Indiana Jones and the Hollow Earth

by Max McCoy

  "There's one on the wall," Clarence said, motioning with the wrench.

  "Terrific," Indy said. "You just think about it. There's money in it for you."

  "I've heard that before."

  After several minutes and a half-dozen operators, Indy was connected to Brody's office at the American Museum of Natural History in New York.

  "Indy!" Marcus Brody exclaimed. "You're lucky you caught me. I was just on my way out. I have to admit, old man, that I've been worried like the devil about you. Did you find what you were looking for?"

  "And then some," Indy said as he looked back at Ulla. "Outstanding," Brody said. "And the map?"

  "Yes, I still have the map."

  "Even better."

  "Ah, there's just one problem," Indy said. "Due to circumstances beyond my control, the map has been reduced to a wet glob about the size of a tennis ball."

  Brody made a sputtering noise deep in his throat.

  "Now, Marcus," Indy said. "I'm sure the experts at the museum can put it back together as good as new. I've kept the map wet—that's what you're supposed to do, isn't it?—and your technicians are the best in the world."

  "Of course," Brody said. "But they aren't miracle workers. How bad is it?"

  "Well, it's pretty bad," Indy admitted.

  "Indy," Brody chided. "Oh, Indy."

  "I'm sorry, Marcus. If the map can't be restored to its original condition, I'm prepared to pay for it." Which will take approximately until the year 1972 on my salary, Indy thought.

  "Well, there's no use jumping to conclusions," Marcus said. "We will see what the boys downstairs can do. More importantly, Indy, are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," Indy told him. "Thanks for asking."

  "By the way," Brody said, "you have received a cable here. The message is rather cryptic, I'm afraid."

  "What's it say?"

  "Just a moment." Brody fumbled in his pockets for his glasses and then for the telegram. "Here it is. 'To Indiana Jones, care of Marcus Brody. Interested or not? Time nor tide will wait, and you're wasting both. Will wait on the street until Tuesday, then the party's over.' It is signed, 'Your admiring colleague.' Does any of that make sense to you, Indy?"

  "I think so," he said.

  Indy closed his eyes. Why did the arrogant so-and-so have to play games? Would an address or a phone number be too much to ask?

  "Indy, are you there?"

  "I'm here. Marcus, what's today? I've lost track."

  "Tuesday, of course."

  "Terrific."

  "Indy, there's something else," Brody said. "Those chaps from army intelligence have called again. They are rather keen to get in touch with you."

  "Did they leave a message?"

  "They left a number."

  "Give it to me," Indy said.

  There was a pencil hanging from a string on the wall, and Indy used it to write the number on his sleeve.

  "They said it was rather important they get in touch with you."

  "I'll call them the first chance I get," Indy said. "Got to run, Marcus. Thanks for everything."

  "Indy," Brody asked. "Indy, won't you at least tell me where you are?"

  But Indy had already hung up.

  He slapped his hands together and walked back to where Clarence and Ulla were waiting.

  "Have you thought it over?"

  "It depends," Clarence said. "Where do you want me to take you?"

  "New Orleans."

  "New Orleans?" Clarence and Ulla asked in unison. "Aw, I can't fly you that far and get my cargo to Mexico City on time."

  "Sure you can," Indy said. "Look, you're practically there—just a short hop across the Gulf."

  "Indy, you need to look at a map," Clarence said.

  "I don't want to go to New Orleans," Ulla put in. "I thought you were going to take me back to someplace on the East Coast, where I could get a ship for home."

  "New Orleans is a port," Indy said. "And it's almost on the Atlantic."

  "Oh no, Mr. Jones." Ulla shook her finger at him.

  "Mr. Jones?" Clarence asked. "Why did you lie to this nice young woman? Didn't you tell her who you were? Did you promise to take her home? What kind of deal are you trying to pull here, Indy?"

  "I'm not pulling anything—"

  "I'm really ashamed of you," Clarence scolded.

  "What do you mean?" Ulla asked. "Who are you, anyway?"

  "I kept trying to—"

  "Why, this is Indiana Jones," Clarence said. "I'm sorry, Indy, but I'm not going to lie. I won't ask questions, but that's different from asking somebody to lie, isn't it?"

  "You mean you really are Indianapolis Jones?" Ulla sputtered. "I knew your last name was Jones from your hat, but I thought you were pulling my leg about—"

  "Indiana," he said. "My name's Indiana. And yes, that's me."

  "That's him," Clarence said. "He's famous in all the forty-eight states, and even in some foreign countries. You know, I've got a wall full of newspaper clippings in the office. There's pictures and everything. My name is even in some of them. But mostly just the arrest reports."

  "Don't give her the wrong idea," Indy said. He turned to Ulla. "I've never been arrested."

  "Aren't you forgetting that time I got you out of that little jail at El Cedral on Cozumel?" Clarence asked. "And then there was the time in Costa Rica—"

  "Those were different," Indy said. "That El Cedral thing was in connection with my work, and the charges didn't stick. And Costa Rica was just a misunderstanding."

  "Well," Ulla said. Her arms were crossed and she was tapping her right foot furiously. "I'm sorry. I guess I should have believed you."

  "Look, there's no time to argue about all of this," Indy said. "I need to get to New Orleans, and I need to get there as quickly as possible."

  "It's close to eleven o'clock now." Clarence glanced at his watch. He walked over to a map of North and Central America that hung on the wall. He used the width between his right thumb and little finger to walk off the distance. "New Orleans is a thousand miles away, give or take. Missy will cruise at close to two hundred miles an hour. If we're lucky, I can have you on the ground in Louisiana by four o'clock this afternoon."

  "Then you'll do it?" Indy asked.

  "What's it pay?" Clarence asked.

  "Send me a bill," Indy said. "You're already loaded, right?"

  "You could say that," Ulla said under her breath, remembering the mason jar in the office.

  "Yeah, but I need to make sure the tanks are topped off," Clarence said. "New Orleans is about as far as I can go in a single hop. You all go ahead and climb on board while I lock up."

  Indy shouldered the heavy knapsack. "Ulla has some bags out front," he told Clarence.

  "I'll grab them. You just go ahead and get on the plane."

  Indy and Ulla walked out onto the airfield, where the twin-engine DC-2 waited. The silver skin of the aircraft was nearly blinding in the sun. A coat of flat red paint covered the nose. Beneath the pilot's window, in black script, was the aircraft's name: Miss Adventure.

  "How do we get in?" Ulla asked.

  Indy opened a trapdoorlike hatch in the belly.

  "We climb up," he said.

  Indy knelt down and let Ulla step on his shoulders, then boosted her up into the interior of the plane, in spite of her protestations that she could handle it herself. Then he climbed in after her.

  "It's like an oven in here," she said.

  Indy stepped up into the cockpit and slid open the side windows. It helped, but not much. In a few minutes their clothes were soaked with sweat.

  Ulla brushed a clump of limp blond hair from her eyes with the back of her hand as she looked over the crates in the cargo bay. Most of them were clearly marked as containing machinery, and were well secured, but a couple of crates were open and loosely packed. These were full of toys—dolls, tops, whatever one could find at the local five-and-dime.

  "Who sends toys with this kind of cargo?" she asked.

>   "Nobody," Indy said. "But Clarence buys the toys himself and distributes them to the kids in the slums in Mexico City. Other times he takes them food, or clothes."

  "Remarkable," Ulla said.

  When Clarence had finished checking the tanks, he passed the bags and wheel chocks up through the hatch to Indy. Then he swung up inside the plane and secured the hatch behind him.

  "You all better strap yourselves in for takeoff," he told them as he eased his big frame into the pilot's seat. "All the rain we've had has turned the field into a regular washboard."

  "Doesn't it take two people to fly this thing?" Ulla asked.

  "That would be nice," Clarence said as switched on the starboard engine. It started with a gust of black smoke and a sputtering, whining sound.

  "Is that normal?" Ulla asked nervously.

  "More or less," Clarence replied as the engine settled into a reassuring throbbing roar. Then he looked out the cockpit toward the other engine as he brought it to life as well.

  Indy buckled himself into the copilot's seat. Ulla chose to remain in the bench behind the cabin bulkhead.

  "I'd rather not watch," she grumbled. "I saw sausage being made once, and I've regretted it ever since."

  Clarence stuck his head out the window to check the control surfaces as he turned the wheel hard to the left and right.

  "Take a gander out your side, buddy," he shouted. "The rudder, flaps, and so forth. They all moving okay?"

  "Check." Indy nodded.

  Then Clarence wrinkled his nose.

  "What's wrong?" Indy asked.

  "I'm not sure," Clarence shouted. "There's a peculiar smell coming from someplace. I'd swear it's fresh cow pie, but we ain't had no cattle on the field since Donny flew into one last year."

  6

  Fat Tuesday

  Even at four-thirty in the afternoon, Bourbon Street was a sea of revelry and mayhem. Leading Ulla by the hand, Indiana Jones threaded his way through the crowd toward the refuge of the old St. Charles Hotel, still some blocks away.

  "Have all of these people gone insane?" Ulla asked above the cacophony.

  "Yes," Indy said, "but only temporarily. It ends tomorrow—the first day of Lent."

  He released her hand so they could pass on either side of a man standing next to a lamppost, playing a saxophone. A battered hat with some loose change was at the musician's feet.

  "Do you have anything like this in Copenhagen?" Indy asked, striding ahead, anxious to get to the hotel.

  When there was no answer, he turned to confront a sea of unfamiliar faces.

  "Ulla!" he shouted. "Where the devil are you?"

  Indy made his way back through the crowd to the saxophone player, who was working hard on a mediocre rendition of a popular tune.

  "Excuse me," Indy said.

  The saints kept marching in.

  "Have you seen a tall blond woman?"

  The saints stopped.

  "Man, I've seen plenty," the sax player said as he rolled his eyes. "But the one you're lookin' for was hauled inside that green door behind us. I figured you'd come looking for her."

  "Thanks," Indy said.

  "Hey!" the sax player shouted.

  "Sorry," Indy said. "No change."

  Indy pushed his way over to the stout wooden door the musician had indicated. As he grasped the brass knob a large man with a bald head and a beard leaned against it and slammed it shut. Rings glittered from his fingers.

  "Where do you think you're going?" he asked Indy.

  "I'm looking for a friend."

  "Ain't none of your friends in there," the man said.

  "Oh, sorry," Indy said.

  As he turned away he scooped up a beer bottle from the sidewalk, then spun around and hit the bald man over the head. The bottle shattered, and blood trickled down the bald man's face.

  "Now, wha'd you do that for?" the man asked as he slumped to the ground. Indy propped him up beside the building, then dashed inside the green door.

  It was dark and smoky inside.

  "Ulla?" he called.

  There was a muffled cry from the back.

  Indy ran toward the sound, but his eyes had not adjusted yet to the darkness. He stumbled over a table and chairs.

  "Stay where you are, or we'll kill her," a voice warned.

  "Let her go," Indy said.

  "Are you kidding?" the voice called back. "You know what a dame like this will bring on the white slave market?"

  "She's more trouble than she's worth," Indy called.

  "Then we'll kill her anyway."

  Indy reached inside his leather jacket and drew out his whip. Then he walked cautiously into the darkness, making his way around the tables of the closed bar. Just enough light filtered through the shuttered windows to allow him to thread his way across the room.

  "Stay back."

  Indy heard a gun being cocked. He looked in the direction of the sound and noticed the faint orange glow bobbing in the darkness.

  He lashed out with the whip.

  It made an ear-splitting crack and the cigarette dropped to the floor in a shower of ashes.

  "What the hell was that?" the voice asked.

  "You want some more of it?"

  "Forget it," another voice said. "He can have her."

  The kidnappers fled, leaving the green door open behind them. Indy got only a glimpse of their backs as they ran. Light flooded into the room, and perched on top of the bar Indy could see Ulla. Her hands and feet were bound and a dirty bandanna was stuffed into her mouth.

  "I can't turn my back on you for a second," Indy said as he freed her hands and feet. "Are you hurt?"

  Ulla jerked the bandanna from her mouth and spat on the floor.

  "No," she said. "It happened so fast, I didn't have time—"

  "I know." Indy pulled her toward the door as he spoke. "Let's get out of here before they work up their courage for another try."

  At the hotel, on St. Charles between Common and Gravier streets, he led Ulla up the impressive steps to the large double doors.

  "We're staying here?" she asked, looking up at the massive facade.

  "I have a weakness for history," Indy explained. "This was the most important hotel during the slave trade, built in 1837. It was the favorite of wealthy planters, and slaves were sold in the hotel's exchange. God seemed not to like the arrangement, however, and the original hotel burned in 1851. They rebuilt it, and it burned again. What you see here is the third incarnation, constructed about the turn of the century."

  They crossed the massive lobby to the front desk, where a bald man in a suit watched their approach warily. He glanced at the pair's disheveled appearance and chuckled to himself.

  "May I help you?" he asked condescendingly.

  "We need a room," Indy said.

  The man closed the guest book and, for extra measure, leaned his forearms against it.

  "Ah, I'm sorry," he said. "But we have no vacancies."

  "No rooms?" Indy asked. "You have a wall full of keys behind you."

  "The rooms are being cleaned right now." The man sniffed.

  "All six hundred of them?"

  "I'm sorry, but we have nothing. You'll have to take your—er, business—elsewhere."

  Another couple walked up to the desk. They were older, and their costumes looked a little more comical than either probably would have liked. The man was an aging Marc Antony and the woman, complete with a dark wig, was Cleopatra.

  The man put down their bags and struck the bell on the counter.

  "Service!" he cried.

  "You'll have to excuse me," the clerk said to Indy.

  The clerk chatted briefly with the couple. Marc Antony signed the guest register, exchanged some cash for a key that the clerk took from the wall behind them. Then they went upstairs, a bellhop trailing behind them with their luggage, while the man's sword clanged on the steps.

  "I thought you said you had no rooms," Indy said through clenched teeth.

  "Qui
te right," the clerk confirmed. "We don't."

  "Come on," Ulla said. "We will go someplace else."

  "I don't want to go anywhere else," Indy said. "I want to stay here."

  "Well, you can't," the clerk said. "Off with you, or I will have to call the police."

  "Do you have a safe here?" Indy asked.

  "What? Of course we have a safe," the clerk said. "This is a first-rate hotel."

  "Good." Indy lifted the knapsack onto the counter. He removed the three bars of gold and placed them in front of the clerk. "Look, we've just flown into town on business and I haven't had a chance to take this to the bank and exchange it for cash."

  The clerk reached out for the gold, then drew back his hand.

  "May I?" he asked meekly.

  "I'd be very obliged if you would lock this up for me," Indy said. "And then I'd like for you to call your manager so that I can discuss this matter with him. I always stay at the St. Charles when I'm in New Orleans."

  "I am the manager," the man said. "I mean, I'm the acting manager. The manager is out with his krewe."

  "Then I would like to talk to the owner," Indy said. "I believe his name is... what is it, Dubois?"

  "No need for that," the clerk said brightly. "You see, I thought you just meant a room. I didn't understand that you wanted a suite. And I believe the Pontalba Suite just came available, if that would suit you."

  "It will," Indy said, "if it has separate bedrooms. Also, you said this was a full-service hotel, did you not?"

  "Of course."

  "Then I would like you to have someone run out and get us some proper clothes," Indy said. "We need the full treatment—shirt, trousers, socks, belt, shoes. Boxers and an undershirt. A dress for the lady."

  "Please, no," Ulla said. "Not a dress. Men's clothes, if you please."

  The clerk searched for a piece of paper then furiously began taking notes.

  "Yes, of course," he said. "May I inquire as to sizes?" They told him.

  "From a sensible shop," Indy instructed. "Not the most expensive, but certainly not the cheapest. You may add ten percent for your trouble, but no more."

  "Very good," the clerk said. "Thank you, sir."

  "Also, we feel somewhat out of place," Indy said. "We need a couple of costumes."