by R. A. Jones
“I know you have already paid a heavy price for your service. I understand you lost one of your comrades while saving the lives of so many others.”
The heroes looked at him quizzically.
“I assure you, any rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated, Mr. President,” a voice said from behind and to one side of Roosevelt.
The President expertly wheeled his chair around, and the smile returned to his lips.
To his joyful astonishment, he saw Amazing Man entering the room. The hero was pale and weak enough to need both a cane and the supporting arm of a solicitous Zona Henderson to remain upright, but he too smiled gamely.
No one could see the look of pride behind the Clock’s mask; the pride a father feels for a son who has exceeded his every hope and expectation. Only his old friend the Eye knew what he was experiencing, as shown by the fact that he now laid a hand on the Clock’s shoulder and squeezed it lightly.
“Just give me a couple more days, sir,” Aman said confidently, “and I’ll be good as new.”
“Delighted to hear that, m’boy,” Roosevelt replied sincerely, “because I have even more to ask of you. Of all of you.
“You all know what’s happening in Poland right now. It’s only a matter of time before it falls, and not much time at that. France and England are gearing up for war as we speak.” His shoulders slouched slightly.
“It’s no great secret that I’d like us to be doing the same. But for now, this country wants no part of war, and I’m obliged to obey its wishes.
“But evil ignored is not the same as evil defeated. Sooner or later, Hitler will turn his sights on us, and we’ll be drawn into a horrendous fight whether we want it or not.
“He and that fat toady Mussolini have already forged an alliance they’re calling the ‘Steel Pact.’
“If this entire planet is not to be turned into nothing more than a blackened ball in space, then I feel it will need a Steel Ring to hold back those dark forces.
“I hope each one of us gathered together in this chamber today will be a part of that defensive ring, that hope for mankind.”
His gaze swung intently over all of them.
“And I’m not asking this of you just for the sake of America, and not just as its President.”
He slowly extended his right hand out toward them. On one finger gleamed an ornate steel ring that matched theirs.
“I’m asking for the world … and as your brother.”
With a weary smile on his lips, the President motioned for his bodyguards to wheel him away. Not a word was spoken as the assembled agents watched him depart. The Clock escorted the world leader to the exit from the drawing room, then turned to face the others.
“Do I even need to ask if you’re all with us on this?”
“Of course we are,” the Witch said firmly. “To the very end.”
“May it arrive soon,” the Fantom intoned.
“Meanwhile,” Aman said, “we still have one other urgent order of business.”
With Zona’s assistance, he limped over to a nearby table, upon which sat a large, open box, constructed of reinforced lead. The others followed and gathered around the table.
Inside the box, glistening as if each was a light source unto itself, rested the five mystic gems.
When Aman had collapsed lifelessly in the boat following their epic battle against the Question, Iron Skull – ignoring his own grievous wound – had rushed to his comrade’s side.
Placing a hand atop Aman’s chest, he had shot bolts of electricity into him. Much of the discharged energy had been absorbed by the thirsting jewels, but enough penetrated to jump-start Aman’s heart and keep it beating as they hurried back to their hidden sanctum.
It had taken both the sorcerous skills of the Eye and the technological expertise of the Clock to remove the gems from Aman’s battered body. Only upon their removal had he regained consciousness and begun the slow, painful healing process.
“Do we even know what these damned things are, Gramps?” the Ferret asked the Eye.
“Not really, no. The Librarian is up to his jowls in scrolls and books, but so far we still don’t know who or what created them, or for what ultimate purpose.”
“There’s one thing I know for certain,” Aman asserted. “They’re too awful for any man to possess.”
He didn’t tell the others that, until the gems had been pried from his body, he had drifted in a realm of feverish deliriums in which they had almost seemed to speak to him.
In seductive tones worthy of Helen of Troy or Satan himself, they had urged Aman to add their enormous powers to his own.
A part of him had wanted to succumb to their siren song. Even now, he could feel their invisible tendrils reaching out to him.
The light they emitted pierced his eyes, lancing directly into his brain. Voices older than time spoke soothingly and eloquently of the riches that could be his if only he embraced the gift they offered. Without realizing what he was doing, he brought his right hand up, reaching toward the beckoning jewels.
Their crooning abruptly stopped as the Fantom slapped a heavy lid firmly down atop the box in which they sat.
“If you will allow me,” he said, “I believe I know a place where they – and the world – will be safe.”
CHAPTER L
New York City, September 9, 1939
Cal Denton would have preferred to see John Ford’s new Western picture, “Stagecoach”.
Natalia Nastrova, on the other hand, had lobbied for the Judy Garland flick, “The Wizard of Oz”.
Cal had gladly acquiesced. After all, the movie they saw didn’t matter to him nearly as much as did the company he was keeping.
He had been delighted to discover that Natalia was as much a fan of American movies as was he. Already, the two of them had agreed to a tentative date in December, on the day when the much-anticipated “Gone with the Wind” was scheduled to be released.
Both the Ferret and the Witch, enjoying the anonymity afforded by a simple change into civilian garb, sank back into the plush seats of the opulent Orpheum Theatre, awaiting the start of the night’s entertainment. They were seated near the back of the theatre and to one side, under the covering shelter of the upstairs’ balcony.
Glancing over at his date, soaking in her fresh beauty, Cal wished yet again that he could have afforded to take Natalia on a more proper date. But since he had yet again refused to accept payment from either Aman or the Clock for his services to the Ring, money was as tight for him as before.
Natalia not only understood and accepted his reasons for refusing recompense, she admired him for it. She had done much the same herself; in her case, she had asked the Clock to use any money she might have earned from the team, and his worldwide network of agents, to fuel the continuing exodus of beleaguered Jews out of Europe.
“I hope goin’ out on the cheap like this doesn’t disappoint you too much, Natalia,” Cal said.
“Don’t be silly,” she replied, reaching for the single soda they were happily sharing. “I’m sure it will be a wonderful evening.”
“Glad ya think so, doll,” he said airily. “To tell ya the truth, I didn’t really think a swell like you would ever go out with a palooka like me, whether he had money or not.”
“Well, now you know,” she said. “All you had to do was ask.”
She didn’t mention that she initially had no idea where they would be going this evening; she still wasn’t sure exactly what a “petting pantry” was.
“If yer up for it,” he said, “after the picture’s over I thought we might cut out to a swell egg harbor I know in Harlem, and drag a hoof.”
She giggled softly.
“As usual, darling, you’re going to have to translate for me,” she said in her endearing European accent. “You want to go where and do what?”
He smiled sheepishly.
“I know a joint where we can get in for free and do a little dancing.”
“Ooh. That so
unds like fun!”
“Of course,” he commented, “once the other bums there get a load o’ the keen number I’ll be with – I may have ta fight ‘em off with a stick.”
Natalia giggled again; this time, the implied compliment to her beauty needed no translation.
Minutes later the interior of the theatre darkened and the newsreel preceding the showing of the main feature began. The first stories, predictably, focused on the growing war in Europe.
The sonorous tones of narrator Lowell Thomas then turned to domestic stories. The lead was a story about the repairs being made to the damaged torch of the fabled Statue of Liberty.
Thomas repeated the official story the government had fed to the media: the torch had been damaged during a freak storm, when a bolt of lightning struck it full on.
Cal winked at Natalia and they shared a knowing smile.
The newsreel next moved to news with a lighter slant, involving the still ongoing World’s Fair.
The gray images flickering on the screen showed a ceremony involving the burial of a specially constructed time capsule.
The capsule’s contents, intended to paint a broad picture of American life in the mid-20th century, included such objects as a woman’s hat, a man’s pipe, a newsreel and 1,100 feet of microfilm that contained such things as a Sears Roebuck catalog and a dictionary.
According to Thomas’ commentary, the capsule was to be buried 50 feet below the surface of Flushing Meadows and was not to be opened until the year 6939 – 5,000 years in the future.
“Not much chance anybody’ll still be around to dig that baby up,” Cal quipped.
“That’s my hope,” said the Fantom, suddenly and unexpectedly sticking his head between the two moviegoers from behind.
“Jeez!” Cal yelped, as both he and Natalia jumped in startled surprise.
A rather rotund, matronly woman sitting two rows in front of them angrily turned to shush them. But when she saw the ghostly visage of the Fantom staring back at her, she quickly turned back and slumped down in her seat.
“That’s why I figured the capsule would be the perfect hiding place,” Fantom continued, oblivious to the mild uproar he had caused.
“Hiding place?” Natalia gasped. “You mean you put the five jewels inside that thing?”
“Exactly,” he replied. “Where I hope no one ever finds them.”
“I think that’s a pretty safe bet,” Cal said.
“I pray we’re right,” Fantom replied. “Only the three of us know of their location.”
“But, why did you tell us?” Natalia asked.
“It will be up to you to make sure I never try to retrieve them.”
“Oh.”
“You done good, rag man,” Cal told him.
“I’m glad you think so. I’ll leave you to your entertainment now,” Fantom said, pulling back and preparing to vanish into the shadows.
“Wait a minute,” Cal whispered. “Before you go, will you do me a favor?”
“Anything, friend Ferret.”
Without even looking back, Cal thrust one hand back over his shoulder. He was holding a nickel, which he pressed into the palm of Fantom’s hand.
“Use that spooky power of yours to pop out to the lobby and get us a bag o’ popcorn.”
-THE END-
PREVIEW: THE TWILIGHT WAR
Hindustan, 2163 BC
The stars seemed to be fairly dancing in the night sky.
Young Prince Zardi stood with hands on hips, head tilted back, smiling as he viewed the celestial light show overhead. He raised his arms out to the sides, turning slowly in place, creating a visual illusion for himself of the stars following in his path, leaving behind them tails of yellow, blue and green.
He drew a deep breath, savoring the crisp coolness of the air as it suffused his tall, lithe body. The air in this place known as the Valley of the Moon’s Descent had a distinctive and familiar cleanness to it he had not smelled or tasted in more than a decade.
The smell of home.
“Supper’s on.”
Zardi lowered his arms, ran one hand through the thick and luxuriant blackness of his hair before turning toward the fire.
His servant, Nogi, stood beside it, motioning for him to come and be seated. The man cast an imposing figure himself: Nearly a head taller than Zardi, his loose-fitting cotton tunic doing nothing to conceal the rippling muscles beneath. His skin was as dark as mahogany, making the deep-set eyes in his shaved head seem almost to glow.
Everything about him bespoke of great physical strength, yet the deference he showed the young prince was obvious and sincere. Zardi slapped him lightly and fondly on one arm before dropping down to the ground and directing Nogi to do likewise.
Among his many talents, Zardi thought as he bit into a succulent piece of fried fowl, Nogi was a passably good cook.
Warmed by food and fire, Zardi’s mind drifted back to his early youth. His had been the best of lives, growing up as he did in the great and fabled city of Zardipore, in the land of the Aryans.
It was made better still by virtue of his birth into the ruling family of that city-state. Its king, also called Zardi, and his wife Aldebera had been benign and beloved rulers and equally treasured parents. They had seen to it that the heir to their throne had received the finest of tutelage.
But so adept was the prince at absorbing learning, so thirsty was he for knowledge, that even when he had emptied the scholars’ cup of teachings he found he wanted more.
He had not yet reached the end of his eighteenth year when he set out alone from Zardipore, determined to see and learn all that he could of what lay beyond his own walled city.
During his subsequent travels, he had spent time with both the Ghunds and the Bils, wild hill tribes of the interior who claimed to be the earliest inhabitants of this vast land.
Farther south he had come upon the dark-skinned Dravidians. It was there that he had saved the life of Nogi, who in gratitude then swore to serve him forever.
“And when I am gone,” Nogi pledged, “my sons and their sons will serve you and your family.”
The two men had mutually agreed never to speak again of the dark and depraved ritual from which Zardi had rescued his pledged man.
But it was this encounter which had introduced Zardi to the fact that there existed knowledge beyond the boundary of the physical world, into that of the mystical and otherworldly. He quickly became determined to master as many of its secrets as possible.
He and Nogi traveled together to the island called Cei-lon, and from there across a sea to a land of dense and steamy jungles.
In each place along the course of his journey he found shamans who were the guardians of mystical rites. He had studied with each, and from each added to his own growing store of knowledge and skill.
Nor did he stop there. Wherever he went, he also studied the language, history and culture of the native peoples. This was why he was almost always welcomed wherever he lit; it was quickly plain to all that he had naught but respect for their unique ways, and that he wanted to take nothing from them that could not be freely given. He didn’t judge; he listened. He sought to learn, not to teach.
One of the things he learned most quickly was how to distinguish the true adept from the fraud. And even the charlatans proved useful, for from them he learned how to spy trickery.
From the jungles he traveled northward to the steppes, where he met pale people with wonderful, almond-shaped eyes.
They told him of even older and more advanced centers of civilization still farther to the east, in the land of the Chins.
But by this time Zardi, having grown into tall and sturdy manhood, began to ache for home. He decided he had been gone too long, and he desired to again see his parents and his little sister Musephra, who had known only five summers when he began his sojourn. She would be a young woman now and Zardi feared she would no longer remember him at all.
Yet such is the nature of youth that even now, still n
early half a day’s walk from home and most eager to see it, Zardi was already feeling the urge to resume his travels and his learning.
There was still so much to know, he felt certain, and so little time in which to learn it.
If only a man could live forever, he thought idly as he ate his simple meal – he might have time to learn it all.
He was pulled from such musings by the feel of the ground trembling slightly beneath him. He cast a glance at Nogi, who shrugged his great shoulders and shook his head in puzzlement.
A second, much stronger tremor shook the earth and bucked Zardi up like he was attempting to ride an untamed stallion, causing him to fall onto his side.
He had barely risen to his knees when he clapped both hands to his ears as a booming, bone-rattling wave of noise swept down the valley and over the two travelers. A lightning bolt crashing to ground at his very feet would not have produced a sound so loud as that which now assailed Zardi.
A great wind followed the noise, snuffing out the campfire as if it was but a candle and sending both men tumbling across the clearing.
Next came a bright flash of light in the sky that drew Zardi’s gaze in the direction where lay Zardipore. As the young prince looked on with rapt fear, the light flared up and out in every direction.
A dark cloud, shaped a bit like a grotesque mushroom, billowed up into the night sky as if pursuing the light.
The trembling of the ground had not yet subsided, but Zardi was already snatching up his meager belongings; shoving them into the bag he then slung over one shoulder.
“Come on, Nogi,” he shouted, the strident ringing in his ears preventing him from realizing he was doing so. “There’s no time to waste!”
As usual, the Dravidian obeyed without question or hesitation. He grabbed his only possession – an ornately carved staff nearly as tall as he – and followed in his master’s footsteps.
The prince found the going maddeningly slow. The massive ball of light had quickly faded and the dark cloud it had seemingly created still blotted out the light cast by the moon and stars. Pitch blackness had descended upon the land. The valley floor was now littered with fallen rocks of varying sizes, further slowing their progress.
