by Lin Carter
Chandra Lal shook his head fiercely, trying to force into his consciousness memories that were dim and vague. He could remember the bite of the needle as it went into his arm, and then it seemed to him that his brain became paralyzed by some weird force, so that he could no longer make it obey his own will. He remembered a calm, whispering voice that asked him question after question ... he could just recall the sound of his own voice, mumbling disjointed answers from a numb brain ... but after that he could not remember what had followed, or when he had been brought into this other room.
Chandra Lal scowled, his brows knitting ferociously. The tall Hindu was not an ignorant man, nor was he an uneducated one, although he had not been long in this country and knew little of its people or its ways. But even he was aware of the existence of certain Western drugs that could force a man to speak when he had determined upon keeping his silence, and that could persuade veracity from one who had sworn to lie. Doubtless the sinister mastermind of supercrime who was known only as the Grim Reaper had used one of these truth serums on him; and, if so, then it was equally doubtless that, helpless in the grip of the mind-numbing narcotic, Chandra Lal had told everything he knew...
The Rajput snarled a vicious oath in his native Hindustani. Not only had he failed the sahib Zarkon, but now he had betrayed him, as well!
His strong brown hands clenched the chair behind his back; it was of flimsy construction, and the ropes which still confined him were themselves insufficient to constrain him. Only the steel cuffs which bound him to the chair were beyond his powers. Straining every muscle in his mighty frame, the Hindu rocked the chair back and forth until he overbalanced it and fell over backward upon it. Wrenching powerfully with his bound hands, he broke the light piece of furniture apart, then kicked and struggled until he was free of the cuffs. Although they still were locked about his feet and wrists, they dangled empty, no longer holding him to the chair.
Breaking apart the chair had also loosened the ropes which bound him. The Rajput kicked and squirmed about on the floor until the finger tips of one hand could brush against the torn fabric of his shirt and the bare skin of his upper arm. There, in a thin sheath of leather, slept a slim-bladed throwing knife which Chandra Lal kept ever about him, as was the tradition of his noble Rajput ancestors.
He called the knife “Shiva,” after that divinity the Hindu priests term The Destroyer.
The Chinese thugs had searched him well, when they had clubbed him into insensibility and dragged him from the telephone booth. But they had not found Shiva where she slept in her leather sheath strapped beneath the underside of his upper arm.
Muttering a guttural prayer to the grim deity after whom he had named the deadly blade, the rangy, long-legged Rajput fumbled for the hilt of the knife. By twisting his back into a painful arch, he just managed to brush the tip of the hilt with the tips of his fingers. Slowly, slowly, with agonizing effort, he coaxed the worn steel blade forth. It came whispering from its sheath and at last his strong brown fingers curled lovingly about the smooth wood of the hilt.
For a man of his suppleness and agility, it was not long before the slim length of razory steel had bitten through the ropes that bound his wrists. Then, to cut away the strangling noose about his lean corded throat, and to free his feet, was but the work of a moment.
The dangling steel cuffs were a noisy impediment to his movements, so he tinkered with them, cursing over every moment spent wasted futilely. But before long the keen blade had found the hidden catch and he was able to strip these from him, as well.
And now, at last, Chandra Lal was free!
He quickly rubbed his numb hands and feet, ignoring the poignant tingle as circulation returned to his extremities. A tigerish grin lit his swarthy, bearded features with a flash of strong white teeth.
Chandra Lal was free, and armed, and in the very heart of the Grim Reaper’s secret citadel of crime.
And soon Shiva would drink the blood of the enemy. Soon the yellow men would wince and fall before the swift, murderous rapture of her deadly kiss!
The hooded form of the Grim Reaper sat alone at the great inlaid desk in the room whose walls were hung with tapestries. Behind him the many-headed idol of brass leered hideously, tusks grinning in frozen menace.
His attention was fixed on the papers spread before him on the polished surface of the desk. But he was alert and wary. He sensed a step at the hidden portal to his chamber, where he crouched like a fat and lethal spider, spinning his sinister web of death, intimidation, and fear.
He looked up as the fold of tapestry was drawn aside. He saw the narrow black doorway and the figure which stood silently within, still buried in the gloom of the lightless stair beyond, which led down to the tunnel of the death-traps.
“Well?” he rasped impatiently. “Speak, Chu Ming! Who was the intruder, why was he not visible on the hidden televisors, and what have you done with him?”
There was no answer from the motionless figure just within the doorway. Then it stepped forward into the dim radiance of the scarlet rays that probed into every corner of the silken chamber, beaming from the many eyes of the Tibetan idol.
“There has been a slight alteration in your plans, Reaper,” said the man in the doorway quietly. “Chu Ming is dead, not I. He hangs on the spikes in the death-pit, a fate you had reserved for me.”
“Prince Zarkon,” said the Grim Reaper slowly. “So... at last we meet face to face!”
The Lord of the Unknown nodded grimly. His magnificent body was still clad in the plastic invisibility-suit, but now its boron-impregnated fabric lay in rags upon his body — mute but eloquent testimony to his savage battle against the karate killer in the underground tunnel.
In one hand he held a slim, light weapon. It was the gas-gun which Menlo Parker had given him, back in the Silver Ghost. Its nozzle was pointed directly at the motionless figure of the seated man draped in dark cloth.
“How did you manage to dispose of Chu Ming?” asked the hooded crime-lord in his uncanny whisper. “He is a master of the martial arts ... deeply learned in all the secret, stealthy, and lethal skills of hand-to-hand combat. I had not thought it possible for a man of the Western world to best him in physical combat ...”
Zarkon’s thoughtful, wary expression did not change.
“He may be a master of the martial arts of the Orient, as you say,” murmured the Man of Mysteries. “But he had never come face to face with a master of adhti before.”
“Adhti?” inquired the Grim Reaper in a husky whisper.
“A technique of nerve-fighting known only to the blue-robed sect in the lamaseries of Tibet,” said Zarkon emotionlessly. “I studied there for six months in preparation for my crusade against criminals such as you. I am the only adhti-master ever to dwell in the West.”
“I see,” whispered the hooded man thoughtfully. “You are also the only man, save one, to have penetrated this far into the network of secret tunnels which was once the citadel of Choy Lown. Let me congratulate you upon so rare and difficult an achievement.”
Zarkon said nothing; his keen, wary eyes observed every corner of the room, every motion made by his robed and hooded adversary. His gaze probed into the gloom that masked the hidden face of the motionless figure, but even his sharp and penetrating gaze could discern no single feature of the visage that hood concealed.
“I assume you have set yourself up as a successor to Choy Lown, if not indeed as Choy Lown risen from the tomb,” he said quietly.
The other laughed, an eerie sound in the silken gloom, that chilling, whispering laughter.
“I have indeed!” chuckled the Grim Reaper. “The superstitious Mongol mind is easily deceived by simple legerdemain. But my road was made easy for me — Choy Lown was venerated as a sage and patriarch, almost as the avatar of some sinister and enigmatic Oriental god! His followers, long scattered and dispersed, half expected his shade to rise again, reincarnated in the body of another. I did not disappoint them ...”
&nb
sp; “And now it has come to this,” said Zarkon somberly. The nozzle of the gas-gun did not waver as much as a fraction of an inch: still was it fixed upon the motionless figure seated behind the desk, its silk-gloved hands filled with papers.
“Yes,” whispered the Grim Reaper, “to this!” And he put down the papers which he held.
As he did so, the thumb of his left hand touched part of the mother-of-pearl inlay which adorned the top of the huge mahogany desk.
Blue fire blazed within the sill of the hidden door.
Zarkon stiffened as the electric shock tore through his nerves. His body arched as the electric current raged through it.
A moment later the Grim Reaper touched another portion of the inlay. The blue flame died in crackling sparks and the body of Prince Zarkon pitched forward and sprawled upon the thickly-carpeted floor.
The Grim Reaper rose from his chair and approached the motionless figure and prodded it with the toe of his shoe. The head of the fallen man lolled slackly to the push. The robed figure bent, pried the fingers of the unconscious man free of the trigger guard, took the gas-gun up, examined it curiously for a moment, then shrugged contemptuously, and tossed it aside upon the silken cushions of a low divan.
Then he stood over the sprawled figure of the Omega Man, his unseen face looking down at his helpless adversary.
Again, his whispering laughter stirred shivering echoes through the sumptuous chamber.
“Yes,” he whispered, gloatingly. “It has indeed come to this, Prince Zarkon. But I fear you will not appreciate the point of my jest!”
For a moment or two he stood over the unconscious form of Zarkon. Then he returned to the huge mahogany desk and touched a secret signal. A moment later a slim Oriental youth appeared from behind the curtains. He bowed obsequiously, then stood with flat yellow face stolid and expressionless, awaiting the command of his master.
The Grim Reaper gestured negligently at the body on the floor.
“You have a knife,” he said in his uncanny whisper. “Kill that man. Slit his throat!”
CHAPTER 21 — The Grim Reaper at Bay
No slightest trace of expression disturbed the stolid placidity of the mask-like yellow face of the young killer as he received his orders from the robed man. He saluted again and entered the sumptuously-decorated chamber, his silken slippers whispering over the deep pile of the carpet.
He bent down and turned the unconscious man over on his back. The thug who did this, as it happened, was none other than Pei Ling, the Chinese boy who had slain Jerred Streiger by means of the Invisible Death. His slant eyes gleamed with cold malignant fires as he recognized the features of the unconscious man at his feet, for he knew that it had been Prince Zarkon who had identified him as the murderer of the millionaire owner of Twelve Oaks.
One slim, long-fingered yellow hand slid within his black garments. When that hand emerged again, it clenched a wicked, wavy-bladed Oriental knife known as a kris.
“Kill him!” commanded the robed and hooded man.
Pei Ling bent to obey —
At that moment, one of the dim red rays that beamed from the many eyes of the Tibetan statue began to flicker. The Grim Reaper snapped his head around with a muffled cry. Whatever the code system used to identify the flickering ray, the hooded mastermind of crime knew that the front door of Wang Foo’s Tea Shop had been forcibly entered.
“Of course!” the hooded figure rasped. “I should have known that where the chief jackal enters, the remainder of the pack would not be far behind!”
He strode swiftly from the room. At the doorway he turned and gestured abruptly to the killer who crouched over the unconscious body of Zarkon.
“Get it over!” he commanded harshly. And then he was gone and the fold of tapestry fell into place once again.
Pei Ling turned back to the body beside which he knelt, the wavy-bladed knife ready in his yellow hand. But now there was something different about the body. For an instant the Chinese youth did not comprehend what it was about the sprawled, unconscious form that had changed; the difference was some subtle alteration that eluded his comprehension.
Then he realized what it was.
Now the eyes of the electrocuted figure were open.
Pei Ling blinked in puzzlement. The black, probing gaze of Zarkon stared directly into his own eyes. They were fiery, intense, magnetic, those black eyes. They were awake and aware ... but still the body sprawled, limp as a wax doll, motionless and unmoving.
Pei Ling was baffled. He knew the secret of the hidden door behind the tapestry. There were many such doors to this secret chamber, he knew, and all of them were wired to carry electricity. Pei Ling had been born and raised in this country and had attended English-language schools. Some little he knew of the white man’s devil magic called electricity; but not much. He knew that a shock of sufficient voltage will stun a man into unconsciousness, while a shock of greater intensity will paralyze or even kill.
Then comprehension dawned in the subtle mind of Pei Ling. He understood what had happened. The man at his feet had suffered a powerful electrical shock. One which had rendered him unconscious for a time, but one that was not quite powerful enough to kill.
A shock, moreover, that had paralyzed the body of Prince Zarkon!
Doubtless, the paralysis was but of temporary duration. In time it would wear off and the Omega Man would once again regain the use of his limbs. But, for the moment, at any rate, the grim and untiring avenger, the all-powerful Nemesis of Evil, was completely helpless!
Helpless to avoid the edge of the knife which Pei Ling held in those clever yellow fingers ... yet fully conscious of the danger which threatened to snuff out his life!
There was an innate strain of cruelty in the brain of Pei Ling, despite his youth. The helplessness of the enemy at his mercy appealed to that streak of savagery within him. His slit eyes gloated down into the mute but knowing eyes of Zarkon; he smiled a slow, cunning, cruel smile.
Slowly he reached out and set the razor-sharp edge of his knife against the throat of Zarkon.
Holding the gaze of those helpless eyes with his own gloating gaze, he began to exert pressure upon the blade. Ile thrust down, slowly, gently, the pressure of his hand as gentle as that of a woman’s caress ...
Or he tried to, at any rate!
For the nerves and muscles of his hand would no longer serve his will. He found, to his bewilderment, to his growing terror, that he could not move at all.
Neither could he tear his gaze away from the probing stare of those uncanny black eyes. Their magnetic force seemed to penetrate his skull and freeze the very brain within his head.
Globules of cold sweat burst out upon the contorted brow of Pei Ling. He strove with every atom of strength within him to move his hand, but he could not alter its position in the slightest. It was fixed and immobile, as if caught in the grip of a vise.
He could not wrench his eyes from the fiery magnetic gaze of the helpless man at his feet. Those black eyes seemed to swell and grow until they were like whirling ebon pools of black fire which rose and rose to engulf his spirit. Like seething whirlpools, they rose and rose to drag him down into their swirling depths ...
It was some time later when, prowling the secret corridors of the Grim Reaper’s domain, Chandra Lal found a door and forced it open, to find the Chinese boy crouched in paralysis over the recumbent form of Prince Zarkon.
The boy was frozen into immobility by Zarkon’s powerful hypnotic gaze. He was completely paralyzed, like a statue of yellow stone.
With a snarl of tigerish wrath, the Hindu bent and snatched his frozen form away from the Man of Mysteries, and flung him into a corner like a lifeless wooden doll.
Then, crooning a wordless tune, the mighty Rajput knelt, stripped away the ruins of the invisibility suit, and rubbed and chafed Zarkon’s limbs until the last traces of the paralysis induced by the electric shock had worn away and the Omega Man could move again.
Thus did Chandra Lal
redeem himself in his own heart for what he considered his failure and his betrayal of the sahib to whom he knelt in loyalty and homage.
When Zarkon had recovered, he wrung the hand of the faithful Hindu in silent but eloquent thanks. Then he picked up the gas-gun from where the Grim Reaper had carelessly tossed it and went to tie up Pei Ling. His face became somber as he bent to examine the boy and found that no bondage would be necessary, for the boy was dead. His heart had simply stopped, not through any workings of Zarkon’s hypnotic spell, but, simply, through fear and fear alone.
Zarkon frowned, but there was nothing he could do about it, and there was nothing he could say. It displeased him that, even inadvertently, he had taken a life. The fact that Pei Ling was a murderer, and had struck down his own employer in cold blood, made no difference to Zarkon. The boy should have lived to stand trial for his crime. But nothing could be done about that now ...
With the loyal Rajput at his side, Zarkon went from the room and began to explore the secret citadel of the Grim Reaper. It was a network of rooms devoted to various purposes, all connected by narrow, wandering passages. One room was crammed full of radio equipment, among which was a powerful sending and receiving set of unique design; it was by means of this instrument, obviously, that the hooded mastermind of supercrime kept in touch with his agents. The radio operator, a slim, hairless Oriental of indeterminate years, turned from his instrument with a huge revolver at the ready. Zarkon laid him senseless on the floor with a thin hissing jet from his gas-gun.
