Читать книгу The Yellow Cloud: A Doc Savage Adventure - Evelyn Coulson - Страница 4

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It was too bad that nobody actually saw what happened to the new army X-ship on its test flight. It happened that there were clouds that night, and anyway, the impossible thing occurred twenty thousand feet in the air.

So all the information they got was what the pilot told them over the radio. And, of course, no one could hardly believe that. It was too incredible.

However, there was no denying plane and pilot vanished.

Also, there were the photographs which the pilot took and dropped—the picture that actually showed the thing that had grabbed the plane, incredible as it was.

The army wasn’t fooling that night.

There had been a congressional investigation, and it had resulted in the boot being taken to certain high staff officers until, as one old-timer put it, the seats of their pants rang like bells.

The investigation had brought out the simple and undeniable fact that the army—the United States army—was about as well-prepared as a man with a musket. The army, the soldiers of the Stars and Stripes, might make an impressive sight when stood in a row—if nobody noticed that they stood in about the same equipment as in 1918. Every European soldier had a submachine gun, even the Chinese had sub-gun companies, but the American doughboy, the boy in khaki—what did he have?

He had a rifle—1918 style. His commanding general also possibly had a polo pony, listed in the records as a cavalry mount.

It had peeled hides, had that congressional investigation. It had wanted to know why there were only half a dozen or so antiaircraft guns available to protect New York City, although there were plenty of soldiers riding around on horses, the way King Arthur rode around in the fifth century.

England had multi-barreled antiaircraft guns capable of firing several thousand shells a minute—and England had almost as many of those guns as the U.S.A. had soldiers.

America wasn’t going to fight England, of course, in fact, it looked as if she was figuring on England to protect her. Or figuring on somebody. It certainly didn’t appear that she was thinking much about protecting herself.

Army, you better do something, was the word.

Europe was full of men who were trying to be Napoleon. There were even some in South America. The only thing that impressed these burglars was the fact that you wore a pistol.

So the army wasn’t fooling. For once, actually, it wasn’t. It had even fired its publicity men, the boys who could take two crack-pot tanks produced by a nut inventor, and send out enough pictures and ballyhoo baloney that some of the U. S. A. really thought it had a mechanized army.

Army wasn’t fooling, and it was testing the new X-ship, the new X-ship being a plane that was actually the kind of plane they had been saying the previous ones were. It was a supership which could outfight and outfly by fifty per cent the best plane of any other army in the world, and this was no press-agent slop.

To test-fly the X-ship, the army had called upon the greatest engineer in the army reserve—a man who was probably also the second greatest engineer in the world.

Colonel John Renwick was this engineer—Renny Renwick, the man with the fists, and the I’m-on-my-way-to-a-funeral face.

The man who was associated with Doc Savage.

The stage had been nicely set for a devil of a mystery, only nobody knew that as yet.

The X-ship was so good that the army really wanted to keep its performance a secret; so precautions had been taken. The test was being held from a deserted sand-dune island on the North Carolina coast, and the one bridge leading to the island was watched; while a motorboat floated around and around the island loaded with army officers dressed like local fishermen.

It was to be a night hop.

The new X-ship was there, sitting on the hard sand beach, a creation of camouflaged metal that looked as stocky as a bulldog and as vicious as a yellow hornet.

The snouts of nine machine guns poked out of various streamlined ports, her innards were full of racks for bombs, and there was a high-powered aërial camera and a gigantic photoflash contraption, so that the plane could take a night picture of many square miles of enemy territory.

Everything was ready except Test Pilot Colonel John Renny Renwick. He hadn’t shown up.

Around about stood generals and majors and lieutenants and sergeants.

No small amount of interest centered on the army’s new electrical “listener” for locating airplanes flying high. Four of these stood on the sand. The gadgets were very efficient—but most every other army in the world had them as efficient.

The idea of tonight’s test was: The new X-ship had a silenced motor, a special propeller, and it was hoped it could fly so silently at an altitude of twenty thousand feet that no electrical listener could spot it. This night’s test would tell.

The army radio men had their outfits set up, too. A bang-up, new two-way radio telephone was part of the equipment of the X-ship, and they were going to test that.

The men at the electrical “listeners” gave a start.

“Sir, there’s a plane coming,” one reported.

The plane came down with a brisk whistle of wind past wings, stuck out two whiskers of light from its wing floodlights, and came to rest on the beach. The occupants—three men—alighted.

“Colonel Renwick!” someone said.

Colonel Renny Renwick had a voice that sounded something like the roof of a mine coming down must sound to a miner.

“Holy cow!” he said. “Sorry if we’re a little late. I wanted to pick up two friends of mine.”

“Two friends?”

“Sure.”

“To witness testing of the X-ship, you mean?”

“Yep.”

The army officers looked at each other and must have said mentally, “Oh, damn, what’ll we do about this?” The test of the X-ship was supposed to be very, very secret, and not for outsiders to see.

“We—ah—that is—”

“Sure, I know.” Renny Renwick rumbled. “But it will be all right for these two guys to watch. They’re in the army, too. They’re Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair and Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks.”

“Oh!”

“Yes,” Renny said. “The two are Monk Mayfair and Ham Brooks.”

That made it different. Very different.

“Did Monk bring his pig?” an officer asked.

That got a burst of laughter.

“And did Ham fetch his chimpanzee?” inquired a second officer.

This caused another laugh.

The army officer was referring to Habeas Corpus, a pet pig that belonged to Monk, and Chemistry, a pet chimpanzee that was Ham’s property. The pig, Habeas Corpus, had ears large enough to be wings, long legs, and an inquisitive snout. The chimp, Chemistry, was a runt animal that was astounding for the reason that he bore an incredible, personal likeness to Monk. It was this likeness which had first caused Ham to collect Chemistry. Each animal had been carefully trained by his owner, and they were a continual source of trouble.

Presence of Monk and Ham was all right with the army men. Almost everybody in the service had heard of Monk Mayfair and Ham Brooks—Monk, who was a famous industrial chemist, and Ham, who was also famous, or infamous, depending on the point of view, as a lawyer.

Monk and Ham were Doc Savage aids, too.

Preparations to test-fly the X-plane proceeded, but there was no particular excitement, for as yet nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The out-of-the-ordinary was still to come.

Monk and Ham got into a quarrel, of course. But that caused no surprise, for it was what everyone expected.

Monk Mayfair had a ludicrously wide mouth, a nose that did not have the same shape with which it had started life, and the kind of hair that the brush salesman rubs when he says, “Lady, this is exactly what you need to scrub that back porch.” Monk was constructed along the lines of—well, no one ever had to look at Monk and wonder where he got that nickname.

Ham Brooks had been selected “The Best Dressed Man in New York” five times running. He was the Beau Brummell of the decade, a tailor’s dream, and a never-ending pain in Monk’s neck—if one listened only to what Monk said. Ham Brooks had a thin waist, broad shoulders, an orator’s wide and rubbery mouth, a voice that made radio announcers hide their faces in envy. He always carried an innocent-looking black cane which contained a sword that he frequently had occasion to use.

Ham got out of the plane and shook his cane under Monk’s nose.

“You get funny with me,” he yelled, “and I’ll amputate those flaps that you call ears.”

Monk put his fists on his hips, put an evil look in one eye.

“There ain’t nothin’ funny about it!” he said. “At ten o’clock tonight, I’m going to break your left leg. At eleven, I’m going to break your right leg. Every hour thereafter, I’m going to break one of your bones, until I run out of bones.”

“I didn’t do it!” Ham shouted.

“You didn’t?”

“No!”

“The heck you didn’t!” Monk shoved his face close to Ham’s, and snarled, “I can see the devil all over your face!”

“It’s the first time,” Ham said, “that I ever knew my face was a mirror.”

One of the army officers asked Renny, “What’s wrong with them now?”

Renny explained, “Somebody took a picture of Monk and sent it to a magazine labeled as an African baboon dressed in man’s clothing. The magazine published the picture, claiming it didn’t notice the difference. Monk figures Ham sent the picture.”

“I see,” said the officer.

“Monk saw, too,” Renny said, “assorted red.”

Renny Renwick had a long jaw and a thin mouth that was always indescribably sad when things were going well. It was doubtful if he could have put either one of his fists in a quart pail.

He got in the X-ship.

“This won’t take long,” he said. “Watch out for the sand, boys.”

The army men got back away from the funnel of sand which the propeller slip stream scooped up, and the plane buzzed off down the beach.

Colonel Renny Renwick was wrong about it not taking long. It was going to take long, long, very long.

The X-ship went up through the night sky with a bawl and a moan.

“She’s sweet,” an army man said. “A sweet job.”

Monk and Ham had their noses jammed together. They separated them now, and walked over to the radio receiving outfit, which had a loud-speaker so that those interested could gather around and hear.

“This dangerous for Renny?” Monk asked.

“He’ll be all right,” an army man said.

“Don’t wings come off them things sometimes when they test?”

“Well, sometimes,” the army man admitted.

“That’s what I thought,” Monk said.

He sat down by the radio. Ham sat down, also, but out of reach of Monk’s long arms. Both indulged in deep silence, apparently thinking of future violent remarks to make to each other.

It was a nice night, except for the clouds. A little chilly, perhaps. The wind—there was always wind in these sand dunes—pushed fine sand around and made faint whispering sounds, and waves crawled up on the beach and burst with sighs like long, fat white hogs.

Renny’s voice came from the loud-speaker.

“Altitude twelve thousand,” Renny’s voice said. “Getting into clouds.”

“Holy pups!” an army man said. “Look at that rate of climb!”

The wind whispered, the waves sighed, and the loud-speaker went on droning. It told of thousand after thousand feet of climb, of air speed, of engine temperature, or other things.

Suddenly, the voice changed.

“Holy cow!” it exploded.

Monk and Ham jerked up straight, stared at the radio loud-speaker.

It must have been three minutes before the radio made another sound. Then:

“Listen, down there,” it said. “I haven’t made a dive, I haven’t made any sharp turns, and I haven’t put a strain on myself in any way. So I can’t be delirious and seeing things.”

Monk leaned over and grabbed the microphone.

“What the blazes is wrong, Renny?” he asked.

“This Monk?”

“Yes; it’s Monk.”

Renny’s voice said, “All right, Monk; listen to me. I’m going to tell you about this cloud. I’ll describe the cloud. It’s about a quarter of a mile long, and probably half that wide. It’s about two hundred feet deep, or maybe deeper in some places and less in others, because you know how clouds are shaped.”

Renny’s voice had somehow changed. It was full of ripping excitement. It had the frenzy of a buzz saw that had gone to work on a pine knot.

Monk said, “Say, what’s the idea of tellin’ me about a cloud.”

“Because,” Renny’s voice said, “this cloud is yellow.”

“Eh? It’s—”

“Yellow.”

“Say, big-fists,” Monk said, “who you kidding?”

“The cloud,” Renny said, “is as yellow as a pond frog.”

Monk muttered, “I don’t think your joke is so funny.”

“The yellow cloud,” Renny said, “is chasing me!”

That was about all of that. Or, at least, the end of it must have come while Monk and Ham and the army men were standing around with say-is-this-something-you’re-supposed-to-laugh-at expressions on their faces.

It is not incredibly unusual for an eagle or a buzzard to chase a plane, and an owl might conceivably be up that high—twenty thousand feet—at this time of night; and the owl might have been in a disposition where it wanted to chase a plane. Another plane might conceivably have chased this plane. But a cloud? Oh, no! Out of the question. Somebody was crazy.

Renny’s voice said, “I’m gonna take a picture of the cloud.”

They saw him take the picture. That is, the brief, terrifically strong photoflash device with which the X-plane was equipped, made such a surge of light that it penetrated, even through the thick layer of clouds, sufficiently that those on the beach saw its momentary glow.

A minute passed.

Renny’s voice was now more tense.

“I’m going to drop the picture film by parachute!” it said.

Monk yelled, “Hey, Renny! What—”

The voice from the sky got wild.

“The cloud is going to catch me!” Renny yelled.

That was all.