopped
doing that and looked across at Doc. Patience gave him just about the most gorgeous smile he had ever
seen.
“Running away from what?” she asked.
“Whatever it is you're running away from.”
“But I'm not. Really!”
“Doc thought about that for a moment.
“Sure?” he prodded.
“Sure.”
“You certainly weren't chasing gophers a few moments ago.”
“Oh, that!” Patience settled down in the seat beside Doc Savage, unzippered her lightweight summer
flying jacket and looked completely relaxed. “After all,” she pointed out, “I didn't know you. And you're
somewhat of a super-size man, Doc Savage. Any girl would run, the first time — especially up here in the
wilderness!”
Doc smiled.
“Then I'm not so frightening after all?”
She shook her head, her brown eyes twinkling. “Hardly!”
Doc felt some relief, for he had been in a sort of predicament. Taking care of a frightened girl was touchy
business anytime. Watching over her while trying to handle a plane in the air was something else again. So
he felt relieved that she had got over being frightened.
IT wasn't long until they picked up the Whitehorse radio beam. The flight, in airline miles, was less than a
hundred miles — only a hop, skip and jump for Doc's fast plane.
Every moment or so Doc Savage's sharp gaze scanned the night skies in the usual pilot's checkup during
flight. Driving a car, one watches the highway ahead; in the air, one continually checks the sky around him
— in every direction including overhead and below.
Not that Doc expected to see any other craft. Along a busy airline in the States it would be different.
Here, especially at night, a plane every twenty-four hours of so would be heavy traffic.
The night was now clear and bright, the dark velvet of the sky star-studded. They were far enough north
that the stars seemed within arm's reach, and as bright as lanterns.
Soon they would be picking up the lights of town.
Doc said, “As I told you, I'll have someone take care of your plane in the morning.”
“Won't that put you to a great deal of trouble?”
He shook his head. “I'm in that business, sort of . I mean — I have an interest in the airline business.
We're considering starting a post-war route to Alaska. I imagine a great many people will be coming up
here on vacation travel.”
“They certainly will.”
Patience was interested in Doc Savage's remarks. “The Alcan Road — some people refer to it as the
Alaskan Highway — will be a great drawing card for tourists, too.” She motioned downward. “This is
the most gorgeous country in the world to drive through. Some folks think of this territory as bleak and
frozen. Summertime, up here, is perfectly marvelous.”
Doc nodded.
He explained, “We plan a combined travel-here-by-plane-rent-your-own-car service. Touring cars will
be available for travelers when they reach various airports along the Alcan Road.”
“So you're up here making a survey?”
“That's right.”
“It seems to me,” said Patience thoughtfully, “I read something about the proposed new route in the
newspapers. But I don't recall seeing your name —”
Doc said, “There was quite a bit of publicity. Most people, however, don't know I'm connected with the
airline.”
“I should think you'd like the publicity?”
Doc did not reply directly to the question. “I get enough as it is,” he said.
Doc Savage was connected with various enterprises, foundations and organizations that had
accomplished a great deal of good in the world — the kind of work that, without profit, helped further
man's progress or aided people in distress or trouble.
Some people heard of Doc Savage when he eliminated various evil elements that threatened society.
Such worthwhile activity was bound to get publicity.
The rest of the time — which was whenever possible — Doc Savage preferred that his name not appear
in connection with his work.
Patience was pointing ahead and slightly to the right. “That must be the town of Whitehorse,” she said
brightly.
Doc had just turned his head to make a checkup of the skies again. He swung his eyes back to the girl
and then followed her gaze. Nodding, he said, “We're slightly off course.” He set the nose of the plane
directly towards the town.
They had been a bit off course because, in craning his head around, Doc had unconsciously used a slight
amount of left rudder. But he had been intent on the star behind them. At first, he had used the star as a
check point to verify his course. Then, oddly, the star had blinked out. Now it had blacked out again for
a bare instant.
Which meant something had crossed its path. Twice!
Doc was positive now that the other plane was trailing them.
摘要：

FireAndIceADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispageformatted2004BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI?ChapterII?ChapterIII?ChapterIV?ChapterV?ChapterVI?ChapterVII?ChapterVIII?ChapterIX?ChapterX?ChapterXI?ChapterXII?ChapterXIII?ChapterXIVAdditionproofingbyMoeTheCatOriginallypublishedinD...

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