Continuing the adventure that began here.

CHAPTER XXI: Corridor of Terror.

“It’s so cute!” Miss Kun replied with girlish delight.

“It is a deadly monster capable of incinerating everything within a distance of fifty meters!” Kun declared with obvious pride.

“That’s what makes it cute,” his daughter replied; and, to the monster, “Who’s a pwecious widdle fwame-bweaving dwagon?”

“Enough!” Kun shouted. “Pyrosaurus! Incinerate them all!”

A loud, shrill whistle pierced my ears: it had proceeded from Weyland, who was now holding his broom high over his head.

“Here boy!” he shouted. “Look at the stick!”

The beast snorted. A huge pink tongue rolled out of its mouth like a carpet.

“What are you doing?” Kun bellowed. “Stop that!—Pyrosaurus, finish them off!”

“Fetch, boy,” Weyland called out to the beast. “Fetch the stick!” He threw the broom with remarkable force over the beast’s head. The creature jumped, turned, and snorted, and ran back into the tunnel.

Miss Kun looked up at her father. “What do you think of that, Daddy? Pttthhhhht!”

“None of your witty banter, young lady! You come back here and take your punishment like a—”

But we heard no more, because we had retreated to the stairway and closed the door.

We dashed back up the stairs, swatting the grumbling spiders out of the way, and ended up in the corridor outside Miss Kun’s laboratory again.

“That was a big crocodile,” said Tluxapeketl. She was the only one of us not breathing heavily from the exertion of our run up the stairs.

“How did you toss that broom so far?” Miss Kun asked Weyland.

“Peevish can tell you: the old broom toss was a favorite street game when we were growing up. I was the undefeated neighborhood champion. —It seems our plans have changed. If the back way is inaccessible, what about the front way?”

“It will have to be the front way,” Miss Kun replied. “But Daddy won’t make it easy.” She led us past her laboratory to another elevator, whose doors were already open. I was about to let Tluxapeketl step inside when Miss Kun put out her arm to stop us.

“Just a moment,” she said.

She reached inside the elevator and pushed one of the buttons.

As soon as she withdrew her hand, the doors closed with us still standing in the hall, which seemed counterproductive to me. But in a moment we heard a tremendous crash from behind the doors. The racket went on for some time, ending at last with a few final plops and tinkles.

“I thought so,” said Miass Kun. “Emergency protocols. I helped design them. I think we’ll take the stairs.

We walked a little farther down the hall to a door marked STAIRS. Again I was about to open it, but again Miss Kun prevented me.

“That’s not a good idea. The first step is fifty feet down, and the bottom is paved with spikes. It’s my father’s idea of a joke.”

She led us farther along to a door marked PIT OF RATTLESNAKES.

“This is the stairway,” she explained, opening the door. Illumino rays revealed another curving stone stairway, this one much cleaner, so that we had no need of the three brooms we were still carrying.

“I suppose mislabeling the door like that is another one of your father’s jokes,” said Weyland as we walked down the stairs.

“Oh, it’s not mislabeled,” Miss Kun replied.

A symphony of rattling suddenly met our ears as we rounded the curve at the bottom of the stairs. The floor below was covered with rattlesnakes of all descriptions.

“Gangway,” said Miss Kun. “Make room.”

The rattling diminished considerably.

“I don’t want to have to discipline any of you,” she added.

The rattling ceased, and there was quite a lot of slithering as snakes scurried to the left and to the right. A broad path opened in the middle, leading to a doorway on the other side of the snake pit.

“Come on,” said Miss Kun. “They won’t bite you, if they know what’s good for them.”

Like Israelites through the Red Sea, we passed on bare floor through the midst of the sea of serpents. Only one dared to rattle at us, and the glance it got from Miss Kun sufficed to silence it immediately.

“Remarkable how you control them like that.”

“Snakes have a sort of phobia about me,” Miss Kun explained as we reached the door on the opposite side of the snake pit. “Of course, I did have to make a few examples.”

We passed through the door into another room that seemed completely empty, but Miss Kun stopped near the entrance.

“Now, the easiest way to get through this one is to sacrifice one of us,” she said. “How about her?” She pointed at Tluxapeketl.

“How could you suggest such a thing?” I demanded, moving in front of Tluxapektl.

“Well, I like men, but women I can take or leave.”

“What will happen if we do this?” Weyland asked, taking my broom from me. He tossed it into the middle of the room. Just as it reached the middle, two huge stone slabs swung down from the ceiling in opposite directions and clapped together with a mighty smack, squashing the broom between them in mid-air.

“Yes,” said Miss Kun, “I suppose that would work. She continued into the room, now apparently unconcerned; and we followed her, stepping around the dangling stone slabs.

Next we came to a long corridor that seemed completely featureless, but I was beginning to think of that as a bad sign. Miss Kun confirmed my suspicions.

“Daddy and I had a bit of fun with this one, I’m afraid.”

“What does it do?” Weyland asked.

“Mostly it disorients you,” she replied, “till you get to the end.”

“Then what?”

“Then it kills you.”

“What should we do?” I asked.

“Tackle one problem at a time, I suppose. Come on.”

We walked a few feet into the hall, and suddenly things seemed very different. We appeared to be walking on the ceiling.

“Why is down up?” asked Tluxapeketl.

“Just ignore it,” said Miss Kun. “It’s a silly trick. It’s all done with mirrors and disoriento rays.”

“Now down is left,” Tluxapeketl remarked.

“Mr. Peevish,” said Miss Kun, “you might want to hold her hand.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you two make a cute couple. If the hand-holding goes well, I can provide you with a number of more advanced suggestions.—Oh, just ignore it.” This last came out because we now appeared to be walking on a tightrope over the gorge below Niagara Falls.

“Pretty,” said Tluxapeketl. Almost without thinking about it, I found that I had taken her hand, or perhaps she had taken mine.

We seemed now to be about to step off the roof of the Oliver Building, but we continued walking out into what appeared to be thin air.

“A remarkable illusion,” said Weyland.

“I did this next one all by myself,” Miss Kun said proudly. The scene changed again: we were walking on the deck of a ship at sea, but all around us we could see what appeared to be the interior of a giant bottle. “Daddy thought this one was a little too silly, but I say you might as well have fun with your evil deathtrap or there’s no point in doing it.”

“You certainly have done remarkable work in creating disorienting impressions,” said Weyland. “You must have studied psychology in great detail.”

“Not half as hard as I studied anatomy,” Miss Kun replied. For some reason Weyland jumped a bit. It might have had something to do with the position of Miss Kun’s hand, which was behind him where I was not able to observe it.

Now we appeared to be climbing the side of a tornado, but we simply ignored what our eyes were telling us. Eventually the illusion faded, and we were back in the unadorned corridor again, having nearly reached the other end.

Suddenly panels in the walls near the middle of the corridor opened up, and water began to pour out into the corridor with a loud rush.

“I say,” Weyland remarked, “it even feels wet! Is this really just another one of your illusions?”

“No,” Miss Kun replied. “This is where it kills you.”

—

Don’t miss tomorrow’s thrilling installment:

A WATERY GRAVE.

Continuing the adventure that began here.

CHAPTER XX: Into the Inferno.

“But Daddy!” Miss Kun complained, moving in front of us, “you promised!”

“Be quiet, Elsie,” said the Devil King. “You know I dislike it intensely when you contradict me.”

“It’s not fair,” she declared, stamping her foot to accent the word “fair.” “You promised. You said I could play with him first.”

“Please do not try my patience, Elsie.”

“You made a promise, Daddy!”

“Guards,” said Kun, “throw my daughter off the balcony, too.”

“Daddy!”

“A daughter was never essential to my plans. More of an unintended side-effect of leisure activities which I have long since abandoned to concentrate on the pursuit of world domination.”

“You’re a big meany,” said Miss Kun, “and I just have one thing to say to you: WHAT’S THAT OVER THERE?”

She pointed behind him and to his right, and Kun and all the guards turned to see what she was pointing at.

Miss Kun grasped Weyland’s hand and pulled him with her; he grasped Tluxapeketl’s hand, and she grasped mine, and we all ran out through a heavy Gothic door, which Miss Kun slammed behind us and barred with a huge wooden bolt.

“So he thinks he can run his evil empire without me,” she said, walking briskly down a stone corridor while we followed behind. “Well, I’ll show him. I’ll turn good, that’s what I’ll do. Serve him right. How do you go about being good, Mr. Weyland? You’ll have to explain it to me.”

“Let’s save our lives right now,” said Weyland, “and then we’ll have plenty of time to be good. How long will it take them to break through that door?”

“Five minutes. Daddy will try his disintegrator ray for four and a half minutes, and when that doesn’t work they’ll chop the door down. In here.” She turned into a short corridor that led to a pair of double doors, which opened at our approach. Beyond them was a large elevator. Miss Kun pressed a button inside marked “Labs, Princess,” and the doors closed. We began to descend.

“I say,” said Weyland, “is your name really ‘Elsie’?”

Miss Kun stared at the door in front of her with a lowering brow. “Lots of perfectly evil people have been named ‘Elsie.’ There’s nothing wrong with ‘Elsie.’”

“Of course not,” we all agreed hastily.

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning to Tluxapeketl, “I know the names of these two gentlemen, but I don’t know yours. If I’m going to be good, I probably ought to know your name.”

“I am called Tluxapeketl.”

“That’s quite a name,” said Miss Kun. “Is there some way I could abbreviate it a little?”

“When I was a small girl, my youngest brother used to call me ‘Tluxapeket’ for short. He had trouble saying ‘Tluxapeketl,’ you see.”

“I suppose I can learn to say the whole thing.—Here we are.”

The elevator doors opened, and Miss Kun pressed a button marked DISABLE ELEVATOR TO DISCOURAGE PURSUIT BY IRATE FATHER.

“An interesting feature,” I remarked, reading the plaque by the button.

“When I was a teenage prodigy, my father didn’t like some of my boyfriends,” she explained as we stepped out into what appeared to be a smaller version of the great laboratory we had seen before. “I built my private laboratory to take that into account.”

“Some of your boyfriends?” Weyland asked. “How many boyfriends did you have?”

“As many as I wanted,” she replied, striking a pose that explained the statement.

I took a look around the room. A Jacob’s ladder was buzzing in one corner. An oscilloscope was showing a steady wave pattern. A Tesla coil sat gathering dust against the wall. Miss Kun walked to a set of shelves on the far side of the room; we followed her and watched as she rummaged through a large stock of aerosol cans.

“Wicked Red…Evil Charcoal… Here we are: Virtuous Purple. Miss, uh,—”

“Tluxapeketl,” said Tluxapeketl.

“Yes. You need to dress more appropriately for the climate. We’ll take care of that right now. Gentlemen, if you could turn around for a moment…”

Weyland and I turned away and waited. In a moment we heard the sound of spraying for a few seconds.

“Much better,” Miss Kun declared. “You can turn around now, gentlemen.”

We turned to see Tluxapeketl dressed in a single tight-fitting garment just like Miss Kun’s, but in iridescent purple.

“This is what you call virtuous?” I asked.

“Well, all my aerosol catsuits are more or less wicked, but this is the best we can do right now,” Miss Kun replied.

“Dashed clever how you do the zipper,” said Weyland. “How does that come out of the spray can?”

“That is a patent-pending trade secret,” said Miss Kun. “I’d have to kill you if I told you, and worst of all I wouldn’t be allowed to enjoy it now that I’m trying to reform. —I’ve put Miss Tluxapeketl’s old clothes in a Number Ten envelope in case she needs them again. Now I think it’s time to make a plan to take over the castle and then conquer the world for the forces of good.”

“Actually,” said Weyland, “good people generally don’t try to conquer the world. It’s not done, you know.”

“But if you don’t conquer the world, then won’t the evil people take over every time?”

“We generally prefer to let people choose their own government, and trust them to make the right choice.”

“Well,” said Miss Kun, “I’m willing to be good, but I’m not willing to be an idiot. I think the forces of good could use some new management. Right now, though, we need a power base. My bandits will follow me anywhere if I bring them Bakelite, so if we can get back to the bandit cave we’ll have a small army. It’s not much against my father’s Andorran hordes, but it’s a start.”

“How do we get there?” Weyland asked.

“My father will be watching the elevators and the main stairs. We’ll have to go the back way through the caverns. Follow me.”

We followed her out into a corridor roughly hewn out of rock. A small whirring device on wheels whirred past us and stopped in front of us.

“What is that?” asked Tluxapeketl.

“One of Daddy’s all-seeing eyes,” Miss Kun answered. “It sends televisual images back to him by means of oculo rays.”

“Good heavens!” Weyland exclaimed. “Do you mean to say your father has solved the problem of television and actually created a practical working system? What a tool for the manipulation of the masses!”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” said Miss Kun. “Ordinary people would never sit still to watch flickering images on a little box when the world is full of interesting things to do. I can’t imagine television ever being anything more than a security tool for megalomaniacal archfiends.”

“But does this mean Kun knows where we are right now?” I asked.

“Yes, and he can hear us, too, so he knows I think he’s a big meany!” She kicked the machine across the floor; it hit the wall and whirred off on a staggering irregular trajectory. “Let’s go this way.”

We walked down the corridor and came to a broom closet from which Miss Kun took four brooms, handing one to each of us.

“We don’t use the back stairs much,” she explained. “Sometimes there are spiderwebs.”

At the end of the corridor was a door marked BACK STAIRS—BEWARE OF SPIDERS. Miss Kun opened it and pushed a button, and illumino rays revealed a descending spiral stairway apparently hewn out of the rock. Spiderwebs were everywhere; I was glad to have the brooms to sweep our way through them. Some of the rather large spiders muttered curses as they shuffled out of the way. One of them yanked my broom out of my hand and tried to chase me with it, but Miss Kun gave it a withering look, and it dropped the broom and sulked away.

Eventually, after descending what seemed like quite some way, we came to another door. Opening this one, Miss Kun led us out into a great cavernous chamber. About twenty feet up on the far left side was a metal balcony; in the opposite wall was a huge roundish hole apparently leading into a dark tunnel.

Miss Kun stood still and looked quite confused.

“Is something wrong?” Weyland asked.

“This is supposed to be a corridor,” she replied. “I’ve never seen this chamber before.”

“That,” said a voice from the balcony, “is because you know nothing of my latest experiments.”

We looked up to our left to see Kun standing on the metal balcony sneering down at us.

“I think you’ll be surprised,” he said. “Shortly after that, I think you’ll be incinerated.”

A bright orange glow suddenly illuminated the tunnel opposite us. A rumbling roar came through the tunnel and echoed in the great chamber.

“For my newest creation,” said Kun, “I have been experimenting with the effects of certain rays on biology.”

Another orange glow, another roar, and then a hideous reptilian head, as big as the dinosaur heads in the natural-history museum, appeared in the entrance to the tunnel. And what was even more frightening was that flames were issuing from its nostrils.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Kun. “What do you think of my Pyrosaurus, Elsie?”

—

Don’t miss tomorrow’s thrilling episode:

CORRIDOR OF TERROR.

Continuing the adventure that began here.

CHAPTER XIX: The Castle of Evil.

“How did you get here from South America?” Weyland asked.

“We had rather good luck with a hurricane,” said Miss Kun. “And how convenient that you should already have been introduced to my loyal if excessively operatic bandits. —Is that tiger always so…lightheaded?”

“He is currently under the influence of catnip, I believe,” Weyland replied.

“Oh! How…cute. Well, gentlemen, and your still-underdressed lady friend, I find myself in a position to continue with my original plan, which was to take you to my father—with a stop in my private playroom, of course. I have such a delightful collection of toys! Some of them belonged to dear old Torquemada himself. And now that I have three of you to play with…”

Instinctively I stepped in front of Tluxapeketl. “You’ll have to kill me before you touch her,” I said defiantly.

“Oh, Mr. Peevish!” said the Devil Princess. “How delightfully gallant! In honor of your chivalry, I might almost give you your wish, though it would be more entertaining to kill you after. My father has no interest in you, after all, so there is no limit to the fun we can have together.” She addressed her bandit friends. “My loyal subjects, you have done well to deliver these three, and their portable tiger, to my custody. There will be Bakelite for all—”

The bandits immediately began singing:

“With all our might
We strive and fight
For our delight—
For Bakelite!
From mountain height
The world is br—”

“Thank you,” said Miss Kun in a penetrating voice. “That will be sufficient. I will be taking these three, along with their tiger, to my father’s castle, and—”

Kitty began to float away. Weyland had let go of the rope.

“The tiger is no concern of yours,” Weyland said as Kitty floated off into the evergreen woods, rolling and purring.

“It makes no difference. I’ll take you to my father’s castle,” Miss Kun said, “and we shall dispose of you from there.”

We were marched between two rows of muscular bandits until we reached a kind of horseless sleigh almost the size of a streetcar. “My private snow yacht,” Miss Kun explained as a pair of bandits opened the door for us.

The interior was warm and luxuriously appointed, something like the interior of a Packard limousine, but on a larger scale. As soon as we were seated, with watchful bandits beside us, Miss Kun took the controls, and we began to glide across the snowy hills at a very fast clip.

We passed over a blackened patch of ground; looking out the window, I could see that more blackened patches continued into the distance across the mountains, forming a dashed line.

“Welcome to Andorra,” said Miss Kun.

“Are we near your father’s castle, then?” asked Weyland.

“Oh, no, my father’s castle is on the other side of the country. It will take us literally minutes to get there. But we’re about to enter Andorra la Vella, our splendid capital city. There—what did you think of it?”

“It was very…compact,” Weyland replied.

I leaned over to Weyland and asked him in a low voice, “Do you really think she’s taking us to Kun himself?”

“No question, old man,” he replied. “By my calculation, we have only eleven and a half chapters left. This is the proper time for us to meet the principal villain at last.”

We slid quickly along over bouncy hills and vales, and soon a castle loomed up before us. It was built on a commanding crag overlooking a mountain pass, and it appeared utterly inaccessible. Indeed, it seemed as much a natural part of the mountain as the rocks upon which it was built, probably owing to its having been built with the local stone. Turrets and projections jutted out at every angle, taking advantage of the natural features wherever they offered the smallest opportunity for more castle.

We seemed to be heading straight for the wall of rock below the castle, but shortly before we smashed on the rock it split open and revealed a hollowed-out chamber big enough for several vehicles the size of Miss Kun’s snow yacht. We entered and stopped in the middle of it.

Miss Kun turned around to face us. “Welcome to the capital of the world,” she said. “Welcome to Kun the Devil King’s Castle of World Domination.”

“You haven’t conquered the world yet,” Weyland reminded her.

“We have the archdiocese,” she said. “St.-Pierre and Miquelon will inevitably follow, and then—the world! With a few intermediate steps. Follow me, please.”

Our bandit escorts indicated their preference that we should obey her, so Weyland, Tluxapeketl, and I all left the snow yacht and found ourselves surrounded by guards wearing some sort of one-piece blue and red uniform with a yellow lightning bolt across the front. We were apparently transferred into their custody, since the bandits left us at that point. With a line of lightning-bolt guards on each side of us, we followed the Devil Princess through the vast space to a pair of bronze doors at the rear.

Tluxapeketl whispered to me, “Mr. Weyland has a plan to save the world, has he not?”

“He always has,” I replied. “Sometimes two or three.” It would have been more comforting, however, if I had had some idea of what the plan was.

The bronze doors were decorated with a moderne pattern of lightning bolts—my first indication that, at least at the lower levels, this castle was not quite as medieval as it appeared on the outside. The doors opened, and Miss Kun led us into a vast space filled with machinery and devices of every description. The largest was something like a large tube projecting from a great metal drum.

“You can see,” Miss Kun told us, “that we lead the world in technical progress. Whatever can aid us in world domination is being invented in this laboratory right now. Even the death ray,” she added, indicating the tube-and-drum construction.

“Death ray?” I asked in disbelief.

“We have already perfected the bad-cold ray, and we have made very promising tests of a moderate-nausea ray. We cannot be far from the true death ray. In fact, my father and I see a future of entirely ray-based technology. This entire castle, for example, is lighted by illumino rays.”

“How are those different from electric lights?” Weyland asked, looking up at a suspended light fixture.

“Well, they’re not. But we like the sound of ‘illumino rays.’”

“What’s this over here?” Weyland asked, pointing to an elaborate machine on a pedestal.

“That is a single-serving coffee maker. The coffee grounds are housed in an individual round container, which, when inserted in the machine, is penetrated by a pair of pins, upon which hot water is dribbled through the grounds into the cup below. The used grounds and container can then be disposed of neatly as a unit.”

“Extraordinary!” said Weyland. “This device must be seventy years ahead of its time!”

“We think it has great potential. It uses infrared rays for the heating, of course. Right now it is expensive to operate, because the individual containers must be hand-carved from balsa wood by skilled craftsmen; but that will present no problem when the remainder of the non-Andorran race is enslaved.”

Now we came to another pair of doors with the same lightning-bolt pattern; they slid open to reveal an elevator. We entered behind Miss Kun, and a large number of lightning-bolt guards entered with us, making an uncomfortable crowd. The doors closed, and we could feel the elevator rising quickly.

In a few moments, the elevator slowed again, and when the doors opened, we found ourselves in a very Gothic throne room. At the other end of the room, a man in royal purple robes rose from the throne. He had a black beard that fell in waves to his chest, and even at this distance his thick black eyebrows made a strong impression.

“Daddy!” cried Miss Kun, running toward the throne. “I brought you Norbert Weyland and two of his friends! Aren’t you proud of me?”

“Moderately,” said the man we now knew to be Kun, the Devil King. His daughter embraced him, but he paid very little attention to her. “Mr. Weyland,” he said as the guards brought us forward toward him, “I have wanted to lay eyes on you for some time.”

The guards brought us up to stand right in front of the mad, and he looked us over carefully, especially Weyland.

“And now I’ve seen you,” the Devil King said at last. “So there’s no more reason to keep you alive. Guards, take these men and their lady friend and throw them off the balcony.”

—

Don’t miss tomorrow’s thrilling episode:

INTO THE INFERNO.

Continuing the adventure that began here.

CHAPTER XVIII: Cave of the Bandits.

We were surrounded by men with primitive but effective weapons, and our tiger had been neutralized. Under the circumstances, we had no choice but to go where we were directed to go. We were marched along a path that led down into a picturesque ravine with a cascading stream fed by melting snow. The bandits had tied a rope around Kitty’s neck, and he floated about five feet off the ground like a tethered balloon, still thoroughly enjoying his catnip.

I leaned over to Weyland and said in a low whisper, “I assume you have a plan.”

“Pyrenean mountain bandits,” he replied quietly, “are intensely operatic. I rely on their innate musicality.”

I was not at all sure what he meant by that, but I was reassured that Weyland must already have matters well in hand, and his giant brain must already have seized upon the one weakness that we could exploit to free ourselves from the grip of the bandits.

After some distance, the ravine opened out into a small valley, and the bandits led us toward the steep hill on our left. I wondered whether we were going to have to climb the uninviting slope, but instead we slipped behind a thick copse of evergreens, the branches of which completely hid the entrance to a cave.

“Actually,” said the bandit chieftain, “I think I was supposed to blindfold you before we brought you here. But if you could just consider yourselves honor-bond not to reveal the location of our treasure cave, we’ll say no more about it.”

“Oh, of course,” said Weyland. “We understand perfectly.”

We therefore entered the cave—the bandit leading Kitty had to reel him in a bit to get him under the top of the low irregular hole in the rock—and found ourselves in a treasure-house of wonders. Torches along the walls illuminated great piles of treasure; although, as I gave the piles a closer look, I noticed a peculiar absence of gold and silver.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” said the bandit chieftain. “Without a doubt the most lavishly stocked treasure cave in the Pyrenees. And we are very selective about our treasure.”

“For example,” said Weyland, “this appears to be a stopped electric wall clock with the minute hand missing.”

“Pure Bakelite frame,” said the bandit chieftain.

“And a perpetual desk calendar,” Weyland added, picking something else out of the pile.

“Made of Bakelite,” the bandit chieftain pointed out.

“And this daylight film-developing tank is—”

“One hundred per cent pure Bakelite,” said the bandit chieftain. “We believe this to be the largest single accumulation of Bakelite objects on the European continent.”

“So you are saying that you collect only Bakelite treasures?”

“Well, no. We also collect money and valuables if they can be readily exchanged for more Bakelite.”

“So your treasure cave,” said Weyland, “is filled with Bakelite.”

“Exactly. As I said, we are very selective.”

“But why Bakelite?”

“Ah!” The bandit chieftain made a gesture and was immediately surrounded by musicians with guitars, mandolins, violins, rustic flutes, and a C-melody saxophone. “Well may you ask!” he said as the orchestra played a two-bar introduction.

“A merry band of bandits we:
A merrier band you’ll never see.
What is it makes our spirits light?
What else but Bakelite?

“When others seek for treasures old,
For tarnished silver, hefty gold,
What glimmers in our torches’ light?
What else but Bakelite?”

A chorus of Pyrenean maidens suddenly made their way to the front of the orchestra and sang in perfect harmony:

“From darkest night
To noonday light
What sets us right
But Bakelite?
There is no sight
That matches quite
The sheer delight
Of Bakelite!”

Weyland leaned toward me and remarked, “I told you they were operatic.”

“Is this where we escape?” I asked.

“Not quite yet. But be ready.”

“And now,” the bandit chieftain announced, “in honor of our beloved Bandit Queen, the Bakelite Dance!”

The orchestra played a brisk polka, and the bandits and maidens began to link arms and swirl around the piles of treasures, picking their legs up as they went. More than one of the Bakelite treasures was accidentally kicked that way, but it seemed to be a price the bandits were willing to pay for a good Bakelite dance.

“Let’s join them,” said Weyland.

He linked arms with Tluxapeketl, and she linked arms with me, and we swirled and kicked our way around and between the piles of treasure. With many evolutions and figure-eight patterns, we were slowly coming closer and closer to the cave entrance. Weyland took hold of the rope attached to Kitty, who was still floating in the air at about eye level thoroughly enjoying the effects of a very strong dose of catnip, and brought him with us in our turns and figures. We had just reached the cave entrance when Weyland announced, “Now!”

He slipped out of the cave, taking Kitty with him, and we slipped out right behind him.

Immediately on the other side of the concealing evergreens we were confronted by a semicircle of well-armed bandits. And in the middle was Miss Kun, the Devil Princess.

“Ah!” said the voice of the bandit chieftain behind us, how delightful! My honored guests, it is my privilege to introduce you to our beloved Bandit Queen.”

Immediately the bandits in front of us began to sing in chorus:

“Our bandit queen! What bandit heart
Does not beat somewhat faster
When merely walking past her?
Our bandit queen! We do our part
To make—”

“Will you please cut that out?” said Miss Kun impatiently.

—

Don’t miss tomorrow’s thrilling episode:

THE CASTLE OF EVIL.

Continuing the adventure that began here.

CHAPTER XVII. Prey of the Avalanche.

“I suppose we ought to run,” I said to Weyland as the roar of the avalanche came nearer.

“It would be futile,” said Weyland. “No one has ever outrun a Pyrenean avalanche. We have only one chance, and that a slim one. Peevish—you and Miss Tluxapeketl bring me some of those planks from the wreckage. We’ll need two for each of us, including Kitty. Excellent. You really are expeditious in an emergency. Now, while I make the necessary alterations, find me some long, straight branches, about five feet, green and springy. Well done. Strip the twigs and leaves, and there you go. Now give me your feet.”

Weyland had whittled the planks into well-shaped skis, which he strapped on our feet with supple green twigs. For Kitty he had made a slightly longer pair, which the tiger patiently allowed Weyland to strap to his feet, two feet on each ski.

“Hope you’re all up for some fancy skiing,” Weyland shouted over the roar of the approaching avalanche. “Follow me as exactly as you can.”

“Just watch me,” I shouted to Tluxapeketl, “and do what I do.”

We pushed off seconds before the avalanche was upon us, Weyland leading the way, and we hurtled down the slope just ahead of the roiling mass of snow and rock. Kitty kept up with us at every turn.

“Astonishing that a tiger can do that,” I called out to Weyland.

“Siberian tigers,” he replied, “coming from a land of ice and snow, are natural skiers. Get ready… Left!”

We all executed a sudden left turn, our momentum taking us up a gentle slope. I thought we would have eluded the avalanche, but when I glanced backward I discovered that the avalanche had turned to pursue us up the hill.

“What kind of avalanche is this?” I shouted.

“The Pyrenean avalanche,” Weyland replied, “is much more devious than the more familiar Alpine avalanche. It is a wily opponent, and it will take a great deal more than one sudden turn to fool it.”

We reached the top of the short slope and began to plunge down a steep incline on the other side, heading toward a stand of fir trees.

“How’s your slalom?” Weyland called back to us.

“Tolerable,” I answered; but I could not speak for Tluxapeketl and Kitty. There was no time to worry about that, however; the forest was upon us, and I had to put all my effort into avoiding the trees. Kitty navigated the woods with remarkable skill, and sailed ahead of me to join his master; Tluxapeketl, at home in the forest, drew up even with me.

We came out of the stand of trees at speed, and continued down the irregular slope. The trees had slowed the avalanche somewhat, as it had to divide itself into multiple channels to weave its way through the woods; but now in the open it coalesced again and gained momentum.

“It’s still behind us,” I reported.

“Let’s see if it can handle this,” Weyland replied.

We were headed for another upward slope, but this one terminated abruptly. I watched as Weyland and Kitty sailed off the end and both executed perfect reverse somersaults in the air. Tluxapeketl and I did the same, following close behind. We landed on a smooth downward slope and kept going. I glanced backward just in time to see the avalanche pour off the embankment and execute a perfect double loop in the air.

“Now it’s just showing off,” I grumbled.

“Don’t let it rattle you, Peevish!” Weyland responded. “That’s what it wants! But we’ve still got one more trick up our sleeve. Be ready to make a sudden turn to the right.”

We were coming down toward what looked to me like a sheer drop. The closer we came, the more it confirmed my impression of its sheerness and its droppiness. I could see an edge, and beyond it landscape that seemed very distant. We were approaching it more and more rapidly as the downward slope became steeper and steeper.

Then suddenly Weyland made his move. “Right turn!” he shouted, and just before the edge he and Kitty made a sudden dodge to the right. Tluxapeketl and I followed immediately, just missing the edge of what was indeed a fearful precipice. There was a roar behind us, and I glanced backward to see that the avalanche, evidently less maneuverable than we were, was pouring off the edge of the cliff. 

We coasted along the edge for a while, pulling back far enough to be out of danger as soon as we were certain that the avalanche was completely gone.

“Well done, everyone,” said Weyland. “We can count ourselves very fortunate, or possibly very clever. Few are the travelers who have managed to outwit a Pyrenean avalanche.”

“Is the land of pink men full of such dangers?” asked Tluxapeketl.

“Not…” Then I thought of auto accidents and train wrecks and world wars and steamer sinkings and aeroplane crashes and tornadoes and pedestrian mishaps. “Well, I suppose you could say so.”

“How exciting! The Amazonian jungle seems so dull by comparison.”

“Look down there,” said Weyland. “It’s a camp of some sort.”

The land was sloping gently downwards, and the sheer cliff had given way to a more moderate hill. Straight ahead of us, where the slope seemed to meet a mountain road of some sort, was an encampment of motley caravans.

“Should we stop there or avoid them?” I asked.

“We’re going to need some more suitable clothes,” Weyland said, “especially Miss Tluxapeketl. I think we ought to see whether a few charitable souls might be found in that camp who would be willing to take a promissory note in exchange for a warmer wardrobe.”

We approached to within a short distance of the camp and then removed our skis, finding it more convenient to walk up to the door of one of the caravans. We had decided to approach the largest and most elaborate of the lot, which was on the opposite side of the rough circle that made up the encampment.

But just as we reached the middle of the circle, all the caravans burst open at once, and we were surrounded by men with knives, rude swords, polite swords, axes, pointed sticks, and sharp objects of every description.

“Capitulez immédiatement,” said the most elaborately dressed of the men, a black-bearded individual wearing multiple layers of colorful fabric and multiple layers of knives and swords. “Fuir, c’est mourir.”

“Pyrenean mountain bandits!” Weyland exclaimed.

“Ah!” said the bandit chieftain. “You speak English? Jolly good, old chaps, what ho, and all that sort of rot. Hand over your valuables, if you’ll be so kind, with particular attention to any objects that may happen to be made of Bakelite, and we might be persuaded to spare your lives.”

“I’m afraid we have no valuables,” said Weyland.

“No Bakelite shaving kits?”

“None whatsoever.”

“No elaborate Bakelite clocks?”

“Dollar watch from Connecticut. Keeps marvelous time, mind you.”

“The lady isn’t concealing a stash of Bakelite jewelry?”

Tluxapeketl removed my jacket.

The bandit chieftain coughed. “Evidently, uh, not. Well, in that case, we can’t rob you of anything, can we?”

“It would seem not,” said Weyland.

“So,” the bandit chieftain continued, “we’ll just have to hold you for ransom.” He turned to the man beside him, who was also festooned with sharp objects. “Take them to the cave.”

“I think,” said Weyland, “that you have reckoned without one important fact.”

“And what is that?” asked the chieftain.

“I have a tiger. —Kitty, explain to these gentlemen why it would be better for them to leave us alone.

Kitty snarled and approached the bandit chieftain.

The man beside the chieftain reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He tossed what looked like dried tea or some other kind of vegetable matter at the tiger.

Kitty stopped. He sniffed. Then he rolled over, purring, with all four paws in the air, rubbing his back in the snow until he began to rise from the ground as if levitating.

“The fiends!” Weyland exclaimed.  “They’ve got catnip!”

—

Don’t miss tomorrow’s thrilling episode:

CAVE OF THE BANDITS

Continuing the adventure that began here.

CHAPTER XVI. Master of the Elements.

The gondola rocked wildly; the lightning flashed almost continuously; the rain pounded the windows like a hostile army. Nothing I did could restore any control of the airship; the tempest was in command.

“Have you any suggestions”?” I shouted over the constant roar of rain, wind, and thunder.

“Unfortunately,” said Weyland, “all my best ideas involved avoiding the hurricane before we reached it.”

“I can’t control the ship,” I said.

“And we can’t control the weather,” Weyland added.

“In my tribe,” said Tluxapeketl, “we have a traditional rain dance that is always effective.”

“We don’t need more rain,” Weyland pointed out.

“Perhaps she could dance it backwards,” I suggested.

“It sometimes needs two or three days to take effect,” Tluxapeketl told us. “But it invariably rains within two or three days. In fact, it is so completely effective that we invariably get rain whether we do the dance or not.”

“That may be because you live in a rain forest,” I said.

“Well, I had thought of that, but I did not wish to be the first of my tribe to say it.”

Weyland began, “If only——”

A mighty gust turned the gondola almost on its side for a moment and flung us against the wall—all but Kitty, who maintained his position by digging into the floor with his substantial claws.

We righted ourselves, and Weyland began again:

“If only we had a butterfly!”

“A butterfly?”

“Darkly amusing, isn’t it?” said Weyland. “We spent all that time in the Amazonian jungle surrounded by butterflies, but I never thought to capture one in case we needed it later.”

“When I was a girl,” said Tluxapeketl, “I used to amuse myself by folding butterflies out of leaves.”

Weyland’s face lit up with hope. “Could you do it now? From paper, perhaps?”

“It would be child’s play, so to speak,” she replied.

“Peevish! Find me some paper! As much as the lady needs, and a sheet for me as well! Hurry—it’s our only chance!”

I looked around the room. A desk built into the wall on the other side seemed promising. I made my way across the wildly bucking floor: I had to resort to crawling, but I got to the desk at last. In the first drawer I opened I found a stack of blank paper with a printed letterhead:

Air Navy of
Kun the Devil King
P. O. Box 39
Andorra la Vella

“Found it!” I declared. I started to crawl back, but the gondola was flung sideways again, and we all ended up against the same wall, me with a handful of paper, Tluxapeketl with a lapful of tiger, whom she gently stroked as the gondola righted itself.

”Here’s the paper,” I said.

“Splendid work, Peevish,” said Weyland. He took a sheet and immediately began scribbling on it with his mechanical pencil. Tluxapeketl, meanwhile, took a sheet for herself and began carefully tearing and folding. With the violent movement of the gondola, it took her a few minutes, but she eventually had a butterfly almost indistinguishable from the real thing, if there were a species of butterfly that grew the letters NDORR on its left wing.

“Is this what you needed?” she asked.

Weyland looked up from his paper, which he had covered with differential equations. “Perfect,” he declared. “Peevish, we need to get that window open.”

“Open?” I asked dubiously.

“It is essential,” Weyland insisted. “Miss Tluxapeketl, the butterfly, please.”

With difficulty, I managed to stand, and—with more difficulty—to push the window open. Wind and rain poured in through the opening.

“Don’t breathe,” said Weyland.

He manipulated the wings of the butterfly so that it appeared to be fluttering in a very natural manner.

Suddenly the wind died, the rain stopped, the thunder faded away, the clouds parted, and the sun shone in through the open window.

I was stunned for a moment, but Weyland appeared to be unsurprised. “Thank you, Miss Tluxapeketl,” he said. “You fold an excellent butterfly.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“It is well known that the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings can have a profound effect on the weather,” he explained, “thanks to the principle of Sensitive Dependence on Initial Conditions. It was merely a matter of calculating those conditions with sufficient accuracy. I admit to being a little rusty—otherwise I should not have taken so long—but the important thing is that we succeeded.”

“You see, Kitty?” said Tluxapeketl, stroking the purring tiger under the chin. “I told you Mr. Weyland would think of something.”

“Where do you suppose we are?” I asked.

Weyland looked out the window. “We’re coming to the coast of Europe,” he said. “Amazing, really. The hurricane propelled us all the way across the Atlantic. I’d say we’re approaching the border of France and Spain.”

“How can you tell?”

He pointed to the view out the window. “Do you see that dashed line along the mountains, with the violet wash on the northern side of it and the orange wash on the other? That is the border marking installed by the European Borders Commission, an international body established to make sure national borders are visible from airships, autogyros, aeroplanes, and other aerial vehicles that begin with A. The commission has adopted the color standards promulgated by your own National Geographic Society.”

“Then we’re not too far from Andorra,” I remarked.

“True,” said Weyland. “We may be able to prepare a little surprise for the Devil King.”

At that point we passed into a cumulus cloud, and we were surrounded by blank whiteness. We drifted along that way for some time, as if the world had been erased with a big rubber.

“Quite a difference from the hurricane clouds,” I said. “It’s rather calm and peaceful in here. A very pleasant way to travel.”

“It is,” said Weyland. “But we must not forget that a blanket of cloud may conceal unknown dangers.”

“Such as what?”

“That, for example.”

The cloud had parted just in time for me to see a huge snow-clad peak looming in front of me.

“An Alp!” I exclaimed, running for the controls.

“Actually, a Pyrenee, I believe,” Weyland responded.

I had no chance to reach the wheel: the airship smashed into a huge snowbank on the side of the mountain, toppling us all and setting the gondola at a rakish angle.

We were fortunately not injured, but the airship was grounded. A jagged rock had ripped a huge gash in the gas bag, and all the goesuppium had escaped.

“We are here?” Tluxapeketl asked.

“A bit of an unexpected landing,” said Weyland, “but we seem to be all right. We’re somewhere high up in the Pyrenees, and we shall have to find our way to Andorra from here. Come on: might as well get started.”

We pushed open the door and found ourselves on a steep slope covered with snow.

“What is the crunchy white coating on the ground?” asked Tluxapeketl.

There was a curious low cracking sound somewhere in the distance; at the time I thought nothing of it.

“I suppose you’ve never seen snow before,” I said. “It’s quite common where we come from. It’s a kind of frozen water.”

There was another cracking sound, and a short rumble.

“It is very cold,” Tluxapeketl said. “No wonder pink men wear so many clothes. I am a little chilly.”

I insisted that she take my jacket, which she accepted this time. Now I was a little chilly,. But I certainly was not willing to let Tluxapeketl face the snow nearly as nature had made her.

“Is snow dangerous?” she asked.

I laughed. “No—it’s just fluffy solid water. It’s not dangerous at all.”

At that moment there was a much louder crack, and then a distant rumbling roar. I looked up toward the sound and saw that a tremendous avalanche had broken from the side of the mountain near the peak and was pouring down the slope straight toward us.

“Usually,” I corrected myself. “Usually snow isn’t dangerous at all.”

—

Don’t miss tomorrow’s thrilling episode:

PREY OF THE AVALANCHE.

Continuing the adventure that began here.

CHAPTER XV: Swept Up in the Tempest.

The rumble of propellers was all around us in the sky, drowning out the sound of our own engines. Planes were swooping left, right, before, behind.

“Can you think of any more attractive options?” I asked Weyland.

“A long shot,” he replied, “but we do have the fruit.” He turned to Tluxapeketl. “Miss Tluxapeketl, do you know the song ‘Tico tico no fuba’?”

“Of course,” she replied. “Every true Brazilian, no matter how remotely located, knows ‘Tico tico no fuba.’”

“Peevish!” said Weyland. “Help me with this fruit. We haven’t a moment to spare.”

“What are we doing?” I asked as we began to unload the chest of fruit.

“Our only chance of salvation is to convince the Air Corps that we are not enemies of Brazil. There is one means by which we can infallibly accomplish that object, if Miss Tluxapeketl is willing. Quick, Peevish—get the fruit on her head.”

“On her head?”

“Arrange it as artistically as you can, but quickly. Use the pineapple as a base; it should give your arrangement some structure. Good. Now apples, bananas, kumquats (not too many, Peevish, or she’ll never get them out of her hair), quinces, boysenberries,—but leave the durian, thank you. Better yet, toss it out the window. Well done! Now up to the roof, and we’ll rely on you, Miss Tluxapeketl, to give the performance of your life.

Outside the main control room was a ladder that gave access through a square hatch to the roof of the gondola. The three of us ascended the ladder; Kitty the tiger waited patiently at the foot of it for his master’s return.

For the second time I found myself on the breezy roof of an airship gondola. The planes were sweeping all around us, but the appearance of Tluxapeketl had effected an immediate change in their demeanor. They had stopped firing at us, and more and more of them were coming parallel to us, as if to have a closer look at the beautiful lady in the fruited hat.

Weyland stopped and began to beat a loud samba rhythm on the roof. I found that the taut steel cables suspending us from the gas bag produced different pitches when plucked, and I began to accompany Weyland’s drumming.

“Now, Miss Tluxapeketl!” Weyland shouted. “Sing! Sing for all you’re worth!’”

Tluxapeketl found her place in our rhythm, and she began to sing “Tico tico no fuba” very enthusiastically and very loud. Weyland kept up the samba beat, and I improvised what I believe to have been a very effective counterpoint to Tluxapeketl’s melody; but it was Tluxzapeketl’s performance on which our success depended, and her performance was extraordinary. She sang and she danced, and the very atmosphere seemed to have caught her rhythm.

Soon we began to hear additions to our music, and to our delight we discovered that many of the intrepid Air Corps flyers had joined in the performance with trumpets, trombones, saxophones, guitars, and a euphonium in one of the planes.

“Look over there!” Weyland called out to me. Following his gaze, I saw a movement on the wings of one of the planes. As two figures rose on the upper wings, I saw to my astonishment that they were young women in glittering costumes, who began to dance the samba on the wings very enthusiastically. No sooner had they appeared than others stood up on other planes all around us.

“The Brazilian Air Corps Wing Dancers!” Weyland shouted. “We’ve done it, Peevish!”

Tluxapeketl kept singing, and the orchestra all around us kept playing, and the dancers kept dancing, until we finally reached the river delta at the Atlantic Ocean. Then, as we left Brazilian airspace, the planes all swooped around us and in front of us, forming intricate patterns, until they finally moved into formation to spell out the words VIVA BRASIL. With that they left us, and we ended our musical performance.

“Delightful folks, Brazilians,” said Weyland. “Intensely patriotic. That was what I relied upon, of course.”

“It is a little windy now,” said Tluxapeketl.

“The wind has picked up a bit, hasn’t it?” I remarked.

“And it is getting cloudy,” Tluxapeketl added. She pointed forward toward the east, where, following her indication, I turned my gaze.

What I saw was a massive wall of cloud, such as I had never seen before, except perhaps in my nightmares.

“That looks ominous,” I said.

“We’d better steer clear of it,” Weyland replied. “To the control room.”

He immediately descended the ladder, with the two of us close behind. As soon as Weyland reached the floor, Kitty greeted him enthusiastically, rubbing against his hip.

“Turn us back, Peevish,” said Weyland as we entered the control room. “That storm looks like a little more than we can handle.”

The gondola was beginning to sway a little as the wind grew stronger and gustier. I made my way across the rocking floor to the controls and tried to spin the wheel, but no matter how much pressure I applied the thing would not turn.

“It won’t budge,” I reported.

“The wind must be too strong for the rudder,” said Weyland, and even as he spoke we could hear and feel the wind increasing in intensity. “Try reversing the engines.”

I pulled the lever from FORWARD to BACKWARD, and the motors whined and groaned. But we continued to run with the wind, faster and faster, hurtling toward the wall of cloud.

“How fast is the wind blowing now?” asked Weyland.

I looked at the wind-speed gauge. “What does it mean when it shows an eight on its side?”

“It means it’s blowing a little faster than we’d like,” said Weyland.

Suddenly the heavens burst open all around us, and we were surrounded by roaring rain, flashing lightning, and crashing thunder.

Tluxapeketl was scratching Kitty’s neck. “Don’t be afraid, Kitty,” she said. “Mr. Weyland will think of something.”

—

Don’t miss tomorrow’s thrilling episode:

MASTER OF THE ELEMENTS.

Continuing the adventure that began here.

CHAPTER XIV: Battle in the Sky.

Leaping like a gazelle, Weyland wrapped his arms around Miss Kun and toppled her. They rolled on the floor together, and the tiger just missed them by inches.

They had no time to congratulate themselves on their escape, however. Weyland was pinned to the floor by the weight of Miss Kun on top of him, and already the tiger had turned and was pouncing again. I could hardly bear to watch the sequel: I was certain it would not go well for them. But just as the tiger reached them, Weyland’s one free hand came up under the tiger’s chin. Suddenly the tiger stopped. Its neck began to stretch out, and its eyes were closing in an expression of extreme feline contentment.

“Good kitty,” I could hear Weyland murmuring. “Calm kitty.”

There was another sound now, a deep rumbling like the sound of in internal-combustion engine. The tiger was purring. Weyland continued to scratch under its chin, and the tiger stretched its neck more and more.

Cautiously Miss Kun extracted herself from Weyland’s embrace and raised herself to a sitting position. For some time she simply watched as Weyland reduced the ferocious beast to a state of complete docility. Finally she stood.

“I owe you my life, Mr. Weyland,” she declared.

Weyland sat up, still scratching the tiger exactly where tigers like to be scratched. “So you’ll let us go?”

“No, of course not. But I think I owe you a certain amount of very intense experience before I turn you over to my father.” She smiled wickedly; it chilled my blood, but to judge from his expression it had the opposite effect on Weyland. “And now,” she continued, stepping back toward her throne, “it’s time to get ready for our departure. Mr. Thompson, prepare my airship for launch. We’ll want something to eat along the way. Do you like fruit, Mr. Weyland? Fruit to give you some energy. Lots of fruit, Mr. Thompson.”

Mr. Thompson made a gesture, and one of his henchmen departed through the back door.

“I thought your airship was wrecked,” said Weyland, standing up. The tiger rubbed against him, and Weyland scratched the top of its head.

“My dear Mr. Weyland, we have a whole fleet of airships here at Pleasant River. It is a perfect location for one of our secret aerodromes.”

“But we saw nothing from above,” said Weyland.

“Clever, isn’t it?” she responded, sitting on her throne. “The camouflage was my own idea. My father is not the only evil genius in the family, you see. I also invented the magneto-oscillo-chromatograph and“—indicating her own extraordinarily tight-fitting clothing—“the instant iridescent catsuit in a spray can. —Mr. Thompson, take Mr. Weyland and his friends back to the cell until we’re ready for them. And get rid of that tiger.”

“I hear and obey, Mistress,” said Mr. Thompson.

But as soon as Mr. Thompson attempted to approach us, the tiger, sensing his hostile intent, let out a fang-bearing roar.

Mr. Thompson and his henchmen stopped and froze.

“I gave you an instruction, Mr. Thompson,” said the Devil Princess.

Mr. Thompson took a step forward. So did the tiger. Mr. Thompson stopped.

Miss Kun was not pleased. “Are you afraid of an overgrown tabby cat?” she demanded.

“Yes, Mistress,” replied Mr. Thompson.

“More than you are of me?” she added with a certain menace.

Mr. Thompson was silent: there was probably no good answer to that question.

“Oh!” the Devil Princess said with a huff, “men are such cowards.” She stood up. “I’ll—”

The tiger turned to face her and let out a roar that shook the whole building.

“—just stay right here,” Miss Kun finished.

“A wise decision,” said Weyland. “I think we’ll just be going on our way. Come on, Peevish, and Miss Tluxapeketl of course.”

We followed Weyland and his tiger out the back door, finding ourselves on a pleasant street with neat clapboard houses.

“What do we do now?” I asked Weyland as we walked, the tiger keeping pace and refusing to leave Weyland’s side.

“We find one of those airships,” he said, “and we get ourselves far away from here.”

“And Kitty comes too,” said Tluxapeketl.

“Of course he does!” said Weyland. “The brave fellow gave us our only chance at escape.”

We came to a corner with a more substantial building (identified by a sign as the First Anthropophagical Congregation of Pleasant River) and looked up the street to our right—and there, not far away, were at least a dozen airships much like the one that had brought us to South America.

“There they are!” I said. “Why didn’t we notice them from up in the air?”

“Look!” said Tluxapeketl, pointing up. The gas bags were all painted on the top half with a pattern exactly resembling the vegetation in the surrounding clearing.

“Dashed clever,”said Weyland. “Let’s appropriate one of them before Miss Kun’s minions get over their fear of tigers.”

We half-ran to the nearest airship and boarded the gondola, the interior of which was much like that of the one that had brought us.

“I’m casting off,” said Weyland when we were all inside. He untied the stout rope that tethered the thing, and we began to drift lazily. “Peevish, do you think you can fly this thing?”

I had been looking over the controls. There was a big ship’s wheel, and beside it one lever marked UP and DOWN and another marked FORWARD and BACKWARD. “Seems simple enough,” I said. I pushed the one lever toward UP, and we began to ascend.

“Excellent,” said Weyland. “And look—provisions! Quite a lot of fruit,” he said, looking into a big chest sitting on the floor. “And alcoholic spirits—never know when those might be needed.” He dropped a bottle into his jacket pocket.

As we were now high enough to clear any obstruction, I began to move us forward. A powerful motor engaged the fore and aft propellers, and we began to head eastward at a good clip.

“Champagne, too,” said Weyland. “Even some salmon for tigers.”

We began to enjoy a feast such as we had not had since before our adventures began. Weyland was just about to make a champagne toast when suddenly his glass shattered in his hand.

“Odd,” he said.

It was more than odd when a few more things in the room also broke or accumulated small holes.

“I think someone’s shooting at us,” Weyland declared.

At that moment, a biplane swooped by outside the window. Another followed, and another.

I risked sticking my head out the window to look backward. The sky was full of planes, all in the same green and blue livery.

“More on the way,” I announced.

“It’s the Brazilian Air Corps!” said Weyland. “They must have mistaken us for Paraguayan air pirates, who are well known to use airships like this!”

“What will we do?” I asked.

“Well,” said Weyland, “one option is to let them shoot a hole on our gas bag. We know the results of that.”

“What’s another option?” I asked as the biplanes surrounded us.

“They might shoot several holes in the gas bag. Then we’ll probably just fall two thousand feet and die.”

—

Don’t miss tomorrow’s thrilling episode:

SWEPT UP IN THE TEMPEST.

Continuing the adventure that began here.

CHAPTER XIII: Captives of the Cannibal Queen.

The guards bundled us into one of the buildings bordering the square, a building that resembled nothing so much as a small-town police station. In one corner of the room in which we found ourselves was a cell or cage that already held one inhabitant, a young woman whose long black hair, copper flesh, and sparse clothing marked her as one of the natives of the district.

“In here, if you don’t mind, gentlemen,” said Mr. Thompson. The cell door was opened, and we were thrust in to join the other occupant.

“Surely you don’t intend to eat us,” I said as the cell door was locked.

“Oh, yes indeed, Mr.—Peevish, was it? Yes,” said Mr. Thompson, “the natives have a somewhat gamey flavor, probably owing to their outdoorsy lifestyle, with its multifarious opportunities for physical exercise. It is pleasant enough, but not to be compared with the delicate flavor of the sedentary European or American. What a rare treat you and your friend will be! I hope you appreciate how delighted we were by your unexpected arrival.”

“But I thought you were loyal subjects of Her Majesty,” said Weyland.

“Certainly we are—the most loyal subjects Her Majesty the Cannibal Queen could possibly desire,” said Mr. Thompson.

“Ah, I see. I misunderstood.”

“You may even have the privilege of meeting her,” said Mr. Thompson. “She’s in town, don’t you know. And now we’ll leave you here for the moment, while we make preparations for you gentlemen to take the place of honor at our feast.”

Mr. Thompson and the rest left us alone in our cell with the beautiful young native woman, to whom we had not even been properly introduced.

“Pink men eat their own, too?” the lady asked.

“Apparently so,” I said. “My apologies, madam: we’ll have to introduce ourselves. My name is John Peevish, and this is my friend Norbert Weyland.”

“I am called Tluxapaketl,” the lady replied.

“And you were captured by these fiendish cannibals as well, it seems,” said Weyland.

“Do they make raids on your villages?” I asked.

“No,” said Tluxapeketl. “We are usually clever enough to avoid raids from pink men. But alas! My story is so strange you will hardly believe it. I am separated from the tribe, you see, when I fall into a patch of strangler figs!”

“Did you really?” I asked sympathetically.

“My goodness! I am about to be strangled, but then a figroot-eating tapir fortunately comes when I call it. As a girl I learned to imitate its call, you see. I was the second-best figroot-eating-tapir imitator in my village.”

“Very fortunate for you,” said Weyland.

“But heavens! I have only just escaped from the strangler figs, when lo! I am surrounded by ferocious cats of every description!”

“My word!” said Weyland.

“I escape from the cats, but whoops! I fall from a great height into a canoe on the river!”

“That must have been a fright,” I said.

“I think I am safe, but holy Toledo—crocodiles everywhere! What shall I do?”

“I can hardly imagine,” said Weyland.

“I make them cry by telling them the ancient story from my people, the story of the chief who believes his daughter loves him insufficiently. But whoosh! I leave the crocodiles and go right over Thunder Falls!”

“A terrible predicament,” I remarked.

“I am falling, falling—but I take bark from the canoe and make wings like a bird, you see, and I soar gently down to the river below.”

“Very clever of you,” said Weyland.

“But pluck! I am snatched out of the water by pink men! And here I am.”

“A remarkable series of adventures,” I said.

“But you—how did you come to be captured by pink men?” Tluxapeketl asked.

“After your tale,” said Weyland, “I’m afraid ours might seem derivative. Suffice it to say that we mistook these pink men for honorable and civilized gentlemen, a mistake that has put us in an exceedingly awkward predicament.”

“Now pink men will have a triple feast,” said Tluxapeketl.

“Not necessarily,” said Weyland. “If you’ll follow my lead, I have an idea that just might get us out of here.”

“We’ll do our part to the best of our ability,” I assured him, and Tluxapeketl nodded in agreement.

“We’ll try the old deathly-ill ploy,” said Weyland. He looked out the little barred window in the wall of the cell and then turned back to face us. “They’ve left two guards out there. Be ready to overcome them when they come in here.”

Once again Tluxapeketl and I nodded.

Suddenly Weyland started to scream and moan like a man in mortal agony. “My head!” he wailed. “My head! The pain in my head!”

“Guards!” I shouted. “This man is very ill! He needs assistance right away!”

“My head!” Weyland continued. “I can’t stand the pain in my—ow!”

A small cylindrical object had flown in through the window, bounced off Weyland’s forehead, and rolled into a corner of the cell.

“What was that thing?” Weyland asked.

I retrieved the object. “A bottle of aspirin,” I announced.

“It smarts a bit,” said Weyland, rubbing a sore spot on his forehead. “Peevish, would you be so good as to pass me a couple of those pills?—Thank you.”

“Did we escape?” asked Tluxapeketl.

“Not quite,” I told her.

“I thought not,” she said, “but I am not familiar with the ways of pink men.”

I resigned myself to waiting in the cell for the next appearance of our captors, hoping that perhaps some opportunity for action might present itself. The wait was not rendered any less difficult by the proximity of Tluxapeketl, whose abbreviated costume left most of her natural attractions on display. I offered her the use of my jacket, but she refused on the perfectly reasonable grounds that she was not chilly. I could not think of a way to explain in polite terms that the jacket was not for her comfort but for mine, so I let the matter drop.

We did not wait long: I suppose it was not half an hour later that Mr. Thompson reappeared with an entourage of half a dozen other well-dressed but powerful-looking gentlemen.

“You are very fortunate indeed,” he announced.

“You mean you’re not going to eat us?” I asked.

“Even better! You’re going to have an audience with Her Majesty. Food is seldom accorded that privilege, but occasionally— Well, Her Majesty is very eager to speak with you.”

“How delightful,” I said, I suppose with a hint of sarcasm.

“In fact,” said Mr. Thompson, “she has asked me to deliver you right now, so if you gentlemen will accompany us—”

“And the lady?” I asked.

“Her Majesty did not specifically request her.”

“I am not willing to leave her to the mercy of whoever walks in here,” I said, a bit surprised by my own firm resolution. “If we go, the lady goes with us.”

“Well,” said Mr. Thompson, “I suppose it makes no difference. Come along, then. Please follow me, and you may be assured that these gentlemen will be behind and beside you.”

The mayor led us out of the little jail into the square again.

“What are you up to, Peevish?” Weyland asked sotto voce.

“I know you have a clever plan to get us out of here,” I said in the same low tone, “and I insist on taking Miss Tluxapeketl with us.”

“Ah,” said Weyland.

We were led into a larger structure built in a neo-Georgian style, and from the entry hall we turned left into what had been made into a kind of throne room; and at the other end of it, seated in regal dignity, was Miss Kun, the Devil Princess.

“Her Majesty, the Queen of the Cannibals,” Mr. Thompson announced, and the cannibal gentlemen who surrounded us all bowed low.

“Mr. Weyland and Mr. Peevish,” said Miss Kun, “and your charming if underdressed companion: welcome to my little outpost of civilization in the forests of the Amazon.”

“A strange sort of civilization,” I said. “You’ve turned these men into cannibals.”

“Oh, no,” she responded. She rose from her throne and began to approach us. “They were cannibals when I arrived. I understand that’s why they left civilization in the first place—too many constraints on the free exercise of their proclivities. They have been trying to persuade me to partake, but so far I have taken the vegetarian option. Although—” She had come very near Weyland by now. “If I were to partake of the flesh of a man…” She turned away and laughed. Having walked a few paces away, she turned to face us again. “You have put me in a very awkward position, gentlemen. My father is very desirous of an interview with you both—particularly with you, Mr. Weyland. Yet I should hate to deprive my loyal subjects here of a meal they have been anticipating so keenly. What shall I do, gentlemen? What shall I do?”

“I might suggest—” Weyland began.

“I think I have it,” said the Devil Princess. “I shall send Mr. Peevish and his lovely companion to the pot: they should provide plenty of good eating for my loyal subjects. But you, Mr. Weyland, will come with me to see my father—after I’ve had my own fun with you, of course. What do you think of that?”

Weyland actually seemed to be considering his answer. After some silence, he said at last, “Well, if you want my opinion,—WHAT’S THAT OVER THERE?”

Miss Kun laughed. “Really, Mr. Weyland! Do you expect me to be taken in by that ruse a second—”

A low rumbling growl came from the corner of the room behind her. Out of the shadows came the Siberian tiger: it had tracked us all the way, but now it was crouching to pounce on Miss Kun. Just as the tiger leapt, however, so did Weyland—right into the path of the pouncing tiger.

—

Don’t miss tomorrow’s thrilling episode:

BATTLE IN THE SKY.

Continuing the adventure that began here.

CHAPTER XII: Aeronauts of the Amazon.

“This one may be a little more difficult to manage,” I told Weyland as we plummeted downward toward the rocks far below.

“Although, under ordinary circumstances, you are our whitewater expert,” said Weyland, “would you be willing to accept a suggestion from me?”

“I should certainly make no objection to it,” I replied as we gained vertical velocity with every passing second.

“Then I suggest we make use of the resources at our disposal. We have a hammer, a pocket knife, and some nails. First, take the hammer and use the claw end to pry up the seats.”

I set to work immediately on the seat on which I had been sitting. In short order, I had it detached from the boat.

“Excellent, Peevish,” said Weyland. “Now, if you will hand it to me, I can get to work on it while you pry up the other one. It behooves us to work efficiently, as we are operating under a certain time constraint.”

We changed places in the falling boat, and while I worked on prying up the other seat, Weyland began to whittle the first one with the pocket knife, forming a gracefully arched shape front to back.

“I have the other one now,” I reported. We had now plummeted about a third of the way down toward the rock-strewn gulf below.

“Good job. Hand me that one, and take this one and nail this end here, so that it projects from the boat perpendicularly. I’ll prepare the other one.”

I made sure to use a good number of nails, so that the altered seat was attached firmly to the edge of the boat. Meanwhile, Weyland was busy on the other seat, and by the time I had finished hammering, he had it ready.

“First-rate work, Peevish,” he said. “Now do the same with this one on the opposite side, and I’ll make some alterations to the oars.”

I soon had the other seat nailed in place, and at the same time Weyland handed me his curious construction. He had used his necktie to attach the oars end to end with the blades pointing outward and twisted slightly, and in the middle he had put a sort of handle made of nails.

“Now get in the front of the boat,” he said, “and spin that clockwise with all your might.”

Once again we changed places, and I began spinning Weyland’s construction as fast as I could turn it.

Seconds before we would have been smashed on the rocks, our reconstructed boat swept forward in a graceful parabola and began to rise into the sky again.

“Splendid, Peevish!” said Weyland. “Luckily I spent some time with Mr. Curtiss suggesting some improvements to his production models. I had no time to construct proper ailerons, but we should be able to steer simply by leaning left and right. Just keep that propeller turning.”

I was spinning the propeller as fast as I could, which took quite a lot of effort; but the alternative was plunging into foaming rapids in the gorge below.

Soon, however, the aspect of the landscape below us changed. We came to an escarpment where the land came down to the level of the river, and the water below once again took on a placid and inviting character.

“My wrists are beginning to get a little sore,” I mentioned to Weyland.

“Look at that down there!” said Weyland. “I’d say we’ve reached civilization!”

Indeed, we could see not too far ahead of us what looked for all the world like an English village transplanted to the Amazon jungle. We could see the roofs of houses and public buildings constructed very much in the English style, and a well-laid-out street plan with a central square open on one side to the river.

“This is a spot of luck,” said Weyland. “Let’s set down in the river right by the village square, and we’ll see how well connected these people are. Perhaps they have a wireless set we can use to warn the authorities that Kun is in control of the archdiocese.”

I slowed the propeller a little, and we began to descend. Rather than a steep descent that might have ended in an uncomfortable landing, we came down in a spiral path, which gave the inhabitants of the little town ample opportunity to spot us. As we came closer, we saw a few of them in the village square looking up at us. They had every appearance of being European; they were dressed in decent European style, and when they began to wave at is even their gestures had a European flair. Each time we passed over the square in our spiral path, more of the inhabitants had appeared, gazing up at what I admit must have appeared to be a very odd aircraft. By the time we landed—I must say we did it very neatly in the water right next to the town square—there were dozens of people to greet us with a hearty cheer.

“Welcome to Pleasant River,” said a distinguished-looking gentleman as we moored our aquatic aeroplane at the little dock. “My name is Thompson; I have the honor to be the mayor of this town, and on behalf of all of us I should like to say how happy we are to have you here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” said Weyland as we disembarked. “I can hardly tell you how delighted we are to find an outpost of civilization in the heart of the jungle.”

“We’re quite proud of it in our little way, yes,” said Mr. Thompson. “We think we’ve managed to build ourselves a little oasis, as it were, where we loyal subjects of Her Majesty can enjoy all the comforts of home.”

“It will certainly be pleasant, after what we’ve been through,” I said. “Going over a tremendous waterfall, for a start.”

“Oh, you went over Thunder Falls, did you?” asked Mr. Thompson.

“That would have been the end of us,” said Weyland, “if Peevish hadn’t been so deft with our improvised propeller. And of course there were the crocodiles before that.”

“Oh, yes, dashed nuisances, the crocodiles,” said Mr. Thompson. “Did you try Romeo and Juliet?”

“King Lear, actually,” said Weyland.

“Ah! Good choice. I shall have to remember that the next time.”

“And then, of course,” I added, “there were the jaguar, the puma or mountain lion or Nittany lion or cougar or panther or catamount, the leopard, the African lion, the Siberian tiger, and the Canada lynx of unusual size.”

“Indefatigable trackers, Siberian tigers,” said Mr. Thompson.

“You forgot our fall from the cliff,” said Weyland.

“Oh, yes, and we fell off a precipice as well,” I added.

“Goodness!” said Mr. Thompson. You have had some adventures, haven’t you?”

“And we narrowly avoided an encounter with a party of savage natives,” said Weyland. “Cannibals, most likely.”

“What, the natives?” Mr. Thompson laughed. “Oh, no, sir, there you have made a bloomer, so to speak.”

“They’re not cannibals?” Weyland asked. “I had heard there were cannibals in this jungle.”

“No, the natives are of the most pacific disposition imaginable,” said Mr. Thompson. “They are mostly vegetarian, in fact, and may be regarded as completely harmless. We are the cannibals. Guards—”

Suddenly I felt myself seized from behind by both arms. Weyland also had been taken in hand by two large and well-dressed gentlemen.

“Take them to the cage and get them ready for dinner,” said Mr. Thompson. “And, Reginald, if you could mix up a batch of that barbecue sauce we liked so well the last time, I’m sure we’d all be very grateful.”

—

Don’t miss tomorrow’s thrilling episode:

CAPTIVES OF THE CANNIBAL QUEEN.