Thunder Jim Wade

by Henry Kuttner

  Marat whistled with surprise. “Holy Smoke! That does it, all right! An electric fan—”

  Wade nodded. “That prop can cause a lot of wind. And there isn’t much gas in the gorge here. It was just concentrated at this end. Watch those cliffs, Dirk.”

  The little man’s rifle barked. “Right through the arm,” he said with satisfaction. “He was trying to throw down a grenade.”

  “Use the machine-guns. Pepper the cliffs. Don’t kill anybody, but drive ’em off.”

  Marat and Argyle were expert shots. Svendson could not help much, with his wounded arm, but he handled a pistol effectively. Meanwhile, the Thunderbug’s roaring propeller was swiftly sucking the poison gas out of the valley, dissipating it, starting it down the natural vent of the gorge toward its mouth. The Russians there had reformed, but they were now hesitant.

  Wade’s tense gaze found Tryggvard. The giant Viking, seeing that his men were recovering from their gassing, was trying to rally them, preparing to charge the Russians. Once that happened, Wade knew, there would be no stopping the slaughter. He had to turn Tryggvard from his purpose somehow.

  He nodded to Argyle. “Take over. Block the gorge with the Thunderbug.”

  Red slipped behind the controls as Wade leaped out of the cabin. Most of the gas was dissipated now. Argyle retracted the propeller and then turned the tank’s nose down the gorge. As the Thunderbug lurched into motion, Wade raced toward Tryggvard.

  He heard the Viking cry out, his gaze flicking up past Thunder Jim. Instantly Wade whirled, leaping aside. High up on the cliff he saw motion and from the corner of his eye he saw Tryggvard hurl his great sword like a javelin.

  ON A ledge above, half hidden behind a block of stone, stood Duke Feodor. In his hands he gripped a rifle. It spat flame.

  The shot went wild. Wade never knew whether it had been aimed at him or at Tryggvard. For Skull-Breaker flashed up through the air, and sheathed itself in Feodor’s thick throat!

  Blood spouted red. The Russian screamed, clawing at emptiness. He fell, crashing down the cliff face, to lie a broken, unmoving heap at the foot.

  A pistol barked. Tryggvard turned up a face on which an expression of sheer astonishment grew. His beard was red—it dripped red—

  The Viking fell, as a tree falls, his horned helmet clashing against the rocks.

  Behind the boulder that had sheltered Feodor, Wade saw movement. A man rose up, his face contorted with murder-lust. It was Trefz. In his hand was a grenade, and even as he stood up, he pulled the pin.

  Wade’s gun leaped into his hand. He knew, before he squeezed trigger, that it was too late. Trefz had thrown the grenade.

  In a moment it would explode—and those of the Vikings who were not slain would go berserk.

  The slaughter would continue, in spite of everything Thunder Jim could do….

  He acted instinctively, dropping the gun as he raced forward. It was a desperate chance, but the only one there was left. He hurdled a body—Tryggvard’s—almost without seeing it. He blundered into a Norseman, sent him sprawling. The grenade was dropping straight down—

  Wade caught it, gasped as it almost slipped from his grasp, and then sent it hurtling up again. Time stopped. Split seconds counted now. Trefz gave an animal-like scream and tried to hurl himself away from that hurtling missile of vengeance.

  It struck true. The cliff face exploded. Trefz’ dying shriek was drowned in a thunder of cracking stone.

  The Norsemen fled back from the falling rocks. Wade went with them, but his gaze clung to the spot where Trefz had been. In his jet eyes glowed a satanic, remorseless fury, cold and terrible. Thunder Jim Wade had kept his promises….

  The noise of the avalanche died away. The Vikings seemed confused now, leaderless and at a loss. Before Wade could speak, a tattered, Stocky figure raced toward him, past the Thunderbug.

  It was the monk Vladimir. He was gasping with exertion.

  “I—I saw it. Feodor’s dead!”

  Wade nodded. “Yeah. He’s dead. So is Trefz.”

  “I can stop my people from fighting now,” the monk said. “If the Norse will agree—”

  A burly Viking stepped forward. “Olaf Tryggvardson am I. I know you, Vladimir. I can trust you. And I think the blood debt has been paid. My father slew Duke Feodor, and was slain in turn. So honor is satisfied!”

  Wade sighed, feeling a little tired. It had been a hard job. But it was over now….

  * * * * *

  THEY stood in the cavern under the glacier, near the Norse city, where the golden dragon coiled in the gloom. Olaf, Tryggvard’s son, now leader of his people, pointed.

  “This is evil. From the beginning it brought evil. It has caused bloodshed here, and it has been a curse to my people. Wade, we do not want it any more. I had thought to give it to you, as a reward for your help, but I do not wish any curse to come upon you.”

  “The curse is over now,” Wade said practically. He was right. The truce had been signed, and the Russians, under Vladimir, would live at peace with the Norse. Wade could bring a rescue expedition from the outer world, with enough gas-masks to make escape possible for everyone here.

  Olaf rubbed his chin. “It is yours, if you want it. But think well. It is a powerful god!”

  Wade met his gaze squarely.

  “It came from China originally. Maybe that’s why there’s been a curse on it. Perhaps it wants to go home. I’ll accept the image, Olaf—but not for myself. I’ll send it back home. There’s a curse on China now—its people are fighting for their lives against foreign invaders—and they need help and money. This will give them both. Suppose we say—the idol will be donated to the cause of China?”

  “To help a fighting nation free itself?” Olaf’s eyes blazed. “Aye! With all my heart! Send the Dragon home, Jarl Wade—and may it fight for its people and save them!”

  “It will,” Thunder Jim smiled, “Money’s a powerful weapon. All right, Olaf. The Devil of the Glacier is—going home!”

  END

  Book V: Waters of Death

  From the Mists of Antiquity Comes a Man With an Earth-Shaking Story of Gold—and Plunges Jim Wade Into Prehistoric Danger!

  Chapter I

  Gold and Head-hunters

  WHITEY CARVER was shivering in spite of the choking Burmese heat. His meager, scrawny body moved stealthily along in the lush, moonlit greenness at the edge of the jungle path. He felt for his pistol and glanced around nervously. In two days they would be back in Mandalay—but this was not a well-traveled trail, and there were head-hunters in the neighborhood. The tow-headed, dwarfish guide licked dry lips.

  They were on the Chindwin, returning south from the almost unknown region near the Tibetan border. Michael Sanderson, a field geologist, had been on the track of a huge jade deposit supposed to exist neat Sadiya; but the rumors had proved false. There was jade, but of poor quality, and not enough of it to justify the expenses of the trip, which already had taken longer than Sanderson had expected. Nevertheless, his company could afford to send their men on such jaunts. And this time the geologist had discovered something more valuable than jade—and almost incredible.

  It began a fortnight before, in a little native village on the Upper Chindwin of friendly Burmans who were not head-hunters. Staying there for the night, they had learned of the presence of a man who had been found in the jungle nearby, a month ago, and who had been nursed back to health. The man was—unusual. He called himself Tabin Naung, and said he was a Pyu.

  That made Sanderson’s eyes widen. For the Pyu are the lost race of Burma. They existed once, according to ancient chronicles, and here and there have been found stone inscriptions in an unknown language, neither Burmese, Mon, or Pali.

  Sanderson spoke to the man, who had learned the tongue of his friendly hosts. What he learned was almost incredible. In the end, Tabin Naung came south with them. Whitey Carver, brushing past the threadlike climbing leeches that stretched avidly toward him from the branches, was thinking of all
this as he glimpsed the Pyu squatting under a tree.

  TABIN NAUNG wore only a clout, and his bronzed, muscular body shone in the moonlight. He was a giant, with a handsome, regal face, and an oddly boyish smile. He was smiling now as he looked down the trail toward the clearing where the porters had camped.

  He sprang up and greeted Whitey Carver. “I’m glad you came. I feel lonely tonight—so far from my own land.”

  The guide grunted. “Why not come along to the zayat? Sanderson’s having a pipe before he turns in.”

  The other gestured, and followed Whitey as the latter turned and started back along the path. A lizard stirred under their feet and slipped away. The silence was like a moist, hot blanket, and the distant sound of the river was muffled.

  They came in sight of the zayat—one of the rest-hostels that pious Buddhists have erected all over Burma, roofed platforms without walls, generally placed in dry patches to avoid the ever present nuisance of the leeches. The zayat’s interior was in darkness, but Sanderson was leaning against one of the supports, puffing out aromatic smoke. The geologist was a tall man, well built, with a hard face tanned by tropic suns, and watchful, keen gray eyes. He saw the approaching men and nodded.

  “Hello, there. Anything wrong?”

  “Not a thing,” Whitey said. “Tabin Naung’s a bit jittery about getting into Mandalay, that’s all. He isn’t used to a place like that.”

  Sanderson laughed, rubbing his sandy mustache. “Well, lad,” he said to Tabin, “if I visited your country I think I’d be jittery, too. Hope I can, some day. I’d never thought such a place could exist, even in the Burmese back-country.”

  Tabin Naung smiled. “I did not know the outside world existed. You forget that my land for ages has been surrounded by the Waters of Death, which no man could pass.”

  “You passed it,” Sanderson said.

  “Yes.” The other glanced ruefully at partly healed scars on his bronzed body. “I fought the monsters of the swamp, but it was no easy task! Yet if I went back to Palinwa Land it would be certain death.”

  “Palinwa,” the geologist mused, gnawing on his pipe-stem. “Ye gods, what a strange place that must be! The lost race of the Pyu, imprisoned on that huge island in the swamp for ages!”

  Tabin Naung smiled. “I was their king. It was not strange to me.” His eyes darkened somberly. “Till Kamanthi conquered.”

  “Quite a dame,” Whitey broke in, grinning. “I’d like to meet this Kamanthi.”

  “She is a devil,” the Pyu muttered. “I ruled Palinwa well and wisely until she raised a band of revolutionaries and overthrew me. The people hate her. But her army terrorizes the land.”

  “Coup d’etat,” Sanderson nodded. “With Storm Troopers, Burmese style.”

  Tabin Naung shrugged. “Those words I do not know. But Kamanthi dared not kill me outright, for fear of the people. She banished me—and where was there for me to go except to the Waters of Death? The swamp that surrounds Palinwa, filled with nats—demons and monsters. Serpents larger than trees—ai! I battled one, and slew it!” He fingered a white weal on his muscular chest.

  “IT’S A government job, as I told you,” Sanderson said. “When we get to Mandalay, I’ll see that you get a hearing. Palinwa will be taken under the protection of the government. Probably that Kamanthi woman will be deposed. After all, you’ve a treasure in Palinwa which mustn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

  Whitey licked his thin pale lips. “It just can’t be true, Mr. Sanderson. Nobody can make gold.” His eyes shone.

  The other shook his head. “I’d have said the same thing myself. But Tabin Naung’s ornaments are made of the purest gold I’ve ever seen… let me have that bracelet again, please.”

  The native slipped a shining band from his arm and gave it to Sanderson, who squinted at it. A small portion of the bracelet was of some metal that gleamed a dull gray.

  “See?” the geologist said. “It’s all gold—very pure gold—except for that bit of lead.”

  “It was lead, originally,” Tabin Naung explained. “All of it. I saw it made. Only a few priests know the secret, but there are legends that ages ago our forefathers could make any metal in the Sacred Place.”

  Sanderson glanced at Whitey. “It’s transmutation—the Philosopher’s Stone of the ancient alchemists. All history is filled with such yarns, plenty of which have come true, in the light of modern science. We can knock off a few atoms even now, in the laboratories, but we need huge atom-smashers and too much power. It happens in nature—uranium to radium to lead.”

  “But turning lead to gold?” Whitey’s voice was incredulous.

  “The atomic weight of lead is eighty-two. Gold’s seventy-nine. Those two metals are more alike than you’d think. I’ve tested this bracelet, Whitey, and the lead is infiltrated with the gold—is part of it. As for the rest of Tabin’s story—well, this country has a queer history. All around Burma, Indo-China, Tibet, there are stories of an ancient race who had mastered magic—which means science to us. Maybe one of those ancient scientists did stumble on the secret of transmutation. It could be possible. From what Tabin Naung told me of the machine itself, I think it’s a practical device to alter the atomic structure of metals.”

  “So what’s the answer?” demanded the guide. “Free gold?”

  “A way to make gold.” Sanderson knocked the ashes out of his pipe. His face was very serious. “It could wreck the financial structure of the world. It’s got to be controlled and kept secret.”

  “If it exists,” added Whitey skeptically.

  The geologist stared at the bracelet. I’ve made my tests. I’ll stake my reputation that it exists!”

  Whitey’s words were drawled, but his eyes were alertly watchful. “Well, all I say is that it looks like a swell chance to make a fortune.”

  Sanderson shook his head. “It’s too big. And it’s dynamite. The economic structure of England, America, and a dozen other countries are based on gold, even though the silver standard may be nominally used. Flood the world with artificial gold, and you’ll have financial ruin and chaos, affecting even the countries that use the barter system—like Germany.”

  He glanced at Tabin Naung sharply. “Wait a bit. You say Palinwa’s an island. Where do you get the lead itself, if the Waters of Death are impassable—or have been till you crossed the swamp?”

  The Pyu smiled. “Palinwa is no tiny islet. It must be, by your reckoning, about fifty miles or more across. There are places where lead ore is dug out of the ground.” Suddenly he lifted his hand warningly, while his keen eyes searched the surrounding darkness. Sanderson tensed.

  “What’s up?” he asked quietly.

  Tabin Naung relaxed. “I thought I heard a stirring in the bushes. I am turning into a nervous woman! Ai!”

  SANDERSON frowned. “Might be head-hunters,” he observed slowly. They could have trailed us down the Chindwin. But I don’t think they would risk getting this close to Mandalay.”

  Whitey Carver was scowling. “Mr. Sanderson,” he said abruptly, “I’m not sure whether it’d be wise to turn Tabin Naung over to the government.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why should they bother about a hole-in-the-wall island up the Chindwin?”

  “You forget the gold,” Sanderson said.

  “No, but they might not recognize Tabin Naung’s claim at all. They might just make a treaty with Kamanthi, the girl who kicked our friend out. It’s possible.”

  “I’ll pull a few strings,” Sanderson said.

  Still Carver was not satisfied. “Thunder Jim Wade’s in Mandalay. His plane, the Thunderbug, is being repaired there. It got smashed up a bit in Indo-China lately, and he was forced down at Mandalay. I found that out from the telegraph operator at the last town we passed through.”

  “Thunder Jim Wade?” Tabin Naung inquired perplexed.

  Whitey Carver nodded. “Wade’s a trouble-shooter. He works alone except for two pals, Dirk Marat and Red Argyle. They’ve spent thei
r lives fighting crime and helping guys who need it. Helping people who can’t get help anywhere else. This’d be a natural for Wade, Mr. Sanderson. He’d know what the gold-making angle meant, and that if it isn’t controlled, it can wreck whole countries.”

  The Pyn lifted his eyebrows. “But what can he do?”

  “He has the Thunderbug,” Carver said. “It’s a combination plane, tank, and submarine. A few machine-guns in Palinwa, and Queen Kamanthi would run for cover.”

  “In Palinwa gold is a sacred metal, but not valuable otherwise,” Tabin Naung said thoughtfully. “It is strange to know how vital it is outside of my own land.”

  Sanderson tapped the dottle from his pipe. “Well, we’ll be in Mandalay in two days, and—”

  The Pyu sprang up like an uncoiled spring. His long arms circled Sanderson and Carver and thrust them back into the darkness of the zayat. His low whisper was taut with urgency.

  “Do not move! There is danger!”

  “Eh?” Sanderson crouched, staring into the shadows.

  “I was not mistaken,” Tabin Naung murmured. “There are men hidden in the jungle—very close.”

  Carver caught his breath. “Those bloody head-hunters! They did trail us, then!”

  Sanderson took out his gun. “We’ll give ’em a run for their money,” he sad grimly. “There’s only three of us, but we’ve a chance.”

  “A damn slim one,” the guide whispered, his voice shaking.

  “They are coming!” Tabin Naung said. “Ai, but this will be a battle! May the gods of Palinwa guard us!”

  Then silence. The three men waited tensely.

  Chapter II

  Land Below the Mist

  THUNDER JIM WADE was in Mandalay, drinking a brandy-and-splash under the shade of a mango, and watching the slow sliding of the Myitngé River in the distance. Blazing sunlight danced through the leaves and warmed his strong, tanned face. It was very still, with only the clatter of a pony’s hoofs coming from the distant white road. Wade had few such hours of rest, and had learned to appreciate them.