Thunder Jim Wade

by Henry Kuttner

  There was a guard posted—one of the renegade Minoan priests, stocky and sinewy, his gaze wary as he lounged in a dark crevasse that cut the eastern wall of the pass, hidden from view. Wade did not see him, but sensed his presence unmistakably. The innumerable night-sounds, the whisper of winds, the murmur of the river, the hum of nocturnal insects, formed a monotone which altered, very slightly, as Wade approached the guard.

  An almost undetectable hush surrounded him. His presence had driven away the wary insects and small bush animals. His breathing was not quite inaudible, and Wade’s nostrils, long trained for such work, could detect the man’s odor, as distinctive as the strong musk-smell of a lion. Each of Wade’s senses was keenly alert, attuned to the slightest disturbance.

  He waited, considering. There was no reason to risk an alarm unnecessarily. Discovery at this point would be dangerous. He grinned in the darkness. Dangerous was an understatement. It would be fatal.

  To overcome and tie the guard would be a delay, and unnecessary. Better to slip past unnoticed. If that could be done!

  Wade retreated. Taking advantage of the cover, he crossed the narrow pass to the west, until he reached Argo River. It did not flow too swiftly for his purposes. The valley was fairly level, and the stream had neither rapids nor falls. It clung to the steep side of the gorge, and by keeping to the slow water of the shallows, Wade felt sure he could swim upstream. Whether he could do so without being detected by the enemy’s guards was another matter.

  Crouching under a bush, he stripped and made his garments into a small, compact bundle, which he gripped in one hand. That done, he slipped into the water. Its snowy chill was a shock. There were flecks of ice visible floating downstream, and Wade knew speed was essential, to avoid freezing. But silence was even more important.

  Holding his clothes and gun over his head, he crossed the river and reached the shallows, where plants grew thickly on the shore. He paused long enough to procure camouflage—some leaves that served to disguise his bundle, and a vine that he ripped up and wound about his head like a turban. This might not help much, but every precaution was valuable at this stage of the game.

  Again he dropped into the water and began to make his way upstream. Above him the steep, dark rampart of rock rose against the purple sky. Sometimes pebbles and earth would be dislodged and fall splashing into the stream. The moon had risen above the eastern summit of the gorge, and its light slanted down on the river. But that was something that could not be helped.

  Far away came the muted rumble of avalanches. The sky was blazing with jeweled brilliance. The strange, fantastic beauty of the African night was exotically unreal. Wade thought he might be on another world, a planet where man had never existed. For the thousandth time the lure of the far, lonely places beyond civilization’s outposts struck through him. Wade could never live long in a city, he knew. The blood of explorers and adventurers flowed too strongly in his veins.

  Little clicks sounded as ice-shards touched rocks. But this was along the edge. In the center the river flowed like a broad, smooth ribbon, back into the larger valley and past the wall of Minos. There were no crocodiles here, Wade knew. It was far too cold. Nor, for the same reason, would there be hippopotami. But there were certainly guards and, worst of all, there was the deadly, biting chill of the water.

  It crept through Wade’s flesh and into his bones until he clenched his teeth to keep them from rattling together. His breath came unsteadily. Still he fought his way on.

  Abruptly he froze. A guard! A Minoan, standing motionless on the bank. Had he seen the swimmer? Wade let himself drift down. Under the water his hand found a rock, and he anchored himself to it with numb fingers. To the priest it must seem as though two floating bits of vine had caught on a boulder. He waited, while the iron cold gnawed into him, numbing his naked body.

  There must be no alarm! Over and over he repeated the phrase in his mind. He must wait, for hours, if necessary, until the way was clear once more. His hand slipped from the rock and he regained his grip with difficulty. His fingers were without feeling.

  Chapter XII

  The Minotaur’s Lair

  CAREFULLY the guard looked up and downstream, turned, and walked away. Wade waited a few minutes, for safety’s sake, then resumed his struggle. But it was more difficult now. His reactions were slowed by the terrible chill.

  The walls of the pass grew wider. He was entering the sacred valley. In the distance he could see the towering image of the Minotaur, ghostly in the moonlight, and the white temples shining about it. Sleep shrouded the place. The men of Solent and Yaton were resting, in preparation for tomorrow’s attack.

  A glint of silvery-gray caught Wade’s eye. Far upstream, by a grove, he could make out the wreckage of a plane—Solent’s, obviously. Solent would need the Thunderbug to leave the valley, once he accomplished his ends. But a plane was not vital. With dynamite, the pass to the outer world could be blasted open, and the trek made afoot. Wade himself and Professor Galbraith had once done that, in the distant past.

  Briefly Jim Wade wondered how Red and Dirk were getting along back in Minos. He doubted if the Thunderbug could be repaired in time to repel the attack. That made his present mission even more important.

  It was time to leave the river. Under the cover of bushes, Wade scrambled out, shuddering with cold. He took time to rub his body vigorously with a mat of stiff grass he tore up, gasping as circulation was restored, and the ache left his arms and legs. That done, he dressed again in the priestly masquerade, and considered.

  What was to be done first? Solent seemed to be the worst danger. With the Eurasian dead, the attack might collapse. Or would it? Yaton, determined to seize power in the valley, would not give up his plans so easily. There was an army of six hundred men here, most of them familiar, by now, with the weapons of civilization. Quester would take Solent’s place, if necessary.

  There were three leaders—Quester, Solent, and Yaton. They must be killed or rendered harmless.

  And Professor Galbraith. He was a prisoner here somewhere, condemned to death. He must be rescued. Wade wondered if the pass to the larger valley could be closed with dynamite. No, it was too wide. And the enemy could blast it open again easily enough.

  Solent remained the real danger. The Eurasian was diabolically clever. If he had a weakness, Wade did not know it.

  Wade slipped toward the temples, watching for a guard. What he wanted now was information. As he advanced, he stooped to lift from the ground a smooth, round stone, a little larger than a walnut. He had a gun, but the sound of its explosion would ring like a thunderclap in the silent valley. A thrown knife might kill, but would not knock a man out. Wade weighed the stone in his palm, judging its potentialities as a missile.

  A Minoan priest—apparently all the guards were priests, selected because of their specialized training—walked past as Wade froze into immobility. He wasn’t quite close enough. But he was approaching.

  THUNDER JIM’S arm went back, and he hurled the stone with unerring accuracy. There was a soft thump, and the priest slumped without a sound. Briefly there was deadly silence. Had any other watchers seen him fall? Wade’s muscles were tense, ready for instant action. But the stillness only dragged on endlessly.

  A few moments later, Wade had the unconscious guard in the concealment of bushes, and was bending over him, deft fingers busy. Soon the man sighed and opened his eyes. They went wide as he saw his captor. As his mouth opened Wade’s hand clamped over it, while his other hand found the priest’s throat.

  The man tried to struggle, discovered that he was bound with strips torn from his own garments, and relaxed, glaring balefully.

  “Do you wish to die?” Wade said.

  The priest gasped for air. The strong fingers about his throat relaxed slightly.

  “If you speak above a whisper—”

  “By the goddess Rhea! You—” The priest’s face went purplish-bronze under Wade’s deadly grip. “Nay!” he choked out. “Na
y! I will speak!”

  “So. You are wise. Where is the white man, Galbraith, held prisoner?”

  The prisoner’s eyes were somewhat too frank in their honest stare as they met Wade’s.

  “In Rhea’s temple.”

  “And now the truth!”

  “Nay, do not slay me! He is in the Temple of Cnossos! That is the truth. I swear it by the Minotaur!”

  Wade was satisfied. He asked a few more questions, grunted, and struck. The priest went limp as a hard fist cracked against his jaw. It was the only way, short of killing the man, to insure his silence. He would revive, but not immediately. Wade gagged him, tested the bonds, and melted into the bushes like a wraith.

  The Temple of Cnossos. It lay beyond the image of the Minotaur, a small stone building that usually housed priests. But now—

  The time for concealment was past. Wade had to trust his disguise. He stood up, and his tall, well-knit body seemed to alter strangely. Years spent studying gymnastics, something all priests and warriors in Minos had to know, had given him incredible control over his muscles. His body seemed to shorten, his shoulders to broaden. His head was hunched down so that he appeared neckless. The concealing cloak helped, too. He kept his legs slightly bent, like his arms, to help maintain the illusion.

  Then he walked toward the Temple of Cnossos.

  Soldiers slept under temporary shelters on the grassy ground of the sacred park. There did not seem many, but Wade knew the temples housed others. A few guards were strolling about, alert for danger. Yet they sensed none in this figure that walked among them like any Minoan priest, with no attempt at concealment. They did not see the gun Wade gripped under his cloak.

  HIS nerves were like chilled metal now, with the deceptive calm of unexploded dynamite. He walked, without a word, past the guard stationed at the entrance of the temple. His captive, the priest who lay now bound and unconscious under a bush, had told him in what room Galbraith was a prisoner, and Wade made for it without delay.

  He moved along a dimly-lit hall, passed the cell’s door, and continued for a few yards until he found what he wanted—a window that overlooked the park. It had no bars in it, and would provide an easy means of egress, even burdened by Galbraith.

  He went back to the cell and tested the door. A metal bar locked it, but Wade slid this back without a sound. He pushed open the portal noiselessly.

  Silence. The room into which he stared was completely empty, save for a couch against the wall on which a man’s figure lay. Moonlight slanted in through a barred window. A lamp was bright in one of the corners.

  Wade hesitated on the threshold. A trap? No—this was Professor Galbraith, lying bound hand and foot on the couch. About the prisoner’s throat, Wade saw, was a noose that ran up into the gloom overhead. He stepped forward.

  Instantly the door slammed shut behind him. Simultaneously Galbraith’s thin, dwarfish body rose into the air, hoisted by the rope about his neck. Before Wade could move, the scientist was hanging against the wall, his feet dangling above the couch, and he rose higher as Wade watched.

  So it was a trap! Galbraith was gasping for breath, his wrinkled face mottled and congested. As Wade crossed the room with two swift leaps the captive was hoisted up until he hung with his feet a man’s height above the floor. The rope about his neck ran through a small aperture in the wall, thence into an adjoining chamber, Wade guessed, where men were pulling it taut. Cursing, he sprang to the couch and ripped a knife from under his cloak.

  The moment he touched the rope he realized his mistake. It was of twisted wire. So taut was it that Wade could get no slack, and the blade could not cut through its metal. He seized Galbraith’s legs and tried to hoist the agonized figure higher to relieve the strain, but that did no good. There was not an inch of space between the scientist’s neck and the wall through which the rope ran.

  Hopeless! The strangling man was already unconscious. Wade hesitated, and suddenly a voice—Solent’s purring tones—sounded in the room.

  “There is not much time, Wade. Drop all your weapons out the window, quickly, or Galbraith will die.”

  That, at least, was evident. Thunder Jim wasted not a moment. He was at the window instantly, and his gun and knife made soft thuds on the turf outside as he tossed them through the bars.

  “Make no resistance, or—” Solent’s voice began, but he did not finish.

  Galbraith was still dangling helplessly from the wall. The door burst open, and six priests sprang in, weapons ready. Wade raised his arms.

  THERE was nothing else to be done. He could not see his old friend killed while he watched. But not until the priests had bound him securely did the wire rope slacken, and Galbraith’s figure fall back on the couch. A priest went to him and loosened the noose.

  “He will live,” he said shortly. “As for this man, bring him out. He will go into the Labyrinth—to meet the Minotaur!”

  Ten minutes later Wade stood on a little dais of marble, before the towering image of the Minotaur. The harsh clamor of a trumpet still echoed against the valley’s bleak walls. In answer to its summons, men were pouring from the temples, gathering around in a swarming mob, Minoan priests and soldiers, and Solent’s killers as well. The moon made the scene bright enough so that the torches seemed wan and useless.

  Wade’s legs had been shackled together with a short length of chain, permitting him to walk only with four-inch steps. His wrists were similarly manacled behind him, and a taut chain ran down from them to join his leg irons. He had been carefully searched, and wore only the tight Minoan skirt and blue tunic. His dark face was quite impassive. His mind was relaxed, alert and waiting. At present he could do nothing. But when and if opportunity arose, he would be ready.

  The surging throng pressed around closely. In the forefront, Wade saw, were Quester and Solent. Both were smiling triumphantly.

  Again the trumpet cried. Yaton, the renegade priest lifted his arms high. There was silence as his voice rang out.

  “This is our greatest enemy! Some of you know him. Most of you have heard of him! As a boy he lived in Minos, and now he has come back to help our enemies. But the Minotaur is stronger than he! The Minotaur aids us! Under his protection, we shall destroy Minos and rule. But first this man, our foe, will go into the Labyrinth!”

  A muted whisper murmured up from the serried, moonlit ranks. Plumes dipped; moonlight rippled along bronze helmets.

  “The Labyrinth!”

  “The god will slay him! No man comes alive from the Minotaur’s lair!”

  Chapter XIII

  The Labyrinth

  YATON’S words were good psychology, Wade thought absently. The Minoans would be encouraged by his death. Religious fervor would be added to the lust of conquest. And, too, the natives of the lost valley were superstitious. They worshiped their god, and feared him. The Man-Bull was a part of their life—an intrinsic, worshiped part—from birth to death.

  It was worth remembering. Psychology was a science with which Wade was familiar.

  He scarcely listened as Yaton continued his harangue. At last soldiers thrust him toward the gigantic statue.

  No escape. No man had ever come alive from the Labyrinth. They had met the monster, and had perished. And never before had a captive been sent in chains to meet the Minotaur. Such a handicap had been considered unnecessary. But Yaton was taking no chances with this prisoner!

  The bronze gates between the statue’s knees swung slowly open. Darkness yawned beyond. Wade turned on the threshold. He looked at Yaton; his gaze swung to Quester; and ended with Solent.

  “I intend to kill you three,” he said, quite gently. “Personally, if I can. But you will die, nevertheless.”

  Yaton’s harsh laugh held little mirth. Quester cursed under his breath. His hand swung down toward the gun at his belt. But Solent’s grip restrained him.

  The Eurasian smiled. Wade smiled back, but his eyes did not.

  “I’ll put a bullet through that scar on your forehead,”
he said, and with that grim promise turned back to the threshold.

  He stepped through into gloom. The bronze gates clanged shut behind him. He was in darkness, utter and complete. Before he could stir, there was movement under his feet. The floor tilted and dropped away.

  He plunged down like a stone. In the few moments of his fall, his mind worked like lightning. Was this the simple explanation of the Labyrinth? A well down which victims were dropped? Would his body crash into a mound of crumbling skeletons far below?

  Something crashed against Wade’s skull, and the world exploded in a blinding fountain of sparks.

  He awoke slowly, his body aching. What had happened? He had fallen, but at least he was alive. Metal fetters clanked noisily against the rock on which he lay. How severely was he hurt?

  The chains clinked as he investigated. His arm ached a bit more than the rest of him, and a cut on his head was dry with coagulated blood. That meant he had been unconscious for a long time. He looked at his wrist-watch, luckily unharmed by the falls. Past noon, he guessed. That meant—

  The renegade army had already marched on Minos!

  Wade forced the thought away. He realized that there was light here, a vague, wan radiance that filtered dimly around a bend of the corridor in which he lay. It was a broad passage, at least twenty feet wide, with walls of unscalable smooth rock. The roof, he judged, was about three men’s height above him. He could not escape by the way he had unwillingly entered the Labyrinth.

  WHAT next? The fetters, of course. They were of bronze, tough and unbreakable without tools, but they were not welded on. They were locked. They might have held anyone but Houdini or Thunder Jim Wade.

  Silently he blessed his arduous years of training. His bones were not flexible, but long practice had given him incredible control over his joints and muscles. And, too, the little Cockney pickpocket, Miggs, had taught him much.