Wade felt a surge of excitement mounting within him. He was a part of the plane now. It was an extension of him, like an extra arm. He vibrated to every life-beat of the engines, and the Thunderbug thrilled responsively to his deft, delicate touch as he fought the winds.
Red and Dirk were silent, marveling and appreciating Thunder Jim’s mastery over the great plane. He nursed it along, remembering the danger that still lurked in the motors, not yet completely repaired.
Mountains—mountains that stretched to the ends of the world, far beyond the horizon! Towering peaks that lifted far above the laboring engines of the plane. And then—a wall, a vast, frowning, overhanging rampart that rose directly ahead, broken only by a single cleft, narrow as a knife blade. Wade headed for it.
He could not rise above the barrier, not with the motors straining as they were. In more rarefied air they might quit completely. And that would mean catastrophe, swift and sudden.
He headed for the cleft. Red and Dirk leaned back, seeming to relax completely. Long ago they had learned to do this, in order to minimize the nervous strain of imminent danger. Relax. . . .
The gorge seemed to grow wider as they approached. It was no longer a knife-cut in the ice-wall. It was wide enough to let a plane fly through—just wide enough.
But not easily—no! The pass was a natural channel for raving, pouring winds. Snow clouds billowed and whirled in gusty currents. And the gorge turned and twisted like a snake. It was no easy road—impossible for men afoot, terribly difficult for a plane.
“The valley’s beyond,” Wade said softly. “It’s a hot place.”
THAT, of course, explained the winds. Cold air rushed down the pass to replace the constantly rising heated air from the valley beyond. The jagged walls sent the winds rippling dangerously in all directions. Like shooting rapids, Wade thought grimly. He nosed up slightly, leveled off, and roared at top speed into the cleft.
Peril at this speed, but even more if he went slowly, with a corresponding lack of control. Now the mighty power of the Thunderbug throbbed at his finger-tips, power that could mean success or crack-up, depending only on
Wade’s lightning-quick reactions. If he were an instant too slow in handling the controls, gauging his distances, it would be fatal.
They were in the shadow of the cleft. There was no sound but the humming roar of the motors. The wingtips seemed to be brushing the gorge’s walls. The Thunderbug zoomed up, tilting sideward in the grip of the wind, and snow blasted against the glass. Wade’s fingers did not tighten on the stick. They rested there delicately, ready to grip. And they gripped now as the plane was hurled down toward the floor of the pass far below.
The prop bit deep into the air, hurtling the Thunderbug forward. There was no danger of a wing buckling. Wade knew his craft too well to fear that. But there was the danger of the motors going dead.
The plane righted, fled on, while Thunder Jim fought the stick. There was the merest hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. His eyes, in that brown, expressionless face, were blazing with excitement.
The booming roar of the engine resounded through the gorge.
“Avalanche ahead!” Dirk said suddenly.
Wade had already seen it. The repercussions and echoes had loosened a key rock somewhere. Ice was falling like flashing diamonds from an overhang not far ahead. The black streak of a boulder arced down. If one of those hit the plane—
The smile on Wade’s face was distinct now. He was gambling with death, as he had done so often before. For there was no other way. He could not stop or turn back. He must race on at top speed, trying to beat the avalanche.
The whole side of the gorge swayed out. A glacier seemed to be exploding in colossal fragments. As the plane roared on, Wade saw from the corner of his eye a great wall of churning, thundering ruin bellowing out toward him. The wind lifted the Thunderbug, while the stick twisted like a mad thing in Wade’s hands.
The iron fingers tightened, holding the plane steady. Ice rattled and clashed on the wings. Then, incredibly, the danger was over. There was clear air ahead. The booming echoes of the avalanche were left behind.
Out of the gorge the Thunderbug swept. A current of hot air—a thermal—drove it up. Briefly Wade fought the controls; then the plane steadied.
It flashed into a valley, bordered on all sides by the towering ramparts. In the exact center, Wade saw with a heart-stopping twinge of memory, was the walled city, white and splendid as a jewel. Minos!
DOWN the length of the oval valley a river ran—Argo River, skirting the city’s western wall. Tilled fields were visible, and tiny huts and farms, as well as a few roads.
To the south, the river plunged into the cliffs and was lost, as Wade knew, in a cavern. Northward it emerged from a narrow pass beyond which lay the smaller valley of the priests. He turned the Thunderbug in that direction.
Strange homecoming. The boy Jim Wade had grown up in that valley. It had been his home for many years until Professor Galbraith had made his way in from the outer world. And the place seemed to have changed not at all. Poignantly he remembered the days he had spent, swimming in Argo
River, watching from the wail of Minos . . . It was like going back into the past.
“By the way,” he said, “you guys don’t know the Cretan tongue, but some of the people here speak Greek.” Dirk Marat nodded. “I know the lingo pretty well.”
“I know a little of it,” Red said. “Modern Greek,” Wade told them. “This is archaic. But you’ll get along. Cardoth, the high priest, speaks English. He picked it up easily, when Miggs and I were here.”
Miggs. Tim Miggs, the Cockney pilot, who had crashed with Wade in the lost valley. Vividly Jim Wade remembered the strutting, arrogant little man, with his withered brown walnut of a face and his beady, sparrowlike eyes. Tim Miggs, whose grave was on the shore of Argo River. Thunder Jim’s smile was sad.
The Thunderbug raced north, up the valley. There were no signs of danger. Through a pass they went, following the river, and into a smaller valley.
Before them rose—the Minotaur!
It was a statue so gigantic that, for a brief moment, nothing else seemed to exist. White and alien it towered against the background of dull black crags, impressive as Memnon on the Nile, archaic as the Colossus of Rhodes, strong with primeval menace as the Sphinx. But this was older than all. It was the Man-Bull—the Minotaur, beast-god of the ancient Cretan nation. Once its power had ruled the Mediterranean. Centuries ago, before the conquering Greeks stormed upon the mysterious Minoan nation, the Sign of the Man-Bull had meant terror and mystery to all the earth.
Bull-headed, the anthropomorphic god towered. It had the body of a man, monstrously thewed, decorated with ornaments of bright metal. Atop the broad shoulders rose the head of black stone.
It was forty feet high, and it had the horned, blunt-muzzle head of a bull. The sheer, vigorous power of the image was overwhelming. It was impossible to tear eyes away from the colossus. Though Wade had seen it before, he felt again that touch of superstitious awe he had known years ago.
Between the knees of the seated figure was a gate—a double bronze door. The pedestal on which the Minotaur sat was apparently hollow.
Wade pointed. “That’s the entrance to the Labyrinth. It’s underground.”
He swept the plane around in a long, swooping curve. Argo River burst from a cavern at the valley’s head, and raced down to go through the pass into the larger valley beyond. Below no farms were visible. This was a park, and in its center stood the Minotaur.
AROUND the towering statue were a number of temples, flat-roofed, white as pale marble. Wade let the Thunderbug drive down, his eyes alert for sign of danger. But he saw nothing. A few tiny figures stood motionless, staring up. Priests, evidently. That was all. There was no sign of any more of Quester’s men. Had they failed to reach the lost valley? Had they crashed in the mountain barrier?
Wade put the plane down on a smooth stretch of grass. He cut the mot
ors, and silence fell. Then, from the far distance, came a faint booming thunder—the roar of the glaciers that were perpetually crashing down among the surrounding peaks.
It died. Thunder Jim stepped out of the plane, followed by his two companions. Wade, save for his pistol, was unarmed, but both Red and Dirk carried rifles. One of the priests was coming forward.
Hastily Jim turned back to the Thunderbug. His hands worked swiftly, and metal shutters slid over the ports. He closed the door once more; his fingers seemed to drift lightly over its surface. But now no one but Wade, Red, or Dirk could get into the super-plane. Certain precautionary guards had been built into the Thunderbug.
The priest, a gaunt, thin-faced figure in short kilt and blue tunic, was staring. His eyes opened wider when Wade addressed him in the Minoan tongue. “Greetings, in the name of the Minotaur!”
“Greetings.” The man’s gaze wandered to the plane, then back to Jim. “Who are you?”
Wade told him. The priest nodded.
“Now I remember. But you were much younger when you left the valley. Much!”
“There’s little time. I bring a warning of danger. Have any other planes—bird-machines—landed here?”
“No. We could not believe, at first, when we saw—”
Wade interrupted. “Then we got here first. But I must see Cardoth, quickly. He’s still alive?”
“Yes. He’s in the temple. I’ll take you to him.”
The priest stared again at the plane, turned, and signaled to the other natives who waited nearby. They scattered.
“My name is Yaton,” he said. “Come with me.”
Wade nodded, and obeyed, Red and Dirk behind him. Planes, of course, were not unknown to the Minoans. Jim Wade’s first entrance to the valley had been made in a plane—a rickety old Spad. But there was quite a difference between a Spad and the Thunderbug
CHAPTER VIII
Hidden Valley
SOMEHOW, the place looked different, Wade thought. He had seen it years before with the immature eyes of a youngster, naive and unsophisticated. It was significant that now, as he stared around, he was analyzing the possible defenses of the temple group. The pass into the larger valley might be defended against a strong force, but much would depend on weapons. Spears and arrows were of little use against machine-gun bullets. And of no use at all against aerial bombs!
He followed Yaton into one of the great flat-roofed temples. Red and Dirk followed, their eyes wide with curiosity. So this was the mysterious land from which their leader had sprung! It was like stepping back thousands of years into the past, and one could almost imagine that beyond the mountains red-sailed galleys plied from the Tin Isles to the Mediterranean. Only the three adventurers made an incongruous note in the cool, dim quiet of the temple’s interior.
They passed into a dark corridor after the shadowy, silent figure of their guide. Everywhere was a queer, indefinable odor of antiquity. It was utterly silent now.
Yaton reached out, as though to guide himself by touching the wall. So Wade thought, at first. Too late he realized his mistake. Beneath his feet the floor tilted—tilted and dropped away!
Twisting like a cat in mid-air, he fell, hearing surprised gasps from Red and Dirk. A flame of intensely bright light blinded him. He landed on his feet, but his knees buckled, and he went down, legs bending like springs. Before he could recover, vague figures were leaping forward.
The light was painfully bright. For brief moments Wade could see nothing. He heard grunting curses from his companions, and the sound of harsh breathing and blows. He stood up, motionless, as wiry arms wrapped themselves about his body. His vision cleared.
Red and Dirk were still battling, though hopelessly outnumbered. Battling not only against priests, blue-garbed and kilted, but against men who were not the stocky, broad-shouldered Minoans. White men! Killers, armed with guns, which they were not using. Apparently they wanted their prisoners alive. But there were at least twenty enemies in all.
Several men stood against the walls, weapons aimed. But they did not fire. They waited.
Red and Dirk had already been disarmed, but that did not seem to bother them. The red-haired giant’s gnarled fists crashed home with audible thunks! A priest’s face dissolved in a crimson blur, and he staggered back, screaming and spitting out bits of teeth. Each sledge-hammer punch Red Argyle landed had disastrous effect.
Dirk fought differently. The little man was tricky, an expert at ju-jutsu and street-fighting. His bland face wore an expression of sleepy happiness as he kicked, gouged, bit, and punched. He had the morals of a wolverine and the fury of a wildcat.
Then Thunder Jim went into action. His captors had been momentarily disarmed by his seeming helplessness as he stood there without making any effort to defend himself. One had a gun jammed into Wade’s middle. And Thunder Jim’s arms were held, bent forward slightly, by two others.
THERE was unusual power in Wade’s muscles. When he moved, his captors were caught by surprise. He simply jerked his arms free, brought one down and the other up. The first slammed into the gun, knocking it aside. Wade’s right fist crashed against an unshaven jaw, and there was a crunching click as teeth were jammed suddenly together. The gunman was hors de combat.
Simultaneously Wade sprang back, evading the hands that reached for him. His automatic had been taken from its holster, and his companions’ rifles were also gone. The glaring brightness was not so much of a handicap now. His eyes were accustomed to it.
So this was a trap! The enemy had reached here first, after all, and they had made their preparations. But why were the Minoan priests helping them?
That was a problem Wade could not solve just then. He was too busy using his fists.
Two bright searchlights had been set up at opposite ends of the room, and from the darkness behind them came the sound of a shot. Red Argyle let out a yelp and stood for a moment staring at his left arm, dripping with blood.
“THAT’S it!” a sharp voice said. “Don’t kill ’em! Aim at their arms and legs.”
“Hold it!” Wade commanded. “Red—Dirk—lay off!”
Argyle turned an expression of angry disbelief to his leader.
“What?”
Ignoring him, Wade called, “We surrender!” He raised his arms.
From behind the searchlight, someone laughed.
“Good! Tie ’em up, boys. But be careful.”
Wade let himself be bound, and Red and Dirk followed his example, though with muttered objurgations. But they knew in their hearts that this was the best way. If they had continued to fight, they would have been shot at ruthlessly from the darkness, until they were crippled and helpless.
Now, though prisoners, they were still able to fight should the chance come.
Wade hoped he had not been wrong. His first mistake had been in allowing himself to be lulled into a false sense of security, and so into this trap. Somehow, he could not believe that the Minoans had allied themselves with Galbraith’s kidnapers. Yet everything pointed to that.
“Leave their legs free,” the voice commanded, then the speaker came forward. A man with squinting eyes, lantern jaw, and bald head. He looked like a vulture, and needed a shave.
“Thunder Jim Wade and his pals, eh?” He grinned, eying his captives. “My name’s Quester. Glad to know you.”
Wade didn’t answer, and Quester went on:
“So Varden’s men didn’t get you in Singapore. They radioed us about that. But what happened to the boys we had tailing you?”
Wade’s eyes were icy cold. “They’re dead,” he said, and something like a gust of icy wind seemed to sweep through the underground room.
Quester’s tongue came out and licked his lips. He was not grinning any longer.
“You’ll be dead yourself, pretty soon,” he said at last. “All three of you.”
He made a quick gesture, and Wade saw that Yaton, the treacherous Minoan guide, had appeared.
“The cell is ready,” the Cretan sa
id.
He spoke English, and Wade realized that this must be the result of his own visit with Miggs to the valley years before.
Perhaps many of the natives had studied the new tongue.
AT a command from Quester, Wade and his companions were hustled through a short corridor and stopped before a metal door, which Yaton unlocked. The door was made of bronze bars, set solidly in a metal frame.
Beyond it was a small, bare cell, lighted by a single lamp.
The prisoners were thrust in; the door was shut and locked. The others went away, leaving only Quester, Yaton, and one of the armed killers, a squat, hairy fellow with evil, piggish eyes.
Quester’s face was twisted with malice. “If I had my way, I wouldn’t keep you alive,” he said, staring through the bars. “So you’re Thunder Jim Wade, eh?”
“Not really,” Wade said, with infuriating calm. “I’m Santa Claus, and these guys with me are Donner and Blitzen. Two of my reindeer.” His eyes were no longer icily inhuman.
“Smart fella,” Quester growled. “Yeah!”
“What about Blitzen, here?” Wade said. He nodded toward Red. “Want him to bleed to death?”
Argyle’s arm was still dripping blood.
“The rope will make a good tourniquet.”
“Go away, Baldy,” Dirk put in. “You bother us. We want to play charades.”
Quester took out his gun. “You’ll sing different if I put a slug through your arm.”
Dirk met the vicious eyes with bland indifference. “Nuts.”
Yaton murmured something. “. . . he does not want . . .” Wade could not hear the rest. Quester’s face turned a mottled red.
“They’ll still be alive if I put bullets in their legs!” he burst out.
He lifted his gun. Simultaneously a hand shot out of the shadows and closed on Quester’s wrist. The bald man gasped in startled surprise, his discolored teeth showing in a snarl. Then he glanced at his assailant—and went parchment-pale.
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