by Nick Carter
"It is ordered!" shrilled the skull. "Give Rufus two good men who will not miss. Two killing spears, two men who will have eternal life!"
More spears appeared as if from nowhere and a dozen enthusiasts for eternity leapt forward. A huge man, dressed in remnants of American battledress, separated himself from the horribly exhilarated crowd and bellowed like a sergeant major. The volunteers went one by one back into the ranks until only two remained, spears ready and sleek bodies taking up the throwing stance.
"One high, one low!" screamed Rufus. "Two spears for the creature in the pit! Kill, and you will live forever!"
"Kill, and live!" the skull echoed feverishly.
The first man flexed his powerful body and drew back his arm.
And suddenly his head seemed to blow off.
The second man grunted with surprise and quietly dropped.
For a moment the only sound was the echo of the shots.
And then the skull split into a hundred tiny pieces and dribbled down the pole.
Rufus stamped his feet and screamed.
* * *
An eerie voice from nowhere echoed across the valley and rolled over the stunned, disordered ranks, and shocked into silence the one man who stood and shouted his frustration to the sky.
"Are you the leader, Rufus? Are you sure that you're the leader?"
Rufus swung his head wildly, searching for the sound. "I am the leader! I am the leader! What is this trick? Where…?"
"What do you lead, Rufus? Are you the Chief of all Nyanga?"
Rufus stood stock-still for a moment. Then a smile crossed his face and he clutched his breast dramatically.
"I will be the Chief," he said proudly. "I will be King, I will be President, I will be all Nyanga!"
"Good, Rufus! Nobly said!" the voice boomed approvingly. "But what about Julian and his Russian friends? And your American enemies?"
"They are nothing!" Rufus roared triumphantly. "They will die, they will all die! I have more powerful friends, and we fight together. The gods are with me!"
"The gods and the Chinese," the voice said reverently. "Do they work together for you, Rufus? To make you the leader, Rufus?"
"They do as I tell them," Rufus shouted arrogantly. "Even the gods speak with my voice…" His body suddenly tightened and he looked down at the shattered skull and then at the two dead men. He looked up again and his eyes darted to the living warriors. There was silence among them but they, too, stared down at the crumpled bodies and the splintered skull; and they glanced sideways at Rufus; and they sought the source of the strange sound; then they looked back at Rufus. A low mutter ran through the tattered ranks. The two little yellow men started talking together in low, excited voices.
Rufus seemed to shrink where he stood. "Who are you?" he choked. "Come out where I can see you! Are you enemy or friend? Show yourself! Men! My warriors! Into the hills and kill!"
"No!" boomed the voice. "You will all stay where you are. I am coming down. Watch the sky behind you!"
The unidirectional microphone wavered on its slim fishpole and withdrew.
"Behind 'em? That was a sneaky one." It was Hakim who whispered admiringly. "Here, I'll take the mike boom. Just drop the megaphone."
Nick swiftly disconnected the tiny wire recorder that was strapped to his wrist and pulled two pineapple-shaped objects out of his pocket. Behind him, Chief Abe Jefferson spoke urgently into a walkie-talkie. Several yards from him, on a high point looking straight down into the valley, Corporal Stonewall Temba adjusted his grip on the machine gun and rose from a prone position to a low crouch. Between two and three miles away, toward Abimako, a helicopter waited with its blades whirring up a wind in the hot air. And some miles behind the helicopter a line of military jeeps received a relayed message and increased its speed.
Nick rose amidst the rocks and gnarled trees of that hillside in the district called Duolo. He pulled back his arm and thrust it forward in a powerful pitching motion. The pineapple lobbed through the air. He drew back his arm again, ready for the second pitch, and watched the gratifying results of his throw. It was as if a bolt of summer lightning had struck down from the sky, and he could hear the low but startled cry of dozens of voices in the valley. Thank you, Madame Sophia, honey, Nick whispered fervently, watching the great fat billowing clouds swelling into the air; thank you, for giving me the address. He threw again.
"Let's go, Hakim. At 'em, Abe!"
They ran over the hilltop and down into the smoke-filled valley.
Liz saw the figure looming up through the thick, reddish-gray smoke and felt her heart lurch wildly. Oh, God, it's Nick, she cheered within herself. And then — Oh, God! It's not! The awful shock of seeing that hideous, leering, evil face, after all the other terrible experiences, was almost too much to bear. She came close to fainting as the figure reached for her with a knife and said cheerfully: "Compose yourself. You must realize that I cannot possibly be half as evil as I look!" The awful face split into a wonderfully radiant, reassuring smile, and one firm arm held Liz while the other lashed swiftly at her bonds. "The Cavalry has come, and I am one of it!"
Several yards away the powder-bomb smoke cleared slightly and Nick appeared silently and suddenly in front of Rufus, Wilhelmina in his hand. Rufus stepped backward with a gasp. Then he stared.
"It's Carter!" he screamed. "Kill him, kill him, kill him!"
Another voice, unknown to Nick, boomed through the drifting smoke.
"No, you kill him, Rufus — man who cannot die!"
Duel in the Smoke
Nick heard the low whistle that meant Hakim had freed Liz and was ready with his carbine in case things got out of hand too early. And he heard the double chirping signal that told him Abe and Stonewall had filtered down to cover the encampment with their submachine guns. A tall, barrel-chested figure in tattered American battledress stepped out of the smoke clouds holding up an assegai. He thrust it into Rufus' unwilling hands.
"You have lied again, Rufus Makombe," he boomed. "You make us kill and tell us that the gods protect us, that we cannot die. And still we die. Now let us see you kill, and live!"
Rufus backed away. "You fool! What use is this spear to me against his gun? Men! My warriors…!"
"Kill for yourself, or be killed, Rufus," the big voice said coldly.
Nick raised Wilhelmina pointedly.
"Who gives the orders, Rufus?" he asked softly. "You or your subordinates? I did not come to kill you but to take you back with me. To your brother — the Chief of all Nyanga. Order your men to fall back."
"No!" said the big, cold voice. "He will not be taken back, white man. Fight him yourself, as man to man, or the rest of us will tear you both apart, gun or no gun. You, Rufus, and the woman."
"That would be a mistake," said Nick, just as coldly. "I am not alone. Abe!" He raised his voice. "Fire above their heads!"
A warning burst of fire chattered through the smoke.
The man in battledress looked calculatingly at Nick. "That makes no difference," he said softly. "It only means that many more of us will die. Fight him!"
Nick thought swiftly. The big man was wrong; yet he was right. That he would be able to get himself and friends safely out of that valley and far away, Nick had no doubt. But too many brainwashed, misguided men would die. And out of it all new hatred would be born.
"Then give me a spear," Nick said, and slid the Luger out of sight.
Rufus swung back his arm and threw.
Nick saw his movement as it started and ducked with time to spare. He reached behind him and pulled the still-quivering assegai out of the valley floor. "In that case," he said, "give him a spear."
Wordlessly, the big man handed Rufus another assegai.
Rufus took it in both hands and charged. Nick crouched low and waited for him. At the last possible second he sidestepped and thrust the tip of his own spear deep into Rufus' unguarded thigh.
"Aaaarghh!" Rufus bellowed out his rage and agony and whirled on Nick
like a dervish, jabbing with a lightning thrust even as he turned. The spear point ripped Nick's sleeve and bit a painful gouge into his upper arm. Nick cursed softly and leapt aside, feinting a jab at the stomach and then flipping the point of the spear upward to catch Rufus lightly in the chest as he lunged and pulled back just in time to avoid a fatal slash.
Rufus danced lightly backward, a grotesque figure in his flapping toga. Blood was seeping through the cloth that covered his thigh and his lips were drawn back from his teeth in a snarl that turned his handsome face into an ugly mask. The toga put him at something of a disadvantage, but he seemed to be gaining confidence and speed. Nick's assegai flashed. Rufus parried expertly, came in quickly with a light stabbing motion that pricked at Nick's left side, and danced away. Nick heard an "Aaahh!" of approval coming from somewhere in the smoke. He knew that his own performance was nothing to «Aaahh» about; the two bullet creases of last night had so stiffened both his leg and shoulder that his footwork and his thrust were far short of their usual skill. He decided on a change of tactic.
Rufus bent low, held his assegai like a lance, and charged.
Nick dropped before him like a stone. Almost instantly, he came to life again, jerking his body upward beneath Rufus' flying, stumbling legs, and felt his enemy leapfrogging clumsily over him. He made a leaping turn with his spear held in front of him across his body, his hands spread wide apart along the shaft, and watched Rufus hit the dirt.
"Up, Rufus!" he called invitingly. "Stand up and come and get me."
Rufus sucked in the dusty air and grabbed his fallen spear. He was breathing heavily when he came at Nick, and his movement was no longer swift and sure. Nick pivoted and swung his weapon like a stave — the Japanese stave called the bo, which does nothing so crude as lunge or club but twirls like a drum majorette's baton. It twirled now, describing an invisible, perfect circle that was marred only by contact with Rufus' spear. There was a sharp clack of wood against wood. Rufus came to a blundering, startled stop, his hands empty and his eyes searching wildly for his lost spear. Nick heard it clatter to earth yards away. Deliberately, he threw his own spear to the ground. Rufus growled like a wounded animal and darted for it with his hand outstretched. Nick leapt and grabbed Rufus' hands in his own sinewy clutch, jerked him close so that the dark sweating face almost touched his, and ground a series of twisting jabs into the breast plate and heart. Rufus groaned and grunted and struggled feebly. Nick gave it to him with a right fist-hammer to the heart that held back nothing. Something cracked sickeningly. Rufus' face and body twisted with the awful agony. His eyes glazed; and he dropped.
Nick drew a couple of slow, deep breaths and pulled out Wilhelmina. He heard a low groan rising from the valley. He looked about him for the first time in many minutes and saw that most of the thick smoke had lifted. Abe and Stonewall had stationed themselves at strategic positions near the huts but still high enough up the slope to command the whole encampment. Hakim, now without his bush shirt, was stationed only feet away from Nick's left shoulder, his carbine raised in readiness and aiming steadily at the big man in the ragged battle-dress.
The big man stepped forward uncertainly.
"Is he dead?" he asked, and his voice was a cracked half-whisper.
"What difference does it make?" Nick answered quietly. "He's finished. See for yourself if he's dead — if you think it matters. And the rest of you can fight and die for nothing, if you want to. Or you can stop working for your enemies and start thinking for yourselves. You'll be under arrest within the next few minutes whatever you decide. So take your choice. Die for the yellow men; live to make something of your country." He stopped suddenly, full of things he wanted to say but not knowing how to say them. Anyway, it was a pretty ridiculous thing for a counterspy called Killmaster to do — lecture about the dangers of foreign intervention and the joys of national pride. "It's up to you," he finished abruptly, and turned on his heel.
The brisk, chopping sounds of helicopter blades filled the valley. Nick heard Abe Jefferson's crisp voice bark out an order.
"Where's Liz?" he asked Hakim.
Hakim winked horribly. "Behind the tall rocks, there, beautifying herself for you and scratching mightily. Be careful — she has my .22 and an itchy trigger finger. Plus itchy almost everything."
Nick strode through the wispy smoke and found her, draped in Hakim's bush jacket and hastily pulling a man's short comb through her tangled hair and waving the pistol like a can of insect spray.
"Liz! You all right?" he asked anxiously.
"Oh, wonderful!" she said enthusiastically. "Thanks just a heap. It's been the greatest, the whole thing." She dropped the comb and gun and fell into his arms.
It was only moments later that the valley began to fill with smartly uniformed men. Nick led Liz to the waiting helicopter. Hakim followed, leaving Abe and Stonewall with the joint team of army and police.
There was plenty to talk about on the smooth flight back to Abimako. But there were two questions, and one fascinating answer, that hung in Nick's mind for a long time afterwards.
The first came from Liz. Her question cut abruptly into one of those sudden silences that break up intense conversations.
Liz looked up from her survey of the African, plains below and said: "Who was Mirella?"
"I'm not quite sure," Nick answered slowly. "And I don't think I'll ever really know."
The second came from Nick himself.
"By the way," he said to Hakim, "just what was it you said you teach at the University? The Seven Lively Arts?"
"That's right." Hakim grinned cheerfully. "Ambush, Burglary, Disguises, Mugging, Stabbing, Strangling, and Diversionary Tactics. Other elements, too, of course, but those are basic. Please, Miss Ashton! I assure you I am harmless. It is seldom I get the opportunity to practice what I preach." He managed to focus both eyes on Nick's startled face. "I am a criminologist," he said. "It has long been my belief that the only way to beat the criminal at his own game is to know his every trick."
"And you know them," Nick said, almost reverently. "Man, you really know them!" He threw back his head and laughed with pure delight.
And even while he laughed he thought: AXE could use a man like this. I'll talk to Hawk.
* * *
Julian Makombe stared at them from the pillows of his hospital bed. His face was drawn but his eyes were alert — and filled with horrified disbelief. He looked from Nick to Liz to the stranger called Hakim and to his wiry, trusted Chief of Police.
"I cannot believe it!" he said. "It can't be true! My brother Rufus and the Red Chinese! You have made this up, you must have. He has never — and I know this, because he is my brother — I know he has no interest in politics or power. Jefferson, what is this madness?"
Nick touched a switch on the tiny wire recorder. "I would not have believed it either," he said quietly, "of my own brother, or yours."
The small machine hummed softly. An eerie voice floated across the hospital room.
"Are you the leader, Rufus? Are you sure that you're the leader?"
"I am the leader!" Rufus yelled metallically. "I am the leader!"
Julian drew in his breath in a choking gasp, and listened.
I will be President, I will be all Nyanga… Julian and his Russian friends… They are nothing — they will die… I have more powerful friends… The gods and the Chinese… They do as I tell them…
The damning words washed over him. Nick watched and pitied, and clicked off the recorder.
"Is it all true, then?" Julian whispered. "Abe — Chief Jefferson — is it true?"
Abe nodded soberly. "I saw it all. I heard it. Mr. President, it's true. I am sorry."
Julian sighed. He turned his gaze to Nick. "And so you killed him," he said flatly. His tired eyes flickered over to Liz. "I cannot forgive him for what he has done — to all of us. To all of you. But I wish… I wish that I could have spoken to him."
"You will be able to," Abe said briskly. "You will be well
long before he is, but he is far from dead. Merely incapacitated. He'll live."
Julian achieved one of those curious reversals common to those weakened by illness. He turned his head to Nick and said: "He would be better dead. You should have killed him."
Nick rose from the bedside.
"Perhaps," he said quietly. "But I could not bring myself to kill the brother of the man who asked me here to help him."
Julian stared at him. Something of the shadow lifted from his gaunt face. "I expected an unorthodox ambassador," he said, "but nothing quite so extraordinary." He sighed, and then the suggestion of a smile touched his lips. "I hear you disappeared from your hotel room in Dakar?"
"I did," said Nick. "Ambassador Carter came to an inexplicable end. I don't know what Dakar is coming to."
"Neither do I," Julian answered gravely. "But you can be sure that I'll send my condolences and thanks to your State Department."
They left him, then; left him to the nurses and the doctors and his thoughts.
* * *
The immensely fat man sat behind the desk and stared across it. Disgust and loathing exuded from his yellow, moon-shaped face as the sibilant voice snaked about his ears.
"I wasss unfortunate," said the other man, in his peculiarly nasal tone that was half-whine, half-hiss. "The first time I wasss naturally interesssted in the other man, that ssskulking Arab…"
"I already know about the first time," snapped the fat man. "What about Dakar — what went wrong there?"
The man with the green face shrugged and stuck out his lower lip.
"What could I do? My arrangementsss were already made, to have that Carter brought to me and questioned, but Rufusss wasss determined to have him killed at once — all he wanted to do wasss get rid of him and not bother about finding out how much he knew or who elssse he might be working with."
"What happened in Dakar?"
"I am telling you. We agreed that I was first to try to force the American to talk, but Rufus kept getting in the way. He would keep sending his killers after Carter, and alerting him so that he became ten times more cautious than he was before. It made things most difficult for me." The whining voice was querulous. "It was hard enough — as it was."
