Duane had no objections. Such a letter would be regarded with derision, especially in view of his disappearance, but Tuyok was far from realizing this.
“Then a settlement is to be proposed?”
he questioned.
Tuyok smiled in his thin way. “It is. Another air line will buy Stratolines out—cheap. The profits will run into millions, largely to my benefit.”
“Very well. Give me pen, ink, paper, and dictate the letter.”
“A pencil will do. You’ll find all you need in that leather chest by the window.”
A Chinese trunk of red leather was there. Duane opened it, found writing materials, and took the letter dictated by Tuyok. It went on to mention that he had gone on a hunting trip and would return later.
The Mongol stood, took his hands from under his robe, and showed a pistol in one.
“I admire your discretion, Mr. Duane,” he said, taking the letter. “You see, I was educated in America; you were wise not to try any tricks in this writing. It will be countersigned by Mr. Lawton and his sister, and sent in. Good day.”
He stepped swiftly out of the room; the lock clicked.
* * * *
For two days, Duane remained a close prisoner. He saw only the Mongol who brought his food twice a day; but from his barred window he had a glorious view of the mountains, which was poor compensation. He tried the bars of his window. They were new and solid; but the rubble of the wall was poor stuff. Not that it would do him any good to break out, at this height from the ground.
Early on the third morning Tuyok the Hound reappeared, accompanied by two other red-robed lamas. He seemed highly affable.
“A. little surprise for you, Mr. Duane,” he said. “Lift up the rug from the floor.” Wondering, Duane complied, and laid bare an iron ring. At Tuyok’s order he lifted on the ring; a foot-square section rose from the floor, to show him the room below. He looked down, and a sharp cry broke from him. Standing in that room, gazing up at him, was Agnes Lawton.
The two lamas came forward. The little trap-door fell into place. A padlock was attached to it, a heavy padlock.
“You see, I too am a wizard of the air,” said Tuyok, chuckling. “You are safe; she is safe; the work is ended. Perhaps I shall have need of you both, later. Meantime, you remain as hostages. See that you are docile, Mr. Duane—or she will suffer with you. Good day.”
He swept out with his two companions. Far from relapsing into docile despair or acceptance, Jim Duane suddenly wakened to savage energy. That Agnes Lawton had been brought here by plane, he could well understand; that she stood in acute peril, was only too certain.
Duane fairly wore himself out that day—tinkering uselessly with the padlock, trying to signal by tapping the floor, even calling from his window, which had bars but no glass. All was vain. He spent the next day working at the rubble of the wall, around the window bars; here he accomplished a little. He had nothing to work with, except his belt buckle; the metal tongue made a pitiful tool, but achieved a faint progress.
He kept at it, day after day. He was unshaven, unwashed; his bleeding fingers made the work bitter hard, but at least it was something to do. And he gained headway around the window bars. The Mongols who brought his food never looked at anything. It was taken for granted that he was helpless. He strained his eyes watching for planes, for a helicopter, but none came.
He knew that Wang would not have abandoned him willingly, but after all Wang was no person to depend on in this pinch. Probably the pilot, too, was in prison, he thought.
Now began a labor grim and great, labor by day and night, with every thought and energy concentrated upon the one end. The window was his sole hope; the massive door was solid, and whenever it was opened, Mongols waited outside while his food was brought in. Tuyok came no more. The padlocked trap-door was never opened again.
He burrowed at the rubble around the bars. Day succeeded day; he burrowed with belt-buckle, with fingertips, with coins, with anything that would scratch. Deeper grew the holes; a night came at last when he tried one bar and felt it give slightly—with full effort he could tear it free. He concentrated now upon the others, with feverish intensity.
Also, from one end of the tattered rug, he unrove a weft of cotton which gave him a long but flimsy cord. To this he tied a scrap of paper and the pencil, first writing the one question: Are you well? He lowered it, in the sunset light, from his window, greatly fearing lest it be noted from somewhere on the ground below; he jiggled it in the air, called down—and all in vain. Either Agnes Lawton did not see it, or she was no longer in the room below. He gave up at last, and utilized the pencil as a digging tool, ultimately shattering it to flinders against the rubble.
Hostages! He knew what that meant. For himself it did not matter; but the thought of Agnes Lawton at the mercy of Tuyok the Hound was maddening. And that man would have no mercy.
Duane lost track of the days. From his window he could see red-robed monks, or visitors to the monastery with ponies and carts; twice he saw cars or trucks down below. Of nights it was different; he could hear things. The long, raucous-voiced twenty-foot trumpets were blown, or huge gongs sent brazen vibrations through the air to carry the sound of chanting voices. At night the place was alive, but moribund by day.
He kept on doggedly with the labor. One end of a second bar was cleared, and he went at a crossbar. With those three gone, he could get out—out above the gaping void, if that would do him any good! No one, without plenty of rope, could escape this way. Still, Jim Duane knew what he was about. That glimpse into the room below had maddened him, but had also inspired him.
The moment came, toward noon, when it was finished; a stout heave, and those bars would come away. He sank down on his pallet and dropped his bearded, haggard features in his hands, relaxing. A little dirt smeared around his work, and it would keep till night.
He slept most of the afternoon. Toward sunset came his supper—one Mongol bringing in the food, while two others waited s outside in the passage. The empty bowls from his morning meal were taken, the full ones were left; the door clanged shut.
He sprang up, darted to the window, and caught hold of a bar, putting all his weight into the wrench. A heave—another—at the third, one end came loose, the other was bent and forced out of the rubble. A weapon at need! The second came away. So did the third, with red sunset light flooding over the mountain gorge below.
Duane gobbled his food, forcing himself to wait for full dark. He attacked the tattered blankets of his bed. The thin, stout iron bar, nearly two feet long, was tool enough; he ripped the blankets into strips. Time and again he had called to mind that glimpse of Agnes Lawton in the room below, estimating the distance from floor to floor. In the last, gray daylight, he knotted the strips of blanket; he had enough. About a remaining bar in the window he made one end fast, and let the makeshift rope drop out.
Clouds were piled into the sky. The stars peeped forth and then were veiled; the blackness was intense. Duane tucked the iron bar securely under his shirt, pulled the leather trunk under the window, and went at the job of getting through the opening. It was a stiff task, but he made it, inch by inch, gripping the remaining bar and wool rope. When he let himself go, his clutching hands were smashed cruelly against the stones—but he was free, dangling over the void—free!
Now he was gambling everything on what would meet him. Unless a window were there, he was lost. He got the rope between his legs and let himself down, carefully, hand over hand. His feet scraped the wall—came suddenly upon emptiness. A window! But not like his own. Not a barred window; the opening was glassed in. The room showed no light. Was it empty?
From somewhere far below drifted up chanting voices and the brazen reverberant clash of gongs. Hand over hand; it was beside him now, he could get his boots against the glass! Arms straining, he let himself dangle out, then came in, kicking with both feet. His boots shattered the glass. He heard a faint frightened cry, and never had a human voice seemed so sweet. A
nother swing, and his feet and legs were in through the opening.
Exhausted, cut in a dozen places, but still intact, he fell to the floor of the room. A match was scratched and sprang alight; in the yellow flame he saw the face of Agnes Lawton and she saw him. He was too spent to find words, but lay gasping. Another match, and flame rose from a candle.
Duane roused, to find her swiftly bandaging a ragged cut in his arm.
“It was a long job, but I got here,” he said. “Words are silly things, aren’t they?”
“Sometimes. I was never so glad to see anyone!”
“You didn’t know I had tried to reach you with a message? No, of course. Never mind. Are you all right? Unhurt?”
“Quite,” she said. “But a prisoner. They let me out each day for an airing.”
“No such luck here.” Duane rose stiffly. “We’ve got a lot of time to make up for; let’s talk as we go. I suppose your door is locked.”
* * * *
It was. He went to work on it with the iron bar, which made an excellent jimmy, but the door did not yield readily. As he worked, they both talked. Her brother was in a hospital at Irkutsk. She had been decoyed, under pretense that Duane wanted her, to a helicopter that had brought her here; Tuyok Nokhoi himself had piloted it.
“From what he said,” she concluded, “he knew nothing about Mr. Parks being in Korla. He thought I was in full charge of making the Buddha, and evidently intended to halt that work.”
“So? And he didn’t know about Parks, eh?” said Duane thoughtfully. “What about the air-base construction?”
“I think that has stopped entirely,” she replied. “You’re supposed to be away on a hunting trip—”
The lock of the door smashed out under Duane’s weight.
“All right; forget everything else. Our job is to get out of here,” he said, and turned to her, looking into her cool, level eyes. “No use asking if you’re game for it; I see you are. Take the candle and follow me. This old rabbit-warren is probably deserted and dark. Down at ground level we’ll find risk enough. Ready?”
She brushed the hair out of her eyes and seized the candle. “Let’s go!”
Iron bar in hand, Duane stepped out into the dark passage, and they were off.
Some twenty minutes later, an unfortunate Mogul in red robe and hat, who guarded a passage on the ground floor, heard footsteps. He paid little attention, beyond a growled command for silence. He was intent upon the scene at the far end of the passage, dimly visible from his post.
The entire community was gathered there, in the huge communal chamber dominated by a gigantic bronze statue of Buddha. Through thick incense, studded by the occasional clangor of gongs and drums, pierced chanting voices; at intervals they dropped, and the cracked tones of an old woman rose shrilly, or the deeply vibrant accents of the holy man from Tibet. He who had been Tuyok Nokhoi. Ceremonies were going on that would last far into the night.
The Mongol guard in the passage was aware of two dim figures where no figures should be. A shout broke from him—unluckily, just as the chanting voices were at their loudest, drowning his alarm—and plucking a long knife from under his robe, he hurled himself straight at the two figures. He had no chance to shout again; for the iron bar in Duane’s hand smashed hat and head.
Now there was fast work in the dim passage. Through the open doorway of a reception room was rolled the Mongol’s body; the hat and red robe were clapped on by Duane. He caught the hand of Agnes Lawton and led her down a transverse corridor, away from the chanting and the incense. A light appeared ahead; a thunder of gongs from the ceremonies filled the air. “I know where we are!” said Duane, at his companion’s ear: “That’s the side entrance from the courtyard—good! Now, wait here. Looks like a guard near the light. Stay put!”
Too bad that Mongol had carried no pistol! But the iron bar would serve. He strode forward. A lamp burned in a wall-nook. Duane came to abrupt halt, flattening himself against the wall, immobile in the shadows.
Not one guard, but two! They stood together, yelping at one another through the deafening din of gongs; one was pointing excitedly. Now Duane perceived that the door stood wide open, and a sudden blaze of light caught his eye from outside—it looked like a falling star-shell, illumining the courtyard. But he dared not pay any attention to it now—one of those two guards had turned, had picked up his skirted robe, and was coming slap for him at a run.
The other stood in the open doorway, back turned, watching something outside—the strange brilliant light, no doubt.
Duane had not an instant to think. The Mongol running at him was upon him; if the man got past, he must discover Agnes Lawton. On the thought, Duane stuck out his foot. The lama tripped over it, a yell burst from him, and he pitched forward, only to roll over like a cat and come erect. His arm moved. Duane, leaping for him, was aware of a stunning crash—the monk had flung a heavy bronze knife, whose hilt struck him between the eyes.
Blinded, stunned as he was, Duane kept going and hurled himself into the man. His iron bar lashed out and elicited a howl of pain. Duane struck again. The redrobe relaxed and lay motionless. Duane fell against the wall, recovered, wiped the blood from his eyes and peered at the second guard. That man stood in the doorway, unmoving; he had heard nothing. His whole attention was fastened upon something outside.
Feeling himself on the point of collapse, dizzy from that cruel crack on the forehead, Duane staggered forward. The sound of the gongs died away; he heard the voice of Agnes Lawton, from behind. The guard heard it also, and whipped around. A cry broke from him. His hand whipped up a pistol.…
Before he could use it, the iron bar crushed his skull and knocked him out through the doorway into the night.
Duane stooped, groped for the fallen pistol, and his fingers found it. He came erect, swaying; the door-frame supported him. Agnes Lawton was at his side, catching his arm. With her, he staggered out upon the darkness, and the open air revived him, steadied him. He looked about for the strange brilliant light, but there was none. All was pitch black.
“What happened? Are you hurt?” sounded her anxious voice.
Bareheaded now, Duane impatiently threw off the hindering red robe. He toppled, and she barely saved him from going over. With a low groan, he sank down on the stones.
“Got a nasty crack over the eyes,” he made reply. “Easy, now. Let me rest a minute. Something’s going on out here. See anything?”
“Not a thing,” she said. “There’s a glow of light over at one side—where they’ve been erecting those walls—”
“Yes, for the Buddha. Wait, now.” Duane felt his hurt forehead. No inner damage, apparently, but there was a long cut and the blood filled his eyes. He wiped it away, and looked. Light, sure enough; a faint light. He tried to move, and could not. “Give me a hand up—that’s the girl. Thanks.” Unsteadily, he gained his feet, with her help, and jammed the pistol into his pocket. Together they started across the courtyard. He was intent upon getting entirely out of the place.
But, it seemed from nowhere, a finger-ray of light struck them. A glad cry sounded. To his amazement, he heard the voice of Parks. Figures approached. Here was Wang, babbling at him in delighted greeting—and Parks, steady old Parks, wringing his hands and giving Agnes Lawton an excited hug.
“What is it—what is it? Am I out of my head?” demanded Duane.
“Not quite, old chap!” said Parks, laughing. “We’ve got your Buddha here—got him planted and working. We didn’t know what was up, but Wang suspected. He helped me finish the job—I had your orders, and headquarters said to obey you at all costs. So we did.”
“Good lord!” gasped Duane. “Yes, yes—Tuyok didn’t know about you—here, look out, look out—there’s hell to pay back there!”
A chorus of yells split the night behind them. He staggered forward, Parks helping him. Directly in front of them, just back of the opening into the roofless walls, towered something. A light flashed, a deep voice boomed out—Parks spoke
hurriedly.
“The electronic system’s at work, hooked up to the power of the helicopter. That’s the electric eye greeting you—wait and we’ll switch on the lights—hurry, Wang!”
A soft, subdued glow leaped up. There stood the Buddha of bronze plastic, and the light lit up the courtyard. Duane halted, just inside the entrance, beside the Buddha. He shoved the others on, and turned as a vibrant shout of anger lifted, He knew that voice, and fumbled for the pistol in his pocket.
It was like a dream—the thick stream of figures pouring from the monastery, the tall lean shape leading them. Tuyok the Hound brought out a pistol as he ran forward, and a new yell of fury escaped him as the towering shape of the Buddha appeared.
Duane, without an atom of emotion, took careful aim and pressed the trigger. Tuyok leaped in air, came another step, another—and then crumpled up and fell face down on the stones. He had come just within the range of the electric eye, with his final step.
The glowing Buddha lifted an arm, a majestic booming voice came from his lips in a Mongol greeting, then he sat silent, smiling, motionless.
A deathly hush fell upon those red-robed monks crowding behind Tuyok.
They thronged together, staring. One stepped forward gingerly and said something. As though in response, the radionics worked anew; the arm of the Buddha moved in blessing, and the glow of light died into a gentle softness that lit only the smiling, serene face.
The monks, as one man, fell in prostration. Through their ranks came an old, gaudily attired shape. The cracked voice of Ming Shui made itself heard thinly. She advanced to the figure of Tuyok—and crossed the electronic beam. Again, in booming salute, the Buddha spoke and the lights gained in strength. With a howl, old Ming Shui toppled forward on her knees.
Duane felt Parks pull him back, behind the Buddha.
“Take over—take over, Parks,” he said. “Get Wang to interpret—catch ’em while it’s hot! Where’s Agnes Lawton?”
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 3
