Thunder Jim Wade

by Henry Kuttner

  Tabin Naung gave the cue. With superb nonchalance he walked forward, Wade keeping pace with him. The guards followed, but the crowd did not. The second set of gates opened.

  Before them was a huge subterranean chamber, vast and magnificent. It was a throne room, at the farther end a curtained dais. Walls, ceiling, floor, were elaborately figured in gold. At least a hundred natives were waiting, a guard of twenty surrounding the screened dais, armed with spears and curious swords. Lamps and torches lit the cavern-room redly.

  Wade whispered, “Swing it, boys,” and switched the receiving dial to full volume.

  The thunder of Wagner’s music crashed out in the stillness. Back in the Thunderbug Red and Dirk had slipped a phonograph record on the portable machine, and were broadcasting directly into the microphone. The effect was unusual, to say the least. No emperor ever had such a triumphal march.

  It was big magic. The music of a symphony orchestra roared out there, in that underground temple in Burma’s secret wilderness, and the natives gasped in superstitious awe. Tabin Naung swallowed convulsively, but kept his nerve. He had seen and heard radios in Mandalay. His poise did not desert him. He walked on till he had reached the first line of guards before the dais. There he halted.

  Wade manipulated the dial and let the music die away. “Stand by,” he whispered—and waited.

  There was silence.

  Tabin Naung caught one of the guard’s stares, and made an almost imperceptible gesture, which, nevertheless, Wade noticed. The native hesitated and then slipped away, vanishing through a curtained alcove.

  “I have sent him to spread the news of my return,” the sawbwa said, “and to gather those who are still faithful to me. We may need them.” He spoke in English, so only Wade understood the words.

  “Fair enough.”

  THERE was no time for more. A blast of trumpets sounded. The ranks of Palinwans turned their eyes expectantly toward the dais. Chants and cries arose.

  “Tama comes! Tama the six-armed! Goddess of Jade, ruler of Heaven—lo, Tama comes! Behold great Tama!”

  The curtains swept back. The dais was revealed. On it a throne stood, richly studded with jewels, figured in gold. Motionless on the throne was a figure.

  At first Wade thought he looked upon a statue of magnificent workmanship. It was a girl, exotic and lovely, with slightly slanted eyes and an elaborate headdress of gold. Her skin was green as jade—and she had six arms!

  Wade smiled slightly. Four of those arms were artificial, cleverly made and attached to the girl beneath her real arms. Her skin, of course, had been colored by some green pigment. Two skulls lay on the dais before her, staring out into the room with passionless grins of cryptic amusement.

  No expression crossed the girl’s face. Her lips moved slightly.

  “So you are back, Tabin Naung,” she said. Her voice was musical and soft. “I spared your life. Do you think I will be as merciful again?”

  The giant laughed deep in his chest. “Aye, Tama!” His tone held mockery. “I am back! I have crossed the Waters of Death, into which you banished me, and found a world beyond the great swamp. And I found great magic there. I have come back to take my rightful place as sawbwa of Palinwa-land.”

  Anger darkened the priestess’ eyes. “That is as it may be. Who is this man with you, Tabin Naung?”

  “A magician. Stronger than your priests, O Kamanthi! He has given me weapons of power.”

  The girl looked at Wade. “Is this true? Tama has her powers as well. Beware that she does not crush your body and send your soul out as a homeless nat, wailing in the moonless nights.”

  Wade matched Kamanthi’s glance. “I am a master of nats. I rule the spirits of beasts—the great tiger, the wolf, the serpent.”

  “Say you so?”

  “And I say more. I rule the nats of destruction. The ghosts of power serve me. The ghosts of flood and fire and earthquake come at my call!”

  Wade saw Tabin Naung glance quizzically at him. He knew the sawbwa was wondering whether Thunder Jim had not over-reached himself in his claims. What man could do what Wade said?

  Kamanthi gestured. A shriveled old man stepped forward, tugging at his white beard.

  “I hear, priestess,” he grunted. “The man lies.”

  “You shall try him, Natthiya. You are greatest of Tama’s priests. Try your magic on him. When he fails—” the glowing eyes dwelt balefully on Tabin Naung—“then we shall try our powers on this false sawbwa. Aye! You have little claim on my mercy now.”

  Tabin Naung smiled. Kamanthi gestured. The group of guards before her lifted their swords, held them across brawny chests.

  “Tama is mighty,” she whispered. “She is all-powerful. Therefore are you blasphemers, but you will not be slain till Tama has tested you.”

  She looked coldly at Wade.

  “You shall be tested. And you shall fail.” The red lips curved. “And then you die!”

  Chapter IV

  Victory Magic

  PRIESTESS KAMANTHI slipped forward, kneeling on the edge of the dais. Her eyes glowed with excitement. Natthiya, the high priest of Tama, stepped forward to confront Wade.

  He fingered his white beard while his shrewd little eyes dwelt on the white man, lingering on the flame-gun. Did he guess it was a weapon? In any case, he said nothing.

  Tabin Naung whispered, “My men are gathering, but they will not be ready for a while. What do you plan?”

  “I want to break the lady’s prestige,” Wade said grimly. “Show her up for a fake. We’re boring from within, sawbwa. Don’t be surprised at anything that happens. Just watch that nobody tries to toss a spear at us.”

  “Aye.” Tabin Naung stepped back, folding his arms across his breast. Wade and the priest were left alone before the dais. The crowd of natives watched, fascinated.

  Natthiya’s glance held a touch of sardonic humor. He knelt suddenly, made a quick gesture—and something was coiling slowly on the colored flagstones before him. It was a cobra, a small one. Simple sleight-of-hand, but to the natives it must seem like magic, Wade knew.

  He peered closer. The cobra’s poison sacs had been removed. Wade was certain of it when Natthiya leaned forward so that his face almost touched the snake’s blunt muzzle. Abruptly the serpent’s jaws parted, and a hissing, toneless voice whispered:

  “Praise Tama! Praise the all-powerful goddess!”

  A gasp went up from the natives. They did not realize, as did Wade, that Natthiya was an expert ventriloquist.

  But so was Wade. His lips did not move, yet he imitated perfectly that hissing, strange voice as he broke in:

  “Praise Tama! And praise Tabin Naung, the rightful sawbwa. Kamanthi is evil.”

  An expression of surprise twisted the priest’s wrinkled face. He made a quick gesture to recapture the cobra, but Wade forestalled him. The white man whipped out a silk handkerchief, flipped it deftly over the cobra, and flung it away.

  The snake had vanished.

  Awed murmurs went up from the natives. There was a puzzled frown between Kamanthi’s eyebrows. Natthiya gnawed at his lips as he sprang up.

  “The cobra is sacred!” he snapped. “No profane hands may touch her! You blaspheme!”

  “Your eyes grow weak with age, O priest,” Wade said smoothly. “Is not the cobra hidden beneath your beard?” He stepped forward.

  Natthiya made a frantic clutch to forestall Wade, but he was too late. The white man’s agile hands seemed to draw the coiling, sinuous length out from under the priest’s beard. Courteously he handed the cobra to Natthiya, who took it and, after a blank pause, made it disappear. Wade folded his arms and waited.

  So far, it was simple enough. Wade was an expert magician, and could easily match tricks with Natthiya. But matching magic wasn’t enough. He had to discredit the priest and Kamanthi with stronger magic.

  “He said he was master of nats,” Kamanthi said. “Let him prove that!”

  WADE bowed to her, surreptitiously touching his co
ncealed radio. “That is not hard. My spells will summon the ghosts of the beasts that serve me. Listen well!” He switched to English. “Red! Dirk! Get those animal recordings on the phonograph. Have the special effects ready right afterwards, too.”

  In the Thunderbug were a number of special platters, recorded on metal, which had sometimes come in handy to impress superstitious natives. Wade had had them made at a Hollywood movie studio from film sound-track originals which had been clipped from dozens of jungle pictures.

  Far away a tiger coughed. The sound was unmistakable. “Come nearer, my servant,” Wade said, and turned up the volume dial.

  With startling suddenness the deep-throated roar of a tiger crashed out in the throne-room, making echoes. A horrified gasp went up from the natives. This was magic indeed.

  Even Natthiya looked shaken, and Tabin Naung licked his lips. But Kamanthi knelt motionless, watching, her face expressionless. Wade gave the girl credit for iron nerve.

  In swift succession the animal ghosts—the nats—came and spoke. There was the mad trumpeting of an elephant, the sibilant hissing of snakes, the coughing, thick bellow of a crocodile—a dozen decidedly unusual sounds. “Now I shall summon the nat of flame,” Wade now said.

  He did. Back in the Thunderbug Red and Dirk put on another record. The crackling and snap of fire, the amplified noise of a whole city going up in smoke, sounded eerily. But Natthiya had regained some of his poise.

  “Sounds cannot harm living men,” he sneered. “An invisible flame… let us see this nat of yours.”

  “He lives inside of me,” Wade replied blandly. “I do not like to turn him loose, lest he grow angry and burn and destroy.”

  Triumph flared in the priest’s eyes. “I say you lie!”

  Wade’s agile hands moved in gestures too fast to be seen. Something popped into his mouth. He faced Natthiya, distended his cheeks, and snapped his fingers. The cigarette-lighter he had palmed instantly kindled the fine spray of benzene spurting out from between his lips. It was the old fire-eater routine, but definitely new in Burma!

  Natthiya yelled hoarsely and almost fell over backward. Wade gave him no time to recover. He closed his mouth, thus extinguishing the flames and called softly.

  “Give ’em the works, guys.” Raising his arms above his head, he launched into a booming chant.

  This new record had everything, including earthquake and flood and a touch of Dante’s Inferno. To judge from the sounds, the whole world was collapsing, carrying an army of shrieking victims into doom. The effect was all Wade had hoped for. The natives gave back, heading for the doors in a mad effort to escape.

  A guard appeared, racing down the ramp. He screamed something to Kamanthi, and the priestess made an urgent gesture. Wade, turning, saw both sets of doors slowly closing. He switched off the volume, and there was silence, save for the cries of the natives.

  “What’s up, Jim?” Red’s voice murmured.

  “Hold on a minute,” Wade said. He was watching Kamanthi. She had scarcely moved, but her eyes were flaming with rage.

  She glared at Tabin Naung. “So your friends are rising to support you! They march upon the temple—upon me!”

  The sawbwa turned to Wade. “The guard said a band of soldiers were coming.”

  “Soldiers?”

  “My servants. They gathered when they learned I had returned to Palinwa. That’s why Kamanthi closed the gates, to keep them out.”

  The priestess broke in. “We have no more time for magic! You shall try your power against cold steel! Aye! Slay them! Slay them both!”

  Tabin Naung wrenched out his da-knife and whirled to confront the guards leaping toward him. His blade glistened like molten silver as he smashed down a sword driving at his throat. His voice rose in an inarticulate shout.

  Wade leaped toward the dais. He saw a dagger clutched in Kamanthi’s right hand as the priestess leaned forward tensely. Guards barred Wade’s way.

  He pivoted under a slashing blow, ducked, and sent his fist crashing against a native’s jaw. The man reeled back, the sword dropping from his relaxing hand. Wade caught it by the hilt as it fell, and simultaneously went for the flame-gun. “Red! Dirk!” he snapped into the microphone. “Come and get it! Smash in the doors. We’re in the temple! Quick!”

  Steel glimmered. Wade saw Tabin Naung’s blade go flying up, and the sawbwa was forced back against a wall by a circle of guards. There was only one chance left.

  Thunder Jim took it. He feinted, dived under a cut, and was unexpectedly through the line of half-naked warriors. He sprang for Kamanthi. Her dagger lifted—and stopped as Wade’s sword-point was at her throat, under her chin!

  A guard swung his blade in a slashing blow, but the flame-gun forestalled him. Red fire leaped from the muzzle, searing the native’s arm. He yelled and sprang back instinctively.

  “Hold!” Wade shouted. “Hold, or I slay the priestess!”

  He matched Kamanthi’s glare with his own. “Tell them!”

  “Nay! Nay! I will not!”

  He could feel the iron tenseness of her, the crouching eagerness that could spring into deadly action any moment She was motionless, like some six-armed, exotic goddess of jade, the dagger held ready.

  But the natives had seen. If Kamanthi cared nothing for her life, at least her people would not see her slaughtered. They could not know that Wade was merely bluffing, that he had never killed a woman, and did not intend to begin now.

  The guards lowered their weapons, but did not drop them. Tabin Naung recaptured a sword and stood straddle-legged, panting, blood trickling down his brawny chest.

  “Slay me if you like,” Kamanthi said sweetly. “Then you will surely die.”

  “Tell them to give up their weapons and open the doors,” ordered Wade tersely.

  “I shall not do that.”

  It was deadlock, but Wade was conscious of the ace he held. It came unexpectedly. There was a distant rumbling and crashing. Into Kamanthi’s face sprang a look of amazement.

  “The rebels could not have forced the doors,” she whispered.

  AND then the inner doors burst open. Through the twisted metal portals poked the blunt black snout of the Thunderbug. The tank moved forward slowly, small in that enormous room, but charged with potential dynamite. Beyond it poured a throng of armed warriors, shouting, brandishing swords and spears.

  “My band has gathered!” Tabin Naung cried exultingly. “Now there will be slaughter indeed!”

  But that was not what Wade wanted. He snapped a sharp command into the microphone. Instantly the Thunderbug disgorged a score of shining metal eggs that sailed into all parts of the room. They smashed, and clouds of yellowish smoke poured out.

  In English Wade spoke to Tabin Naung. “Hold your breath. That gas will put everybody to sleep.”

  “Not my men,” the sawbwa snarled.

  “Tell them to retreat and guard the gates.”

  Tabin Naung shouted a command. His warriors hesitated, turned, and retreated up the ramp. Some fell and lay motionless before they could get out. All over the great room men were falling. The odorless gas crept up in pallid clouds. Wade saw Kamanthi’s eyelids drop. She swayed, relaxing her hold on the dagger.

  He waited no longer. Red and Dirk had tossed two gas-masks out of the Thunderbug. Beckoning to Tabin Naung, he whirled and raced toward the tank. The sawbwa followed, still clutching his sword, still holding his breath.

  No one molested them. The gas worked swiftly. Within seconds, the pair had donned the masks and were joined by Dirk and Red, similarly protected. Argyle automatically locked the Thunderbug, and the four hurried through the smashed doors and up the ramp.

  At the top of the ramp Tabin Naung’s men waited. Wade took off his mask, and the others followed his example.

  “The gas will clear away in ten minutes, but Kamanthi and the rest will sleep for hours,” Wade explained. “But there must be no killing, sawbwa.”

  Tabin Naung raised his sword high over his head.
From his throat a bull bellow ripped.

  “Sawbwa! Sawbwa of Palinwa!”

  Sunlight glistened on that magnificent bronze figure, towering among the others.

  “At last I rule!” the giant roared. The sword sang hissing through the air.

  From the ranks of the warriors a shout went up.

  “Sawbwa!”

  Tabin Naung’s hand flashed down, seized Wade’s flame-pistol, and flung it down the ramp. Simultaneously he shouted:

  “Slay the white men! Slay them!”

  Chapter V

  Tabin Naung’s Treachery

  WADE was caught by surprise, as were Argyle and Marat. Such completely unexpected treachery slowed their reactions almost fatally. The warriors, however, were equally astonished. Wade’s gun flashed into his hand from the hidden shoulder holster, and simultaneously Tabin Naung’s sword swung up.

  Guns appeared as though by magic in the hands of Red and Dirk. Yet Wade hesitated. The gas masks, he saw, were gone. Tabin Naung had taken care of that. And to retreat back into the temple, filled as it was with anaesthetic gas, would be fatal. The gas would dissipate in ten minutes, but meantime—what?

  “Let’s scram,” Wade ordered. “Quick!”

  He ducked around a corner of the stone building, Dirk and Red at his heels. The warriors broke from their trance and poured in pursuit, yelling. There were at least thirty of them. Reinforcements were coming from all over the village in instantaneous response to the sawbwa’s shouts. Guards came racing toward the three adventurers.

  “What the devil is this?” Marat snapped. “I’ll put a bullet through that big lug’s skull!”

  But the giant sawbwa, foreseeing that danger, was safely hidden behind his own men. Swiftly retreating, the trio made for the ridge, hidden completely in the mists, from which they had come.

  “Listen,” Wade said curtly, “I don’t know what’s behind all this. We haven’t enough ammunition to fight our way back to the temple after the gas dissipates. Here’s what we’ll do—get lost in the mists and wait our chances. Then we can shoot our way in, take those boys by surprise, and reach the Thunderbug.”