The Second Murray Leinster Megapack

by Murray Leinster

  Presently the droning noise was tumultuous. Every plane in a condition to fly was out on the landing field, now brightly lighted by the burning buildings all about. There was frantic, hectic activity everywhere. The secretaries of The Master were rescuing what records they could, and growing cold with terror. In the confusion of spreading flames and the noise of roaring conflagrations the stopping of the motor up aloft had passed unnoticed. In the headquarters of The Master there was panic. An attack had been made upon The Master. A person who could not be one of his slaves had found his stronghold and attacked it terribly. And if one man knew that location and dared attack it, then.…

  The hold of The Master upon all his slaves was based on one fact and its corollary. The fact was, that those who had been given his poison would go murder mad without its antidote. The corollary was that those who obeyed him would be given that antidote and be safe. True, the antidote was but a temporary one, and mixed with it for administration was a further dosage of the poison itself. But the whole power of The Master was based on his slaves’ belief that as long as they obeyed him abjectly there would be no failure of the antidote’s supply. And Bell had given that belief a sudden and horrible shock.

  Orders came from one frightened man, who cursed much more from terror than from rage. Ribiera had advised him. To do him justice, Ribiera felt less fear than most. Nephew to The Master, and destined successor to The Master’s power, Ribiera dared not revolt, but at least he had little fear of punishment for incompetence. It was his advice that set the many aircraft motors warming up. It was his direction that assorted out the brainwork staff. And Ribiera himself curtly took control, indifferently abandoned the enslaved workers to the madness that would come upon them, and took wing in the last of a stream of roaring things that swept upward above the smoke and flame and vanished in the sky.

  Bell and Paula were huddled in between the buttress roots of a jungle giant, protected on three sides by the monster uprearings of solid wood, and Bell was absorbedly feeding a tiny smudge fire. The smoke was thick and choking, but it did keep off the plague of insects which make jungle travel much less than the romantic adventure it is pictured. Bell heard the heavy, thunderous buzzing from the town change timbre suddenly. A single note of it grew loud and soared overhead.

  He stared up instinctively, but saw nothing but leaves and branches and many climbing things above him, dimly lighted by the smoky little blaze. The roaring overhead went on, and dimmed. A second roaring came from the town and rose to a monstrous growling and diminished. A third did likewise, and a fourth.

  At stated, even intervals the planes at headquarters of The Master took off from the landing field, ringed about with blazing buildings, and plunged through the darkness in a straight line. The steadier droning from the town grew lighter as the jungles echoed for many miles with the sounds of aircraft motors overhead.

  At last a single plane rose upward and thundered over the jungle roof. It went away, and away.… The town was silent, then, and only a faint and dwindling murmur came from the line of aircraft headed south.

  “They’ve deserted the town, by God!” said Bell, his eyes gleaming. “Scared off!”

  “And—and we—” said Paula, gazing at him.

  “You can bet that every man who could crowd into a plane did so,” said Bell grimly. “Those that couldn’t, if they have any brains, will be trying to make it some other way to where they can subject themselves to one of The Master’s deputies and have a little longer time of sanity. The poor devils that are left—well—they’ll be camaradas, peons, laborers, without the intelligence to know what they can do. They’ll wait patiently for their masters to come back. And presently their hands will writhe.… And the town will be a hell.”

  “Then they won’t be looking for us?”

  Bell considered. And suddenly he laughed.

  “If the fire has burned out before dawn,” he said coldly, “I’ll go looking for them. It’s going to be cold-blooded, and it’s going to be rather pitiful, I think, but there’s nothing else to do. You try to get some rest. You’ll need it.”

  And for all the rest of the dark hours he crouched in the little angle formed by the roots of the forest giant, and kept a thickly smoking little fire going, and listened to the noises of the jungle all about him.

  It was more than a mile back to the town. It was nearer two. But it was vastly less difficult to force a way through the thick growths by daylight, even though then it was not easy. With machetes, of course, Bell and Paula would have had no trouble, but theirs had been left in the plane. Bell made a huge club and battered openings by sheer strength where it was necessary. Sweat streamed down his face before he had covered five hundred yards, but then something occurred to him and he went more easily. If there were any of the intelligent class of The Master’s subjects left in the little settlement, he wanted to allow time enough for them to start their flight. He wanted to find the place empty of all but laborers, who would be accustomed to obey any man who spoke arrogantly and in the manner of a deputy of The Master. Yet he did not want to wait too long. Panic spreads among the camarada class as swiftly as among more intelligent folk, and it is even more blind and hysterical.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock before they emerged upon a cleared field where brightly blooming plants grew hugely. Bell regarded these grimly.

  “These,” he observed, “will be The Master’s stock.”

  Paula touched his arm.

  “I have heard,” she said, and shuddered, “that the men who gather the plants that go to make the poisons of the Indios do not—do not dare to sleep near the fresh-picked plants. They say that the odor is dangerous, even the perfume of the blossoms.”

  “Very probably,” said Bell. “I wish I could destroy the damned things. But since we can’t, why, we’ll go around the edge of the field.”

  * * * *

  He went upwind, skirting the edge of the planted things. A path showed, winding over half-heartedly cleared ground. He followed it, with Paula close behind him. Smoke still curled heavily upward from the heaps of ashes which he reached first of all. He looked upon them with an unpleasant satisfaction. He had to pick his way between still smoking heaps of embers to reach the huts about which laborers stood listlessly, not working because not ordered to work, not yet frightened because not yet realizing fully the catastrophe that had come upon them.

  He was moving toward them, deliberately adopting an air of suppressed rage, when a voice called whiningly.

  “Senhor! Senhor!” And then pleadingly, in Portuguese, “I have news for The Master! I have news for The Master!”

  Bell jerked his head about. Bars of thick wood, cemented into heavy timbers at top and bottom. A building that was solid wall on three sides, and the fourth was bars. A white man in it, unshaven, haggard, ragged, filthy. And on the floor of the cage.…

  There had been another such cage on a fazenda back toward Rio. Bell had looked into it, and had shot the gibbering Thing that had been its occupant, as an act of pure mercy. But this man had been through horrors and yet was sane.

  “Don’t look,” said Bell sharply to Paula. He went close.

  The figure pressed against the bars, whining. And suddenly it stopped its fawning.

  “The devil!” said the white man in the cage. “What in hell are you doing here, Bell? Has that fiend caught you too?”

  “Oh, my God!” gasped Bell. He went white with a cold rage. He’d known this man before. A Secret Service man—one of the seven who had vanished. “How’s this place opened? I’ll let you out.”

  “It may be dangerous,” said the white man with a ghastly grin. “I’m one of The Master’s little victims. I’ve been trying to work a little game in hopes of getting within arm’s reach of him. How’d you get here? Has he got you too?”

  “I burned the damned town last night,” snarled Bell, “and crashed up after it. Where’s that door?”

  He found it, a solid mass of planks with a log bar fitted in su
ch a way that it could not possibly be opened from within. He dragged it wide. The white man came out, holding to his self-control with an obvious effort.

  “I want to dance and sing because I’m out of there,” he told Bell queerly, “but I know you’ve done me no good. I’ve been fed The Master’s little medicine. I’ve been in that cage for weeks.”

  Bell, quivering with rage, handed him a revolver.

  “I’m going to get some supplies and stuff and try to make it to civilization,” he said shortly. “If you want to help.…”

  “Hell, yes,” said the white man drearily. “I might as well. Number One-Fourteen was here.… He’s The Master’s little pet, now. Turned traitor. Report it, if you ever get out.”

  “No,” said Bell briefly. “He didn’t turn.” He told in a very few words of the finding of the body of a man who had fallen or been thrown from a plane into the jungle.

  They were moving toward the rows of still standing shacks, then, and faces were beginning to turn toward them, and there was a little stir of apathetic puzzlement at sight of the white man who had been set free.

  That white man looked suddenly at Paula, and then at Bell.

  “I’ve been turned into a beast,” he said wryly. “Look here, Bell. There were as many as ten and fifteen of us in that cage at one time—men the deputies sent up for the purpose. We were allowed to go mad, one and two at a time, for the edification of the populace, to keep the camaradas scared. And those of us who weren’t going mad just then used to have to band together and kill them. That cage has been the most awful hell on earth that any devil ever contrived. They put three women in there once, with their hands already writhing.… Ugh!…”

  Bell’s face was cold and hard is if carved from marble.

  “I haven’t lived through it,” said the white man harshly, “by being soft. And I’ve got less than no time to live—sane, anyhow. I was thinking of shooting you in the back, because the young lady—”

  He laughed as Bell’s revolver muzzle stirred.

  “I’m telling you,” said the white man in ghastly merriment, “because I thought—I thought One-Fourteen had set me the example of ditching the Service for his own life. But now it’s different.”

  He pointed.

  “There’s a launch in that house, with one of these outboard motors. It was used to keep up communication with the boat gangs that sweat the heavy supplies up the river. It’ll float in three inches of water, and you can pole it where the water’s too shallow to let the propeller turn. This rabble will mob you if you try to take it, because it’ll have taken them just about this long to realize that they’re deserted. They’ll think you are a deputy, at least, to have dared release me. I’m going to convince them of it, and use this gun to give you a start. I give you two hours. It ought to be enough. And then.…”

  Bell nodded.

  “I’m not Service,” he said curtly, “but I’ll see it’s known.”

  The white man laughed again.

  “‘Some sigh for the glories of this world, and some for a prophet’s paradise to come,’” he quoted derisively. “I thought I was hard, Bell, but I find I prefer to have my record clean in the Service—where nobody will ever see it—than to take what pleasure I might snatch before I die. Queer, isn’t it? Old Omar was wrong. Now watch me bluff, flinging away the cash for credit of doubtful value, and all for the rumble of a distant drum—which will be muted!”

  They were surrounded by swarming, fawning, frightened camaradas who implored the Senhor to tell them if he were a deputy of The Master, and if he were here to make sure nothing evil befell them. They worked for The Master, and they desired nothing save to labor all their lives for The Master, only—only—The Master would allow no evil to befall them?

  The white man waved his arms grandiloquently.

  “The Senhor you behold,” he proclaimed in the barbarous Portugese of the hinterland of Brazil, “has released me from the cage in which you saw me. He is the deputy of The Master himself, and is enraged because the landing lights on the field were not burning, so that his airplane fell down into the jungle. He bears news of great value from me to The Master, which will make me finally a sub-deputy of The Master. And I have a revolver, as you see, with which I could kill him, but he dares not permit me to die, since I have given him news for The Master. I shall wait here and he will go and send back an airplane with the grace of The Master for me and for all of you.”

  Bell snarled an assent, in the arrogant fashion of the deputies of The Master. He waited furiously while the Service man argued eloquently and fluently. He fingered his revolver suggestively when a wave of panic swept over the swarming mob for no especial reason. And then he watched grimly while the light little metal-bottomed boat was carried to the water’s edge and loaded with food, and fuel, and arms, and ammunition, and even mosquito bars.

  The white man grinned queerly at Bell as he extended his hand in a last handshake.

  “‘I, who am about to die, salute you!’” he said mockingly. “Isn’t this a hell of a world, Bell? I’m sure we could design a better one in some ways.”

  Bell felt a horrible, a ghastly shock. The hand that gripped his was writhing in his grasp.

  “Quite so,” said the white man. “It started about five minutes ago. In theory, I’ve about forty-eight hours. Actually, I don’t dare wait that long, if I’m to die like a white man. And a lingering vanity insists on that. I hope you get out, Bell.… And if you want to do me a favor,”—he grinned again, mirthlessly—“you might see that The Master and as many of his deputies as you can manage join me in hell at the earliest possible moment. I shan’t mind so much if I can watch them.”

  He put his hands quickly in his pockets as the little outboard motor caught and the launch went on down-river. He did not even look after them. The last Bell saw of him he was swaggering back up the little hillside above the river edge, surrounded by scared inhabitants of the workmen’s shacks, and scoffing in a superior fashion at their fears.

  CHAPTER XII

  It took Bell just eight days to reach the Paraguay, and those eight days were like an age-long nightmare of toil and discomfort and more than a little danger. The launch was headed downstream, of course, and with the current behind it, it made good time. But the distances of Brazil are infinite, and the jungles of Brazil are malevolent, and the route down the Rio Laurenço was designed by the architect of hell. Raudales lay in wait to destroy the little boat. Insects swarmed about to destroy its voyagers. And the jungle loomed above them, passively malignant, and waited for them to die.

  And as if physical sufferings were not enough, Bell saw Paula wilt and grow pale. All the way down the river they passed little clearings at nearly equal distances. And men came trembling out of the little houses upon those fazendas and fawned upon the Senhor who was in the launch that had come from up-river and so must be in the service of The Master himself. The clearings and the tiny houses had been placed upon the river for the service of the terribly laboring boat gangs who brought the heavier supplies up the river to The Master’s central depot. Men at these clearings had been enslaved and ordered to remain at their posts, serving all those upon the business of The Master. They fawned abjectly upon Bell, because he was of os gentes and so presumably was empowered, as The Master had empowered his more intelligent subjects, to exact the most degraded of submission from all beneath him in the horrible conspiracy. Once, indeed, Bell was humbly implored by a panic stricken man to administer “the grace of The Master” to a moody and irritable child of twelve or so.

  “She sees the red spots, Senhor. It is the first sign. And I have served The Master faithfully.…”

  And Bell could do nothing. He went on savagely. And once he passed a gang of camaradas laboring to get heavily loaded dugouts up a fiendish raudal. They had ropes out and were hauling at them from the bank, while some of their number were breast-deep in the rushing water, pushing the dugouts against the stream.

  “They’re headed for
the plantation,” said Bell grimly, “and they’ll need the grace of The Master by the time they get there. And it’s abandoned. But if I tell them.…”

  Men with no hope at all are not to be trusted. Not when they are mixtures of three or more races—white and black and red—and steeped in ignorance and superstition and, moreover, long subject to such masters as these men had had. Bell had to think of Paula.

  He could have landed and haughtily ordered them to float or even carry the light boat to the calmer waters below. They would have obeyed and cringed before him. But he shot the rapids from above, with the little motor roaring past rocks and walls of jungle beside the foaming water, at a speed that chilled his blood.

  Paula said nothing. She was white and listless. Bell, himself, was being preyed upon by a bitter blend of horror and a deep-seated rage that consumed him like a fever. He had fever itself, of course. He was taking, and forcing Paula to take, five grains of quinine a day. It had been included among his stores as a matter of course by those who had loaded his boat. And with the fever working in his brain he found himself holding long, imaginary conversations, in which one part of his brain reproached the other part for having destroyed the plantation of The Master. The laborers upon that plantation had been abandoned to themurder madness because of his deed. The caretakers of the tiny fazendaon the river bank were now ignored. Bell felt himself a murderer because he had caused The Master’s deputies to cast them off in a callous indifference to their inevitable fate.