Doc Ardan and The Abominable Snowman

by Guy d'Armen

  He wished that he had managed to invent some way of steering his fall. The only effect he could have on direction was to draw in or extend one of his limbs. It worked to a degree, but it was hardly very effective. That was something to consider for the next trial. Still, by using his limbs, he did manage to control his fall enough to head for the largest of the haystacks below.

  And then, time ran out on him. He barely had time to hope for the best before he slammed into the hay.

  It didn’t kill him.

  It did hurt. Quite a lot. His right ankle felt as if it was sprained, and he knew he would have extensive bruising over all of the front of his body. But he was alive, and had broken nothing. Not even the photographic plate he had risked his life to obtain.

  As soon as he could breathe again, he rolled onto his back. Pain flared up all over, but that was a good sign—it meant that he was still alive, and hadn’t broken his neck or spine. He moved slowly, every muscle in his arms on fire, as he unfastened his helmet and goggles and pulled them from his head.

  There was a sound beside him, and he turned his head—slowly!—and saw that a curious pig had wandered across. It stared at him in some fascination, clearly wondering from where he had appeared.

  “Don’t worry,” he told the shoat. “I’ll be out of your way just as soon as I can move.” He realized he had to be giddy with relief—talking to a pig! He closed his eyes again for a moment. A short rest, and then he’d start on his way. He had to get back to HQ to develop the photographic plate.

  Two days later, Francis Ardan was in London. It was still slightly painful to walk, but he was getting better each day. And there simply wasn’t time to rest—not with the evidence he had procured about the Boche plans. Right now, he needed expert assistance, and this was the best place to obtain it. He stopped beside the Georgian house in a fashionable section of Westminster. Beside the door was a small, simple plaque:

  THE GUN CLUB

  London Branch

  Members only

  Ardan wasn’t a member, but that didn’t worry him. Several highly-placed contacts in the Société Secrète des Aventuriers had vouched for him and made an appointment with the people he needed to meet. He sounded the pull-bell beside the door, which was opened quite promptly by a liveried retainer.

  “Francis Ardan,” he announced. “I believe I am expected.”

  “You are indeed, sir,” the man agreed. He opened the door, allowing the young man to enter. “Allow me to take your overcoat and hat, sir,” he offered. Ardan shucked the coat and handed across his Homburg. “The second door on the right, sir,” the retainer announced.

  The young man thanked him and strode down the wood-paneled corridor. There were prints on the walls of all manners of military guns and howitzers, many of which were unfamiliar to him. The floor was thickly carpeted, so he made no sound as he walked, his precious package clutched firmly under his left arm.

  The second door was open, and Ardan saw that within was a large room. He knocked gently on the open door, and then walked into the room.

  This room was also wood-paneled, and richly furnished. Large stuffed chairs were scattered about the room, close to small tables for refreshments or books. A larger table ran the length of the far wall, and two other walls were massive book cases, the shelves stuffed to overflowing with weighty tomes. There were electric lights in strategic spots to allow for reading. None of the people in the room were so occupied.

  There were two men present, who rose as he entered. There was also a sole woman, who remained seated. One of the men was stout, balding and clearly in his 50s. The second was leaner, trim and had an amused cast to his handsome features. His skin was bronzed by the tropical Sun, showing he had traveled extensively, and his eyes were blue and piercing. The woman—well, she was quite startling. Aside from the simple fact that no clubs to the young man’s knowledge allowed women inside their premises, she was one of the most startling beautiful women he had ever seen. She was young—perhaps only five or six years older than Ardan—and tall—again, almost matching him.

  What was more surprising was that she somehow seemed familiar to him, though he thought he had never seen her before.

  “Francis Ardan, I presume?” The older man moved forward and reached out a hand, which the young man shook.

  “Just Francis—or Clark,” he said.

  “I am J.T. Maston,” the man introduced himself. “Normally, I reside in Baltimore at our home office, but these, alas, are not normal times. This gentleman is Lord John Roxton. The young lady, of course, you already know.”

  Ardan was puzzled. “I am afraid I do not. There is something familiar about you, Miss, but I do not know your name.”

  The young woman gave him a wry smile. “Why, Clark,” she murmured, “I don’t know whether to be insulted that you don’t recall me or flattered that I must have changed so much. We now share our last name, if that helps you to place me.” Her voice was strong and pleasant, and had a decided French Canadian sound to it.

  “The same name?” Ardan was startled. “Yes, of course! Aunt Pamela!” He blinked. “The last time I saw you was at Uncle Alex’s wedding!”

  His cousin laughed. “Yes, that was five years ago. I have changed a little. Child-bearing has a way of doing that to a woman.”

  “How is your daughter... what’s her name?... Patricia?”

  “Four, now. You should see her. She’s a real little terror,” she said laughing.

  Pamela May Thibault had married an uncle of his, who had moved to the backwoods of Canada almost 20 years ago. Ardan had pretty much lost touch with him as a result, and had only seen her once in his life, at their wedding. No wonder he had not managed to recognize her—and why Maston had assumed he knew her.

  “What are you doing here?” he inquired.

  “The Thibaults are long-standing members of the Montreal branch of the Gun Club,” she explained. “I happened to be in London, and when I heard you wished to consult the members here, naturally I arranged to be present.”

  “Naturally.” One thing Ardan did recall about his Canadian aunt was her pronounced sense of curiosity and her fascination with excitement.

  “I hear you have somethin’ special for us, young man,” Lord Roxton said, clearly eager to get down to business.

  “It is something you might be able to help me with,” Ardan agreed. He removed the photographic plate from the bag he carried and laid it on the nearest table. Roxton and Maston bent to look at it, and Pamela shifted in her chair to get a better view.

  “Must have been risky gettin’ this,” Roxton murmured.

  “Slightly,” Ardan agreed, not wishing to detail his adventures. “It was taken at a height of about 1000 feet. It is an enlarged view of the interesting area of the resulting picture.”

  “I’ll say,” Pamela agreed. “It’s a railway gun, clearly.”

  Ardan knew this much, but little more. “It’s a new Hun weapon,” he explained.” The barrel is approximately 100 feet long. It is mounted on a railway flatbed to enable it to be draw by an engine.”

  “Must have an impressive range,” Roxton offered.

  “It has,” Ardan agreed. “It is located in the forest of Coucy, and it has been shelling Paris—at a distance of 75 miles—since March.”

  “Ah!” Pamela exclaimed with delight. “The famous Paris Gun! I’ve long wished to see it!”

  “So have the Allied High Command,” Ardan informed her dryly. “And they wish to destroy it. But it is well defended and mobile to a degree.”

  “At those sort of ranges, it can’t be too ruddy accurate,” Roxton said.

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Ardan said. “It can shell Paris without any warning, and causes a great deal of panic. No one can tell when the next bombardment will commence, or what may be the target. It is a weapon more of terror than siege, but it does its job well. Morale in Paris is low.”

  Pamela sighed. “And I assume your task is to destroy it? It does seem a pity.�
�

  “The inhabitants of Paris might not agree with you,” Ardan said, dryly.

  “Oh, I understand that,” Pamela said hastily. “And I quite agree. But...” She picked up the plate. “It is such a magnificent gun. Made by Krupp's, obviously.” She had named the largest German manufacturer of weaponry. “And designed, undoubtedly, by Von Kimmel.”

  “Yes,” Maston agreed. “He was a member of the Gun Club before the War,” he explained to the young man. “He often spoke with me about his wish to produce the biggest gun in the world. It would appear he has achieved his aim.” He shook his head. “Such a perversion of all we stand for.”

  Ardan looked at him curiously. “But what other point is there in building guns if not to destroy life and property?”

  Maston was shocked. “Sir!” he exclaimed. “The point, as you put it, is to learn. We strive to extend the frontiers of man’s knowledge, to discover his capabilities.”

  “Besides,” Pamela pointed out, “it was a gun that launched your grandfather—and Mr. Maston’s father, along with Mr. Barbicane—on their wonderful trip to the Moon.”

  “Considering the forces involved, they were all astoundingly lucky not to have perished in the attempt,” Ardan replied. “And one exception does not negate my point—the sole reason to build such guns is to kill and destroy. Men can advance their knowledge in far more peaceful ways.”

  “But not as much fun,” Pamela complained.

  “I think we’d best leave philosophical matters to the philosophers,” Ralston said. “I meself am a man of action, and it’s clear that’s what is called for here. Do you have a plan, young man?”

  “My thought is for a small band of men to penetrate the German lines,” Ardan stated. “Less than five would stand the best chance, and three might be optimum. Well-placed thermite charges should cause sufficient damage to the barrel to prevent it from functioning.”

  “That might work,” Pamela agreed. “Provided there are no spare barrels.”

  “Why would the Germans have any spares?” Ardan asked.

  “Because of the tremendous velocity the shells will achieve on being fired,” she explained. “Simply firing a shell would cause measurable wear inside the barrel. The barrel would need to be replaced on a regular basis or else the weapon would be rendered useless.”

  Ardan had failed to consider this, and he felt a pang of embarrassment. It was his way to attempt to consider all the possibilities, and he had overlooked this one. “Then more than the barrel must be destroyed—the rail car itself. I cannot be certain that the Huns do not have more of these weapons ready to replace the gun, but it would seem unlikely. Given the state of the war, they would surely have utilized them.”

  “Agreed,” Maston said. “And casting and placing such a weapon would be a delicate and far from simple process. There is a likelihood that spare barrels have been cast—but it would take considerable time to install one and align it. A variation of even a fraction of an inch from the bottom to top of the barrel could be disastrous.”

  Roxton gave a barking laugh. “It sounds extremely chancy and dangerous to me, young fella. Count me in—I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Me too,” Pamela said, eagerly. “Next to building a gun like that, blowing one up is probably the most fun I’ll have had in years.”

  Ardan stared at her, aghast. “You are most certainly not coming along on this mission. It is far too dangerous for a woman. If we are captured, we will be shot as spies—and the Germans have proven that they are quite as happy to execute women as men.”

  Pamela’s eyes blazed. “Clark, I did not think you would be such a chauvinist! Do you think women have less courage than men? That we would shirk our duty because we are more afraid of consequences than you?”

  “War is no place for a woman,” Ardan said, firmly.

  “It’s no place for men, either!” she snapped. “But while war exists, we must all do our duty and attempt to bring it to the swiftest end. I am coming, and that’s final.”

  Ardan looked to Roxton for help. “Surely you agree with me?” he asked.

  “On general principals, certainly,” the English Lord said. “However, in this particular circumstance, I have to agree with the young lady.”

  “What?”

  “Certainly.” Roxton gave him a frank look. “Miss Thibault has shown that she is the expert here in the matter of the Paris Gun. She has already made one good point that you overlooked—not your fault, of course, you can’t know everythin’—and she may be able to make more on the spot. If you really want that gun blown up, then I’d say she’ll be an invaluable member of the team.”

  “Thank you, your Lordship,” Pamela said, smirking at her nephew.

  “Don’t thank me, young lady,” Roxton replied. “Our young Mr. Ardan might well be right, too—this is a very dangerous mission, and we might all end up dead and the gun untouched. But I’ve fought dinosaurs and men, and I’m not goin’ to sit this one out.”

  “And nor am I,” Pamela said, firmly, glaring at Ardan and daring him to disagree.

  What could he do? Much as he hated the idea of leading his cousin into danger, she and Roxton had a valid point. She clearly understood this weapon better than he did, and it was imperative that it be destroyed.

  “Very well,” he said, gritting his teeth. “We leave at 4 a.m.—perhaps you had best prepare for this mission by writing out your will.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a sore loser?” Pamela asked.

  “I do not make it a habit to lose,” Ardan informed her.

  She gave him a sweet smile. “I’ll try and make it as gentle an experience as possible, then,” she promised.

  Ardan could see that this was not going to be easy on his nerves...

  Getting across the English Channel to France was simple enough, if a little wearing on Ardan’s nerves. Pamela, it seemed, threw herself into every endeavor with a whole-heartedness that worried him. She had read up on the Coucy region where the gun was based and memorized pages of information. That was all well and good, but he hoped it would not make her over-confident when they arrived. She had managed to confine her changes of clothing to a minimum—not a simple thing for a woman in the young man’s experience. And she had brought along a small arsenal.

  Ardan distrusted guns. Even the best of them had the potential to jam at the moment you needed it most, and he tried to avoid using them unless absolutely necessary. Pamela, however, having been brought up in the backwoods of Quebec, had been hunting since she was a child, and had several rifles and a pistol, all of which she had obviously cleaned on a regular basis. He could hardly forbid her from bringing them along—they would probably be absolutely necessary. Besides, Roxton had his own bag of rifles and he could hardly forbid Patricia what his other companion was carrying. But it disturbed him to see a woman with a weapon.

  He had trouble understanding women. Partly, he knew, it was simply that he was unfamiliar with them. His mother Jacqueline had died when he was a child, and he had been raised by his father and a group of all-male tutors. The other part was that he simply did not know how they thought. Pamela, for example, was clearly very intelligent and insightful, but he could never predict what she might be capable of saying next. He wished over and over that she had not come along on this mission.

  The trip to the forest of Coucy was long but uneventful until the final stretches. Once they entered the area under German control, Ardan halted their advance for a quiet conference. They all wore identical clothing—dark pants, a long, dark great-coat and dark hats. These served to cover his and Patricia’s light-color hair, which might otherwise give them away. Roxton and Pamela both had rifles slung over their shoulders and pistols in holsters at their waists. Ardan had no gun, but carried his usual supply of scientific devices he preferred to utilize secreted about his clothing.

  “The Boche patrol these woods on a regular basis,” he informed his companions softly. “We shall have to ta
ke great care from here on. Make as little noise as possible, for stealth is essential.”

  “Teach your grandmother to suck eggs,” Pamela jeered. “Roxton and I are both hunters, and if we weren’t adept at silence, we’d hardly catch much, would we?”

  Ardan strove to keep his temper in check. “I am merely reminding you both,” he said. “You do not have to take every comment as a personal challenge.”

  “If you didn’t mean them to be, it would be a lot simpler,” Pamela retorted. “I know you resent my being here, but I am here, so stop acting like I’m a liability and allow me to do my job.”

  Ardan nodded, stiffly. “I am endeavoring to do just that.”

  “Under protest,” his aunt argued.

  “Um, please,” Roxton broke in. “Let’s not have this discussion again, eh? We’re here, the gun’s there, and we’d better be on our way, eh?”

  “Right,” Ardan agreed. “Come along.”

  As the slipped through the thick woods, the young man realized that Pamela had been quite correct—she and Roxton made almost as little noise as he himself did. Both were clearly excellent hunters and adept at stealth. Why, then, did this information not make him feel any better about his aunt being there?

  Was it possible that she was correct, and he was a male chauvinist?

  They passed close to three patrols, all of which they detected soon enough to enable them to hide until the enemy had passed. It was clear from the casual manners of the soldiers that they feared no Allied attacks this deep in their occupied lands. That confidence, if shared by the rest of the Huns—might make their task a whole lot simpler.

  A short while later, Roxton tapped him on the arm and pointed. Through the trees ahead he saw the glint of metal on the ground—the railway line to Paris. They were getting closer to their target and had to take even greater care as they moved.

  There were more patrols, and these were more alert than the farther-flung ones. They were close to their superiors and wanted to make a good impression. In each case, though, Roxton and Pamela hid in the undergrowth while Ardan took to the branches of the trees above. In the event any of them were discovered, then the others might be able to offer assistance. It turned out to be unnecessary, however, as their approach remained undetected.