Originally published in the August, 1934 issue of Operator 5TM
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Copyright ã1934 by Popular Publications Inc.
Copyright renewed (c) 1962 and assigned to Argosy Communications, Inc.
All rights reserved. Licensed to Vintage New Media
Operator 5 is a trademark of Argosy Communications, Inc.
By Curtis Steele
Secretly, behind closed doors and guarded portals the mysterious Black
Power of Zaava spread its hidden terror throughout America. What evil
force was behind the destruction of churches; the wholesale
disappearance of entire congregations? What sinister spell had fallen
upon American men and women to make them hurl themselves into
white-hot flaming furnaces. A trap worse than death is laid for Operator 5
when, in a final effort to combat this monstrous hidden power, he makes
his way alone into the Cavern of the Damned!
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Operator 5TM CAVERN OF THE DAMNED August,
1934
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A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
2
CHAPTER ONE
The Eyes in the Sky
THE swift roadster swung sharply around a
bend in the black road that wound high into the
night-shrouded mountains. Its headlamps probed
into a wreaking fog; the glow of the dash shone,
bright in the clear blue eyes of the young man
gripping the wheel, and brought out the huddled
figure beside him. The driver kept silent as he
sped through the black confusion, as masses of
mist whisked past like flying ghosts.
James Christopher, otherwise known as
Operator 5 of the United States Intelligence
Service, was speeding north in response to an
urgent secret message received from his
Washington chief.
It had reached him while he had basked on a
sunny Florida beach, those few cryptic words
couched in Code 7. The code was the one thusfar
unsolvable cipher existing in the world; its use
signified that the secret message was of unusual
importance. One reading of it had brought Jimmy
Christopher's well-deserved vacation to an abrupt
end.
Following Operator 5's strenuous work on the
case of The Melting Death, which had followed so
close on the heels of his successful efforts to
terminate the war declared on the United States
by the Yellow Empire, he had driven to Florida for
a few weeks' respite. The message in Code 7
had arrived at his destination almost as soon as
he had. Now, after twenty-four hours of swift
driving, he was still at the wheel, winding his way
through the chill heights of the Blue Ridge Range
in Virginia.
The decoded message had hinted a sinister
mystery:
Mysterious and horrible deaths of four
Intelligence Operators in scattered parts of the
country, all apparently linked together,
demands immediate action. We are relying on
you. Return at once and meet me at Address X,
New York.
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Operator 5TM CAVERN OF THE DAMNED August,
1934
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3
Z-7.
Another sharp turn swung the roadster upon
a stretch of road crossing a lofty plateau banked
by illimitable darkness. The headlamps threw
writhing shadows along a craggy wall. The car
quickened speed as a startled voice spoke beside
Operator 5: "Jimmy-look!"
Tim Donovan, the self-reliant, freckle-faced
lad who had aided Operator 5 in the solution of
several important cases, had straightened in
wide-eyed astonishment: He poked a stubby
forefinger toward the depths of the valley ahead;
and Jimmy Christopher, nudging the brakes,
gazed toward a weird glow that had appeared in
the emptiness of the sky.
A moment before a darkness unbroken and
all-enveloping had mantled the mountains, but
now a nebulous shine hovered in the mist, a light
that seemed to twist like a living thing and draw
itself into a semblance of a face!
"What is it, Jimmy?" Tim Donovan asked
breathlessly. "Its getting plainer all the time. It-
it's a pair of eyes-"
Jimmy Christopher nodded as he continued
to slow the car, and echoed quietly: "Eyes."
The eyes were looking through the night-sky
and the fog, down upon the night-covered earth.
Of gigantic proportions, bright against the
blackness of the empty space beyond, each
second they grew sharper, more distinct. A huge
pair of orbs, disembodied, fascinating in the
intensity of their gaze, they stared out of
nothingness.
"Gee, Jimmy-it's like a big ghost-looking
at us! " Tim Donovan whispered.
Even as the Irish lad spoke, another glow
appeared in the night, farther away and low on the
horizon. It was brighter and it flickered like naked
flame. The shine of it increased swiftly; and
Operator 5, intently peering through narrowed
lids, detected black outlines in the distant blaze.
"A building burning," he said quietly. "I see a
spire. It's a church. "
"The eyes-the eyes are right above it,
Jimmy!" Tim Donovan declared. "Just as if they
were watching it burn!"
"It's strange, Tim," Jimmy Christopher
observed, "and yet it might not be so strange after
all. Those eyes floating up there might be merely
an image thrown on the clouds by a powerful
projector from somewhere in the mountains. Why
it should be done I don't know, but-"
"We'd better see what it is, Jimmy!"
"I'd like to look into that, Tim," Jimmy
Christopher said quietly. "But Z-7's waiting for us.
Our next stop is New York."
In the sky the uncanny eyes still hovered,
their black centers white-circled and the face
itself, blending away from the darkness so that
little more than the eyes were visible, was a deep
red color. Jimmy Christopher watched the floating
image as he touched the accelerator. The car
shot forward-and the gaze of the tremendous,
ghostly eyes followed its flight....
THE mountain country was isolated; a
strange sense of desolation hovered over it. Early
that evening, Jimmy Christopher had driven
through bright, bustling cities; ahead lay others, in
a busy proximity to Washington. Yet here the
primitive prevailed. Villages were small and
musty; the mountains seemed to have shut away
the advance of civilization.
And into this black isolation, where vast
stashes had lain untouched since the beginning of
the nation, the floating eyes looked.
"A strange section, Tim," Jimmy Christopher
remarked quietly as he sent the roadster whizzing
along the brink of black emptiness. "One might
expect anything-"
His words became prophetic.
A quick swing had turned the car away from
the hovering eyes; the headlamps had swung
across yawning space. The bright twin beams
turned along the road and limned a strange shape
there in the darkness-that of a running figure,
speeding toward them.
A girl's face shone white in the glare. Her
lips were parted in abject fright; her eyes were
widened. She was stumbling, throwing herself
along as if at the end of her strength, so frantically
that she scarcely saw the car bearing down on
her. A horrified cry came from her as she
stumbled. Headlong she fell into the road as
Jimmy Christopher's foot shot again to the brakes.
"Look! Somebody's following her, Jimmy!"
Tim Donovan cried.
As the girl lay motionless in the shine of the
headlamps, black movements fluttered toward
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Operator 5TM CAVERN OF THE DAMNED August,
1934
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her. Out of the darkness beyond two men
rushed. Their garb was as surprising as the
unexpected appearance of the girl. Their bodies
were cloaked in black robes; their heads were
wound with black turbans.
Their gleaming teeth and white-rimmed eyes
glittered as the two men sprang toward the girl.
Jimmy Christopher brought the roadster to a
quick stop and slipped from the wheel as they
stooped to raise her. His hand swung to his armpit
holster and away, gripping a leveled gun. Long,
swift strides carried him toward the fallen girl, into
the glare of the lights.
Tim Donovan sprang after him. "Jimmy! Look
out!" the boy cried.
The crunch of Operator 5's toes in the grit
brought the two black-robed men up swiftly.
Peering into the gore, they leaped forward.
Gripped in their blackish hands, the curved blades
of knives flashed as they sprang. Jimmy
Christopher brought up short, finger tightening on
the trigger.
One sharp report rang from his gun. His
bullet clicked ringingly against the steel of the
blade up-thrown by the foremost of the two blackclad
figures. Unseen power tore the knife away
and spun it through the air. A startled, guttural cry
burst from the dark man's lips. He whirled out of
the glare of light, into the thick darkness beyond.
The shouted command stopped short the
second turbaned man. Jimmy Christopher was
springing toward him when the figure twirled the
knife in his hand. The weapon suddenly became
a streak of silent lightning darting at Operator 5.
As he dodged, it hissed past his head, and off into
the blackness. At the same instant the black man
spun; an incredibly long leap carried him out of
sight.
"Away from the light, Tim!" Operator 5
snapped. "Down!"
He crouched at the side of the road, gun
ready, as Tim Donovan leaped into the shadow
on the opposite side. Ahead, in the grit, the girl
still lay motionless. Operator 5 listened, striving
to locate the two black men who had melted into
the darkness. He heard no sound; but, glancing
back, he saw, hovering in the sky, still bright and
staring, the huge pair of all-seeing eyes.
"Jimmy!" a whisper came from the shadows
beyond. "They're gone!" No sound had marked
the flight of the turbaned men; they had vanished
like ghosts. Jimmy Christopher rose slowly, and
advanced into the light. There was no suggestion
of a renewed attack, no hint of any presence in
the gloom. He stooped quickly over the girl as Tim
Donovan scurried to his side.
She was young and pretty, yet her face was
pale as death, her features twisted in an agony of
fear as she lay half unconscious. Her clothing
was tattered, as though she had fought her way
through entangled, thorny bushes. Operator 5
brought her into his arms; he strode to the car,
and lowered her carefully to the seat.
"In, Tim," he ordered quickly. "She's been
frightened out of her senses. Watch her, boy!"
HE TURNED, warily glancing around, and
stooped toward a glitter shining from the road. He
brought into his hand the knife that his bullet had
knocked from the grip of the first turbaned man.
Its handle was fashioned of carved gold; brightcolored
gems gleamed from the hilt. As a moan
came from the girl in the car, he tucked it quickly
into his pocket and slipped to the wheel.
The girl was straightening, peering at him in
terror. He assured her quickly: "You're safe. I'm
taking you to the next town. Those men-who
were they?"
A whimper came from the girl's bruised lips
her widened eyes shifted fearfully into the
darkness. New terror shone in them as she
recoiled. "The eyes! The eyes!"
Operator 5's hand closed tightly on hers.
"Steady!" he warned. "You're all right. What is
that image in the clouds? Can you hear me? What
is it?"
The girl gasped: "Take me away! Oh take
me away!"
She stared, as if she could not tear her gaze
away, at the ghostly eyes shining from the
heavens. Jimmy Christopher quickly shot the car
forward. As he passed beneath low-hanging
trees, the menacing eyes in the sky were
screened away. The girl sank back, covering her
face with scratched and bleeding hands, and
sobbed.
Jimmy Christopher said quietly: "If you'll tell
me where you live, I'll-"
"Don't let me look at them again!" the girl
beseeched. "Don't let me look at those eyes...
those eyes..."
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Operator 5TM CAVERN OF THE DAMNED August,
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She wilted against Tim Donovan, exhausted.
He held her as breathless sobs came from her
lips. Jimmy Christopher pressed his motor to the
limit. The car was a black streak through the night
as he followed the raw road down a steep grade.
He did not slow until lights twinkled ahead.
The mountain town into which Jimmy
Christopher drove, was a cluster of fog-drenched
buildings gathered about the road. Dim light
marked a few dewed windows. Jimmy
Christopher slowed to a stop before a ramshackle
building which bore the crudely-painted legend:
"Town Hall." The tall, angular man standing near
the entry way moved down toward the roadster, a
star gleaming on his moist mackinaw. He
stopped to peer into the sky where the haunting,
unearthly eyes still hovered.
Jimmy Christopher slowed beside him. The
big man turned again to the car, and started in
surprise as he glimpsed the white face of the girl
"Say! Where'd you get her? She's been missin-
"
Jimmy Christopher noted the word "Sheriff"
stamped on the big man's shield; as he rapidly
told the circumstances of his finding the girl. The
officer's eyes grew large as Jimmy Christopher
finished, as the sheriff peered close at the white
drawn face of the girl, and turned a haggard gaze
at Operator 5. "She's Sylvia Chester," he gasped.
"Her father's president of the bank here. She's
been missin' since last night, I told 'em it was the
eyes that done it-those eyes up there, starin'
down-!"
"She needs a doctor, Sheriff," Jimmy
Christopher declared. "If you'll take her to her
home-"
"Sure, I'll do that. I'll telephone her father
right now. He's been half crazy worryin' about
her. I told him it was those men-those men all
dressed in black that pop out of the night, then
disappear-"
"Who are they?" Operator 5 demanded.
"God-or the devil-only knows!" the big
man gasped. "They come out of the night, and go
back again before dawn comes-that's all I been
able to find out. There's strange things happenin'
here in these mountains-the devil's work is goin'
on. People disappearin', then comin' back and
not knowin' where they've been. The black men
comin' out of nowhere. Those eyes-those eyes
up there in the sky, shinin' down on dark nights
like-" And before Operator 5 could question the
man further, the sheriff turned quickly, and ran
into the lighted building.
OPERATOR 5 helped the weakened girl
from the car when he saw, through the window,
that the sheriff was telephoning. The girl glimpsed
again the eyes shining in the sky swiftly she
covered her face and shuddered in terror. She
clung to Jimmy Christopher until the sheriff
reappeared, then she whirled to him and threw
her arms around him. "Oh, take me home!" she
pleaded. "Take me away! Take me where I can't
see those eyes... those eyes..."
"There, there, honey," the big man
reassured her. "Sure I'll take you home, right now.
You come with me, honey."
He helped her into an ancient car sitting in
front of the Town Hall. Operator 5 waited until it
rattled away down a dark mountain road. He
started his motor, and glanced at the freckled face
of Tim Donovan.
"Gee, Jimmy!" the boy gasped. '"Those eyes
make me feel funny. They make one want to keep
looking at them. I know how that girl felt. They-
Jimmy, let's get out of here!"
Operator 5 swung the car into the road; it
spurted to a swift speed. His lids drooped as he
shot down into a fog-drenched valley. His
headlights wavered deep into the night. Tim
Donovan's hand crept to his and and trembled.
"What is it, Jimmy?"
Operator 5 quoted the Sheriff cryptically.
"The devil only knows, Tim. It's a temptation to
stay and find out, but Z-7 is waiting for us in New
York."
The car swerved around a curve. A jagged
rock wall lay on the right; on the left, white fenceposts,
bordering a chasm, flicked past like a
ghostly sentinel. The smooth hum of the specially
made roadster's Diesel engine rose to a higher
note. But suddenly the speedometer flickered
down as Operator 5 touched the brakes.
A rumbling, rustling sound was carrying
through the night air. The earth jarred with
discordant vibrations. Warily Operator 5 steadied
the car, opened his door, and swung to the
running-board as Tim Donovan peered out the
other side. They gazed upward. The rumbling
noise was growing swiftly louder; it was coming
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Operator 5TM CAVERN OF THE DAMNED August,
1934
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from above. Out of the darkness rushed a spilling
black mass.
"Rocks falling!" Tim Donovan cried. Jimmy
Christopher saw them at the same instant-a
rolling avalanche of boulders bounding down the
steep slope, directly above them!
Swiftly Jimmy Christopher ducked to the
wheel. His foot shot to the fuel pedal; the car
lurched ahead. Like lightning the black car
literally bounded down the sloping mountain road.
Through the singing of the engine the thunder
roared-and ended in a dull, earth-rocking
explosion.
Jimmy Christopher slowed, glancing back. In
the road behind him lay black-piled boulders. Over
them was spilling a wash of loose earth. Flying
dust was mixing with the clinging mist. Entirely
across the road the avalanche had flowed. Those
tons of stone would have crushed the roadster in
an instant, killing Jimmy Christopher and Tim
Donovan had it entrapped them!
Operator 5 slipped from the wheel again,
gazing through slitted eyes. Furtive, rustling
sounds came out of the darkness. Was it merely
more loose earth spilling down the slope-or was
it the motions of black-clad figures, fleeing? Was
it a trick of his eyes, or did Operator 5 glimpse, in
the gloom, white-rimmed eyes and gleaming
teeth? Had those plunging rocks fallen by
accident; or had the fall been started
deliberately-the hurtling destruction directed by
unseen hands?
Operator 5 was turning again to the wheel
when another sound brought him to a pause. This
time it was not the crashing of rocks, but a
ringing, vibrating note that beat across the
heavens like the stroke of a mighty gong. It
swelled out of the night, a penetrating resonance;
and slowly it floated away into the distance.
At the same time the light shining in the night
sky grew dim. Slowly the weird, all-seeing eyes
melted into the mist. When the last tone of the
gong faded into the silence, the last gleam of the
haunting eyes vanished....
CHAPTER TWO
The Black Prince
ON THE door of a white-stone building on
Fifth Avenue, New York, in the Fifties, a single
name shone in small, black letters:
CARLETON VICTOR
Beyond lay a room furnished in ultramodern
manner, in the most impeccable taste. It was
quiet, impressive, and hung with original oils by
Picasso, Cezanne and Renoir; but no
photographs were in evidence, though it was the
reception room of one of the most renowned
photographers in the world.
To be the subject of a photo-portrait by
Carleton Victor was a mark of distinction. World
dignitaries, men of international influence, state
officials not only of the United States, but of
Europe and Asia, sought the favor of his art. To
be granted a sitting by Carleton Victor was an
achievement; to possess a portrait signed by him
was a credential of importance.
None of his clients-indeed, no one in the
world save a few that could be counted on the
fingers of one hand-knew that in the secret
lexicon of the United States Intelligence Service,
the studio of Carleton Victor was known as
Address X.
Only those few knew that Carleton Victor
was an identity cloaking that of Jimmy
Christopher, Operator 5.
It was late in the afternoon when Jimmy
Christopher brought his roadster to a stop in front
of the white-stone building. Tim Donovan sidled
behind the wheel as he left it.
"Home for you, Tim," he directed. "Sorry our
vacation was cut short, but I'll be seeing you."
Operator 5 entered the modernistic reception
room and a young man rose from behind a desk
to greet him.
"Mr. Victor, a gentleman who was waiting for
you-he gave his name as Senor Cortez Sept-
left a short time ago, saying he would call again
soon. When I received your message that you
were returning, I took the liberty of granting an
appointment for a sitting with Mrs. Vincent
Stanbridge. She is here now."
Victor nodded. He gave quick instructions,
and stepped into the quiet, luxuriously furnished
office at the front of the suite. For a moment all
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thought of secret intelligence work passed from
the mind of Jimmy Christopher. He became his
second identity, an artist with the camera. A few
minutes later, impeccable and brisk, he stepped
into the studio where Mrs. Vincent Stanbridge
waited.
She was a stately, poised woman, a
commander of New York society. As Carleton
Victor posed her before his tremendous lens she
watched him eagerly. He worked silently; she
was almost unaware of the moment when the
leaf-shutter flapped, creating her portrait. When
he bowed, and told her the sitting was over, she
remained in her chair eagerly.
"Mr. Victor," she said, "l know you rarely
accept social engagements, but I want to extend
an invitation to you-a very unique and special
invitation."
"You're very kind, Mrs. Stanbridge," Carleton
Victor bowed.
"It is not an affair of mine," the lady added.
"It is a soiree at the conservatory of the Prince
Horpa Tal."
Carleton Victor's eyes began to gleam. "The
Prince Horpa Tal?" he asked.
"He is," Mrs. Stanbridge continued, "a most
remarkable man, of Tibetan royal blood. He is in
New Yew incognito. His presence is known only
to a few. Will you come tonight?"
Victor bowed. "One moment, please," he
said. "I will see if I have any engagements for
tonight."
He left the room quietly. Once past the heavy
drapes of the doorway, he made no move to
consult his engagement book. Instead, he entered
the small dressing room where Mrs. Stanbridge's
hat, coat, gloves and purse lay. His interest was
in the purse.
He opened it. His deft fingers paused on a
tiny crystal flask of perfume. He drew its scent
into his lungs and a faraway light shone in his
eyes. Quickly, then, he removed a small vial from
a drawer of the table; be trickled a few drops of
the amber perfume into it; he returned the tiny
flask to the purse and tucked the vial into his
pocket. Then he returned directly to the studio.
"I'll be glad to go," he smiled at Mrs.
Stanbridge. "Fortunately, I have no other
engagement for tonight."
Mrs. Stanbridge smiled her pleasure, and
hesitated. "I'm not at liberty," she said, "to
disclose Prince Horpa Tal's address. He must
keep his whereabouts a strict secret. You may
think it rather strange, but-I will send my car for
you. I'm sure," the lady declared, rising, "that
you will be deeply interested in Prince Horpa Tal."
"I'm sure," Carleton Victor answered with a
peculiar quietness, "that I will."
HE BOWED again as Mrs. Stanbridge left.
The drapes parted again at once and the young
man who presided in the reception room looked
in.
"Senor Cortez Sept," he announced, "in your
office, Mr. Victor."
Carleton stepped alertly into the office. From
a chair rose a man whose hair glistened like a
raven's wing, whose eyes sparkled like black
diamonds. The name of Cortez Sept was a code
used in public for his secret designation as Z-7.
He was the Washington chief of the United States
Intelligence Service, the man who directed all its
undercover activities. He smiled tightly as he
gripped Operator 5's hand.
"Jimmy! I'm sorry to interrupt your vacation,
but it's unavoidable. Whatever the devil is behind
this case, we're at a loss to discover. Only an
hour ago I received news of the death of another
of our operators-one of our best-M-11."
"The fifth?" Operator 5 asked quietly.
"The fifth!" Z-7 resumed his chair as
Operator 5 sat behind the desk. He brought
yellow sheets from his pocket. "Here are the
reports."
"The first death occurred two weeks ago.
Operator D-3 was investigating clues pointing to a
smuggling ring working under cover around El
Paso. We had received information to the effect
that hashish was being brought across the border.
D-3 had scarcely begun work on the case when
he died-strangely." Z-7 lowered his voice. "He
was discovered dead in bed in his hotel-and his
death had resulted from the bite of a gila monster!
"The room was locked on the inside. There
was no sign of a gila monster in it when D-3's
body was found; but the mark of the bite on D-3's
hand, and the autopsy, left no doubt of it. The
venom of a gila monster killed him.
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"The second death was similar," Z-7
continued. "It occurred in Los Angeles, this time at
the home of Operator G-6. He, too, had been
working on a smuggling angle. He was found
dead in his garden-dead from the bite of a
rattlesnake. One snake was found in his garden
near him-a thin cord fastening it to a stake
driven in the ground, hidden behind a plant. Two
other snakes, also tied, were found. It was a
murder trap that killed G-6 and the very similarity
of the cases links them together."
Jimmy Christopher nodded.
"Another of our men was investigating
strange activities around Lincoln Nebraska. He
died of suffocation, choked, strangled by a thin
wire twisted around his neck. He was
investigating suspicious circumstances
surrounding an unused theatre, on the hunch that
it was being used as a counterfeiting plant. The
manner in which he was killed pointed toward
Orientals-especially since his first general report
had it that several men, seen entering the old
theatre, were wearing black turbans-"
"Black turbans!"
Z-7 paused, wondering at Operator 5's
suddenly quickened interest, but continued: "The
fourth man was killed in Maine. His head had
been split open with a powerful blow, evidently by
the blade of a heavy sword. He was almost
literally cleaved in two; his body was found on Old
Orchard Beach, washed in by the tide. He also
had reported strange activities, and had been
directed to investigate them. What he discovered
we will never learn now."
Jimmy Christopher's eyes were gleaming.
"And M-11, Chief?" he asked.
"A grave loss to the service-one of our best
men," Z-7 went on. "As I said, I received the news
only an hour ago; that's why I was gone when
you came here to meet me. I ordered an
investigation. M-11 had been working on a case
of illegal entry into the United States, suspecting
an Oriental of espionage work. He trailed the
man-and wasn't heard from for a week."
Z-7 INDICATED the topmost of the yellow
sheets. It was a teletype message:
M-11 FOUND DEAD ON PUBLIC HIGHWAY
TEN MILES FROM SECRET
HEADQUARTERS HERE...BODY IN
HORRIBLE CONDITION... WHEN FOUND HE
WAS HALF SKELETON... LEGS
COMPLETELY DENUDED OF FLESH...
EVIDENTLY SUFFERED DEATH AFTER
BEING TAKEN CAPTIVE BY MEN HE WAS
TRAlLING THEN BODY LEFT IN ROAD...NO
CLUES... INVESTIGATION PROCEEDING.
"Where," asked Operator 5 quietly, "did this
happen, Chief?"
"Near a little town in the Blue Ridge Range in
Virginia called-"
"What?"
Jimmy Christopher shot the word out: Z-7
stared. A moment of silence passed, then
Operator 5 leaned forward tensely. In brief, quick
sentences he narrated to Z-7 the mountain
episode which had occurred under the searching
gaze of the ghostly eyes hovering in the sky. Z-7
listened in amazement. When Jimmy Christopher
finished, he blurted:
"Dark-skinned men wearing black turbans! It
links up!"
"Directly!" Operator 5 declared. "Chief, I've a
lead on this case, and I'm going to follow it
through.
"A few minutes ago, Chief, I accepted an
invitation to a reception at the conservatory of
Prince Horpa Tal tonight-Horpa Tal being,
according to Mrs. Stanbridge, who invited me, a
Tibetan of royal blood now living here incognito.
Hers is not the first such invitation I've received,
all rather vaguely worded, all seeming rather
strange. It is actually the-fifth.
"The last, before hers, came from Robert
Vanquist, the polo champion. While Vanquist was
in my studio, he smoked cigarettes constantly-
an imported brand, he said, but I'd never seen
them before. I smoked half of one, noticed a
strange nervous reaction, then analyzed the rest.
What I found, Chief, was-"
Operator 5 removed from his pocket the vial
containing the few drops of Mrs. Stanbridge's
perfume. He uncorked it under Z-7's nose. The
Washington chief looked puzzled.
"Come with me," Operator 5 directed. He led
Z-7 along a corridor, passing on the way an
elaborate dark-room in which assistants of
Carleton Victor were at work. A rear door he
opened with a key; he closed it immediately
behind Z-7. This was a secret room never
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entered by those who knew Jimmy Christopher
only as Carleton Victor.
It was a completely outfitted chemical and
electrical laboratory; a room in which, for a time,
Carleton Victor could shed his mask and become
his real identity.
Jimmy Christopher again opened the little
vial of perfume, and smelled of it. Beneath the
scent of mingled flowers there was a strange,
exotic essence. Quietly, while Z-7 watched, he
made preparations.
He placed a single drop of the perfume in a
test-tube and added a yellow fluid. The yellow
changed to violet. To another test-tube containing
a drop of the scent he added a green solution; it
turned black. The red, oily liquid he added to the
third tube faded, became crystal clear and fumed.
Jimmy Christopher peered at Z-7. "Those
tests prove beyond all doubt the basic essential
oil of the perfume, Chief," he declared. "It is the
same substance I found in Vanquist's cigarette. It
is-bhang."
Z-7's eyes widened.
"Bhang or hashish. The narcotic made from
Indian hemp-the contraband which D-3 was
trying to trace in El Paso. A drug that produces
hallucinations and creates a sense of exaltation
like no other. It seems uncommonly odd to me,
Chief, to find these members of the elite taking
dope in these strange forms."
"Addicts-all of them?"
"Every one of the persons who pressed the
invitations on me is an addict. I'm sure of it. But I
believe that they don't know what they are doing,
Chief-they have no idea they are enslaved by
the drug. They're being drugged by hashish, or
bhang, without knowing it."
"But-by whom, and why?" Z-7 demanded.
Operator 5's head wagged. "I only know,
Chief, that it connects up directly. I'll prove that to
you in a moment. Come with me back to the
office."
Jimmy Christopher closed the room tightly;
without a word he led Z-7 to his desk. Again with
the door snugly closed, he unstrapped his briefcase.
From it Operator 5 removed the goldenhilted
knife he had picked from the road that
twined through the Virginia mountains-the knife
he had shot from the hand of the turbaned man.
He held it before Z-7's eyes in the light, so that an
engraved name on the handle stood out boldly.
Z-7's eyes bulged. He gasped, "Good Lord!"
Operator 5 smiled quietly and nodded. "You
see now why my first move will be to respond to
Mrs. Stanbridge's invitation tonight."
Z-7 rose with alacrity. "My boy, you have a
free hand. I'm forced to hurry back to Washington
at once-a plane is waiting for me now. I'll expect
your report early tomorrow. In the meantime-
good luck!"
Operator 5 smiled slowly. "Thanks, Chief," he
said. "I've a hunch that luck is something I'm
going to need."
He took Z-7's firm hand into his. He lowered
himself into the chair as the door closed and quick
footfalls moved away. He took up the keenbladed
knife, and held it again so that the light
played across finely engraved letters in the
precious metal. The name that glittered before his
eyes was-Horpa Tal.
CARLETON VICTOR dipped well manicured
fingers into a chromium bowl. "The dinner,
Crowe," he said, "was perfection."
Crowe, Victor's cool-faced manservant,
bowed his appreciation as he turned from the
telephone that sat on a desk near the terrace
windows.
"Mrs. Stanbridge has telephoned that she is
sending her car, sir."
Victor, garbed in immaculate evening dress,
moved quietly to the entrance-way. He tied in
Ascot fashion, a glistening white silk scarf
beneath his chin; he slipped into the perfectly
tailored Chesterfield which Crowe held for him,
and tilted upon his head a silk hat devoid of any
speck of dust. Into a white-gloved hand he took
an ebony cane.
"Crowe," he asked quietly, "have you ever
journeyed in the Far East?"
"Never, sir."
"It is interesting to conjecture," Victor added,
"how many strange things there are in the world,
Crowe-how many strange things exist which we
of the Western world never suspect of existing."
Crowe blinked. "Yes, sir?"
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"Ah-precisely, Crowe." And, looking very
grave, Carleton Victor stepped out the door and
closed it.
An elevator carried him to the lobby of his
exclusive apartment house in the East Sixties; a
uniformed starter informed him that Mrs.
Stanbridge's car was waiting. He stepped into the
quiet of the street and saw it, exceedingly long,
exceedingly black and sleek, drawn to the curb. A
chauffeur snapped the door open and saluted; he
ducked in.
"Good evening, Mr. Victor."
A voice spoke softly from the darkness within
the car. Carleton Victor paused, peering into
shadow that masked every detail of the man
sitting there-every detail save a pair of piercing
eyes. And the eyes were white-rimmed! They
peered at Carleton Victor intently; and as he
returned their gaze, hesitating in astonishment,
the figure of the man merged out of the darkness.
He was garbed in evening dress; but, instead
of a silk hat, he was wearing a silver turban on his
head. His skin was dark as the gloom. His teeth
gleamed whitely as he smiled.
Jimmy Christopher asked: "You are-?"
"Shuru Cho."
There was no offer of a handshake. Victor
perched on the seat, eyeing his companion
curiously. The chauffeur took the wheel; the motor
whirred almost soundlessly. As the heavy car
drifted on, Victor inquired: "You are also to attend
Prince Horpa Tal's reception?"
"I," the dark man answered, "am a brother of
the Prince Horpa Tal!"
The car swayed smoothly around a corner.
The man who had called himself Shuru Cho
spoke no word. Carleton Victor's eyes narrowed
as his fingertips tapped his stick. "I understand,"
he said, "that our destination must remain a
secret."
"Quite so, Mr. Victor."
"But how-?" He broke off short, taking a
quick breath. Quietly, in the darkness of the car,
a hiss sounded. It seemed to come from nowhere,
yet everywhere; it lasted only a second. Victor
turned quickly; for one brief instant he glimpsed
the white-rimmed eyes of Shuru Cho. Then came
a swift, stinging sensation in his eyes a bite that
brought blackness.
Carleton Victor sat back quickly, every
muscle tensed. His white-gloved hand slipped
swiftly inside his coat and came to rest on the butt
of his arm-pit holstered automatic. He had sensed
a quick movement on the part of Shuru Cho. He
heard the other man's breathing; he looked again
at the gloom from which the piercing eyes had
shone; but now they were gone.
"Mr. Cho!"
"Yes? "
"The lights have gone out, haven't they-all
the lights?"
"Not at all, Mr. Victor."
CARLETON VICTOR heard the motor
whispering but he could see no detail of the car-
not even the shine of headlamps ahead. He felt
moving air; he heard a policeman's whistle shrill;
he bent to look out of the windows. There was no
street; there were no buildings; there was no
light. Carleton Victor looked out upon utter
darkness. His hand stayed on the butt of his
automatic. "I ask, Mr. Cho," he said quietly,
"because I have suddenly gone blind. I can see
nothing. May I inquire-what is the substance
you sprayed into my eyes?"
There was a dangerous ring in the quiet
voice-a warning. Carleton Victor was wary for
any slight move on the part of Shuru Cho, yet
none came. The dark man's voice was as quiet as
his. "Have no fear, Mr. Victor. You are quite
right-I did spray a liquid into your eyes. It is a
concentrated extract of bella-donna, which is in
common use by ophthologists for making
examinations of the eye. It paralyzes the optic
nerves instantly. It is quite harmless; its effects
will pass immediately when I spray into your eyes
a second preparation which counteracts the
effects of the first. I apologize for the necessity,
Mr. Victor."
Carleton Victor's sightless eyes glinted
dangerously.
"Am I to understand that every one of Prince
Horpa Tal's guests tonight is being treated in the
same damnable way?"
"Every one, Mr. Victor."
"For what reason, I demand to know!"
"For reasons you will learn later."
Carleton Victor, for a few moments, was
grimly silent. The huge car was turning eastward
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off the avenue. He sensed its swing and then,
soon, another. Several more turns followed in
rapid succession. One confusing swing followed
another; and presently the car climbed. The ramp
that circled Grand Central terminal? If so, was
the car traveling north or south? Carleton Victor's
absorbed silence was broken by a chuckle from
the darkness.
"I believe you will find it quite impossible to
reason out the way you are traveling, Mr. Victor,"
said the voice of Shuru Cho. "We are deliberately
confusing you. You will see the sooner if you
abandon your attempts to learn where you are
going."
Again there were bewildering, rapid turns.
Long minutes passed while confusion mounted in
Jimmy Christopher's mind; then, suddenly, came
a final turn.
The car stopped. A dull rattling sound
followed; there was a soft clanking of chains.
Jimmy Christopher felt a quiet vibration; the car
swayed. He realized, with a start, that it had
swung through a doorway and was being lifted in
an elevator. It was rising high above the level of
the street!
The slow, floating movement was such that
Jimmy Christopher could not guess how many
door-levels passed before the elevator came to a
stop. A guiding hand took his arm. The man who
was known as Carleton Victor muttered about the
outrage of the thing while the true Jimmy
Christopher yielded alertly. He was conducted
from the automobile; he heard a door open and
close, and felt himself enveloped by a hush as of
quietly rustled garments and of subdued
whispers.
The hand on his arm led him gently forward.
His feet trod rugs so soft he felt he was walking
on air. He heard, faintly, far-away music played
by a strange instrument he could not identify.
There was a faint rustling in the air, as of many
presences. He felt himself brought to a chair and
lowered himself into its softness. The faint noise
died-became utter silence. Carleton Victor sat
very still-seeing nothing.
THE air was sweet, hauntingly pleasant. The
tense alertness of Jimmy Christopher still
persisted behind the mask of Carleton Victor; yet
a strange sense of ease was passing through his
body. This was, without doubt, a situation that
justified some alarm; yet Jimmy Christopher was
ceasing to feel his anxiety. Minute by minute it
vanished; a sense of rare well-being came to take
its place; and all the while he sat motionless,
blind, breathing the cloying air-and waiting.
Passing minutes blended into each other and
disappeared into the vastness of time. Jimmy
Christopher could not guess how long he had
remained in the closed room before he sensed a
presence. He had heard no door open and close,
but someone had appeared-someone who was
standing before him now, gazing at him. Almost
unconsciously he came to his feet, a perfectly
garbed figure, sightless.
A soft hiss suddenly sounded. A cool dew
washes across Jimmy Christopher's eyes. He
found the moisture soothing; and slowly,
pleasantly, the power of sight returned to him.
Vague glows appeared, brightening into shaded
lights. The walls of a room came out of the haze.
Like an image appearing on a photographic plate
in one of Carleton Victor's developing-trays, the
scene materialized before the eyes of Jimmy
Christopher.
Etched against the surrounding blur
appeared the figure of a man-a man garbed in a
robe of gold cloth, whose head bore a golden
turban-a man of dusky skin whose teeth shone
whitely in a benign smile-a man whose eyes,
black as the night, peered deep into Jimmy
Christopher's.
A whispered voice, seeming to float out of
the emptiness of the air, softly said: "The Prince
Horpa Tal."
CHAPTER THREE
The Secret Temple
GOLDEN lights glistened in the midnightblack
eyes of the Prince Horpa Tal. His gaze
carried a power that robbed Jimmy Christopher of
all capacity for astonishment. The turbaned head
bowed. "I extend you welcome, Mr. Victor. I invite
you to rest in the ease of Timelessness. I offer
you the everlasting solace of our Wisdom."
Carleton Victor returned the bow slowly; his
eyes dropped to the rare rug on the floor. When
he straightened, the Prince Horpa Tal had
vanished; he had left the room soundlessly,
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quickly; yet even the uncanny quiet of his
movements brought no sense of wonder to
Operator 5. It was quite natural he felt, to see
standing in the place of the turbaned Prince the
similar figure of Shuru Cho.
"You will please follow, Mr. Victor," the
Tibetan said softly.
Carleton Victor, as he accompanied the
gliding Shuru Cho, noted the glory of the room in
which he was. Its walls were of golden mosaic
which formed hauntingly into deific faces and
figures; each glittering fragment of the pattern
seemed a watchful eye; it possessed a quiet
beauty exuding the spell of the Orient. The
sweetness in the air gave it the intangible quality
of a dream. Jimmy Christopher paused on the sill
of the wide door through which passed Shuru
Cho.
His very lack of wonderment suddenly
startled him. In spite of the numbness creeping
over his senses, some shadow of his innate
alertness persisted. He felt a strangeness not
because of the extraordinary surroundings but
because they seemed unstrange. Instinctively he
tightened himself to battle the exotic spell in the
air.
He paused in fascination. The space into
which he stepped was not a room: it was a
temple. Its vaulted ceiling seemed far away as the
sky; its dark walls lay an immeasurable distance
away. It was a body of light, a glow bounded in
shadows. Brightest in that entity of space shone
an idol with face of red.
It sat on a pedestal, high in the light, its spellbinding
eyes intent on those of Jimmy
Christopher. It was thrice the height of a man; its
head was gargantuan, yet it seemed a living thing.
As Jimmy Christopher almost unconsciously
moved into the shadow-bounded glow, the eyes
of the image seemed to follow his every motion.
From somewhere within the dark-draped
walls, the distant strains of music floated, a highpitched
piping, discordant, yet pleasant. Its weird
spell added to that of the eyes of the idol; and
above all, the sweetness of the atmosphere
enveloped the brain to rob it of its faculties.
The air of the temple rustled with the
presence of many persons. They were kneeling
on cushions, facing the open space in front of the
image; they formed concentric semi-circles.
Those closest to the idol were garbed in black
robes and black turbans, a few, placed in the
center of the assemblage, were clothed in
evening-dress. They were silent, watchful,
absorbed.
The hand of Shuru Cho led Jimmy
Christopher quietly to a cushion surrounded by
black-robed devotees of the idol, and gestured
him to rest. He lowered himself, gazing about
slowly. Golden pillars glistened in the temple;
beside them, on golden standards, stood urns
from which rose wreathing wisps of vapor. It was
this smouldering incense that brought the heavy,
mind-numbing sweetness into the air, the
aloofness which Jimmy Christopher strove to
fight. He looked away from the haunting eyes of
the idol; he strove to clear his brain of the cloying
fumes.
"Think!" he warned himself. "Think!..." Yet
he was filled with a strange disinclination to
penetrate through this exotic spell, to bring
himself back to reality. He reminded himself that
in a small case, in his vest pocket, were two small
oval-shaped filters of finest unglazed porcelain
impregnated with a preparation he had developed
in his laboratory; placed in his nostrils, they would
nullify the toxic effects of the air.
"Take the filters out of your pocket," he
warned himself. "Use them now! In another
moment it may be too late! Act now!"
Yet his hands lay lax; he did not move.
A RENEWED rustling sounded in the air; he
lifted his eyes. The tinkling, twanging, screeching
music which rose to a riotous pitch echoed in the
exaltation of the black-robed assembly. Jimmy
Christopher gazed about again slowly, and saw
faces, faces which, seen here, he realized, should
have startled him-but they did not.
Garbed in black near the fringe of the cleared
space in front of the idol, he saw a man widely
known as a banking executive. Alfred Blakewell
had been the subject of a biography; he had
been pictured as solidly conservative. Controlling
billions, holding the reins of international finance
in his hands, he was shrewd, brilliant, canny. Yet
he was sitting in the temple now, robed in dark,
eyes gazing raptly at the eyes of the idol.
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Near him, resting on a cushion, sat Mrs.
Vincent Stanbridge. She had taken no notice of
Carleton Victor's trance. She, too, was robed in
black; she, too, was gazing at the idol as if waiting
expectantly. Here she was not the commanding
hostess; her individuality, the toast of two
continents, had merged into that of the hushed
assembly.
Faces-faces everywhere. The calm beauty
of Miss Lenore Andrews, one of the most
acclaimed actresses on the New York and
London stages. The white-mustached features of
Rear Admiral Jedson, usually stern and
forbidding, were peacefully childlike as he
crouched before the crimson-skinned idol.
He urged himself: "Use the filters! Use them
before it is too late!" Yet his own warning was
ineffective; he sat enthralled by a spell as
breathless silence stilled the rustling hush of the
golden temple.
Slowly, at the side of the idol, black curtains
parted. Out of the shadows beyond materialized
the figure of a man. He was standing with his
back turned to the robed assembly; his golden
robe glittered; his golden turban gleamed. For a
timeless interval he remained motionless in the
spell-binding silence. Then the golden figure
moved, taking a step backward. He moved again,
another step. As he turned, another figure came
into view, a figure which had been masked by the
first. Now it emerged from the shadows like a
form in a dream-a girl. Her eyes were fast on
those of Prince Horpa Tal; she moved as he
moved.
She was Sylvia Chester-the girl Operator 5
had found fleeing in terror from the black-robed
men on the fog-drenched mountain road in
Virginia!
In amazement, Jimmy Christopher watched
her softly, beautifully modeled face. Her color was
high, her eyes wide and glistening. Her slender
figure was covered with a black robe that swung
to the floor. The outlines of her supple body were
shadowed through it as she mirrored the
movements of Prince Horpa Tal.
When his sandaled feet moved backward,
her bare ones moved forward. Step for step she
followed him until they were standing before the
crimson-faced idol. There they were motionless a
moment; until Prince Horpa Tal raised his arms.
She likewise raised hers. And when his dusky lips
moved to speak, hers echoed the words he
uttered, so that the two voices blended and were
indistinguishable.
"Hail Zaava."
From the crouching men and women in the
temple a second echo came: "Hail Zaava."
"The worship of Zaava exalts the worshipper
above the ills of the flesh."
Each word was repeated in the smoky
vastness of the temple. Then Prince Horpa Tal
gestured slowly before the placid face of the girl;
and this time she did not mirror his movement.
When he stepped back, he swung his arm quickly.
From the golden sleeve of his robe emerged
a black whip. He gripped its ebony handle; he
snapped its lash backward. Poised a moment he
stood, then-
The lash hissed viciously at the motionless
girl. Its explosive violence shocked through her
body. She stiffened, head raised, eyes closed, as
stinging pain filled her. The biting lash tore from
her garment a fragment of cloth that flew into the
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air. The whiteness of her skin shone through-
whiteness marred by ugly red that dripped from
an open cut.
From the throats of the assembly hushed
words floated: "Zaava exalts!"
THE whip in the hand of the Prince Horpa
Tal cracked again with sharp violence. Again it
lashed at the body of the girl, ripping through her
robe, cutting into her flesh. Her whole body
quavered with the torture of the blows; yet she
made no move to defend herself, she uttered no
cry of pain. She stood in terrible submission as
the lash of the Prince Horpa Tal crackled around
her.
Swiftly the golden arm beat up and down;
savagely the snapping lash struck again and
again. With all the strength in his power, the
turbaned man threshed the whip at the trembling
girl. Her garment swiftly tore to shreds; over her
welted skin red blood flowed.
"Zaava exalts!"
Over the turbaned heads Jimmy Christopher
peered. A mad wonder filled him-a wonder that
he did not recoil from this display of inhuman
brutality. He felt, at first, a barbaric pleasure at the
sight of the crimson streaking across the tortured
flesh of the girl. It was that joy of primitive sadism
that shocked him cold-startled him so that, for
an instant, the hypnotic spell of the heavy
atmosphere was broken.
He glanced about swiftly: he saw gleaming,
wild pleasure in the faces of those around him
and revulsion gripped him. As soon as he felt it, it
began to vanish-to blend again into the
numbness of his brain. With a silent cry he
warned himself again:
"Now! Now!"
The appalling effort he was forced to make
was almost beyond physical endurance-the
mere movement of his hand toward his vestpocket.
Grimly he willed his fingers toward the
little case containing the filters. He fumbled it out;
he clacked open the lid. He brought up the two
little ovals impregnated with oil-and slipped the
filters into place. He breathed slowly, deeply. No
immediate effect came; he seemed asleep, living
a dream. His gaze drifted back to the misted
space in front of the idol.
The lash fell again and again as from the
temple the voices chorused: "Zaava exalts!"
Deep, slow breaths Jimmy Christopher drew
into his lungs. Clarity returned to his mind. He
began to feel horror at the sight of the agonyracked
girl, at the dark, red spatters on the
shining floor. Grimly he gazed about, seeing the
temple and the black-robed worshippers in a new
light-that of incredible horror.
All eyes but his were turned to the girl who
lay in the tattered black robe. Jimmy Christopher
brought himself up slowly. Even those behind him
seemed to give him no glance as he turned away.
Quick steps took him back into the shadows.
Still the cracking lash echoed, as Jimmy
Christopher glided silently toward the wall of the
temple. Black fabric draped it along its entire
length. Quickly passing his hand over it, Operator
5 sought a window. When he felt the curtain give,
he dragged it up slowly-and saw panes thickly
painted with black. No glimmer of light shone
through them; it was impossible to see out.
He tried to raise the sash, but it was screwed
in place. Operator 5 was forced to abandon that
method of learning the location of this hidden
temple of horror. Allowing the drapes to swing
back, he moved again toward one of the golden
standards in which incense was smouldering.
As he came close, the sticky fumes seemed
to penetrate even the neutralizing agent with
which his filter-wafers were impregnated. He felt
the spell returning as he reached aside glowing
ash; he thrust fingers deeply into a soft, dusty
mass that was burning hot. Swiftly he lifted some
of the powder-a pinch of blackness-and
stepped back.
His hand darted under his coat. A quick
movement left the black powder in a closemouthed
secret pocket. The shattering echoes of
the snapping whiplash came again as he grimly
lifted that hand toward his arm-pit holster.
Suddenly there came swift movements
behind him. Operator 5 whirled into powerful
arms. They bound him like giant ropes. One
wound crushingly around his neck; another
encircled his body at the waist. He felt longfingered
hands clamp his arms and legs. The
attack had come so swiftly, so silently, that he had
had no opportunity to evade it. Now, in a flash,
he was gripped motionless, powerless. He
glimpsed dusky faces, white-rimmed eyes, bared
and gleaming teeth, as he was carried swiftly into
darkness.
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THE hands that gripped him possessed
almost a superhuman power; he found resistance
hopeless. Suddenly he was hurled through the
air. With the agility of a cat he straightened and
whirled. His feet struck; he toppled; but he
brought himself up instantly, whisking his
automatic into his hand, leveling it.
Silence....
Suddenly the darkness vanished. Light
flooded into Operator 5's eyes. Through the glare
he blinked, finger tightening on the trigger. And
then he saw that his gun was leveled only at
empty air. The men who had seized him had
vanished.
The room was bare. Plain plaster walls
surrounded Jimmy Christopher. He was standing
on an unpainted floor; from a blank ceiling a
single, unshaded globe gleamed. There was no
piece of furniture in the room. One door and one
window opened into it.
Jimmy Christopher stepped swiftly to the
door and thrust his weight against it. It moved not
the slightest fraction of an inch. His captors had
bolted it swiftly on the outside; it was solid,
impregnable.
He turned quickly, crossing to the window.
He was startled to find it unfastened, but his
wonder at that vanished when he slid the sash
high and saw in the reflection of the light the blank
brick wall that rose sheer scarcely three feet
away. Beneath lay black space; a faint glow
lighted a courtyard far below.
Jimmy Christopher was moving away from
the lofty window when faint voices reached his
ears. He followed the sounds across the room to
a wall at the side. He pressed his ear to the
plaster, straining to hear. The words were
muffled, but vaguely audible. Beyond the wall, two
men were speaking.
"He resisted the Black Power.... "
"We saw him, Worshipful One! He has with
him now a pinch of the incense. You shall see for
yourself."
"That is unnecessary, Brother of Zaava."
The voices were silent for a moment. Jimmy
Christopher remained motionless. Presently the
voices came again: "It is useless, Worshipful One.
He is a danger to us. He did not yield."
"It is well. The wrath of Zaava is upon him!"
"The Hungry Creatures?"
"Yes, they have waited long-too long."
Again the voices vanished into the silence.
Jimmy Christopher stepped back from the wall.
For long moments there was no sound. Then,
softly, a click. Following it, into the hush of the
room, came a high-pitched, squeaking chorus, as
of small birds, heard at a distance.
Jimmy Christopher turned swiftly. At the
edge of the floor, opposite him, he saw a black
tide moving. At first it was merely a glistening
color flooding out over the boards, a swiftspreading
inkiness. He stepped close, and
stopped short when he saw its true nature-saw
that the blackness was composed of tiny crawling
things massing out from a narrow aperture in the
wainscoting.
Ants! Jimmy Christopher watched them
intently. Through the small hole they came
crowding, a marching column that spread into an
attacking phalanx. A living stream, they advanced
across the floor, bringing with them a nauseating,
putrid odor. As though with uncanny intelligence,
they swung toward the spot where he stood, their
antennae waving, their black bodies shining evilly.
Jimmy Christopher stepped quickly, bringing
his foot violently down upon the head of the
column. Hard shells cracked beneath the sole of
his shoe. The odor became stronger. He trod
again, stamping out the swarming things and
instantly he leaped back, an exclamation of pain
and alarm breaking through his lips.
HIS ankle stung suddenly and bitingly.
Sharp, corroding pain numbed the muscles of his
leg. He peered down to see a score of the black
ants crawling over the black silk of his ankle-silk
that had become spotted quickly with flecks of
blood. He slapped the insects away; he leaped
back again as pain pierced his fingers.
With fascinated horror he watched two of the
ants crawl on his hand. He saw their tiny, pincerlike
fangs sink into his skin; he saw fragments
torn away. Needle-sharp pain followed instantly;
blood seeped out. Those tiny but powerful jaws
sank home again before he swept them to the
floor and crushed them.
Now the black swarm was halfway across
the room, flooding thickly in countless thousands,
parading through the hole in the wall, marshaling
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themselves into an attacking army. They were
beginning to circle about the spot on which Jimmy
Christopher stood, as though organizing an
offensive with superhuman intelligence.
Thousands of foes with beaks avid for living
human flesh-Tiger ants!
To Jimmy Christopher's mind flashed
accounts he had read of the ravishing of the tiger
ants in tropical jungles. Ants that travel in armies,
forming columns sometimes yards across,
swarming thousands marching so close together
that a grain of dust might not fall between them.
Millions of them, advancing together, devouring
every living thing in their path!
Consumers of meat, the tiger ants, a terror of
the jungle, more to be feared than prowling animal
carnivores. Tiger ants, invading a tropical village,
force every human being to flee for his life. They
have been known to consume a snake in less
than fifteen minutes, leaving only its bones
behind; they have been known to devour unwitting
travelers asleep by the trailside. Blind, avid for
living flesh-the terror of the tropics. Tiger ants!
They were flooding across the floor like a
creeping poison, inexorable in their advance,
swarming now upon Jimmy Christopher. There
was no break in the flow of them issuing from the
hole in the wall; hundreds more were pouring
through every moment. Soon they must cover
every inch of the floor.
They would swarm up Jimmy Christopher's
legs, tearing his flesh as they progressed, bent on
stripping his skeleton of all living tissue, ravishing
until only picked bones were left behind!
Jimmy Christopher retreated before the
glistening black swarm. Their cheep-cheeping
had risen to a chattering chorus. The putridity
exuding from the insect bodies was suffocatingly
strong. Advancing across the closed room,
crowding Operator 5 against the blank walls, the
insect army of death marched....
Jimmy Christopher stepped alertly toward the
open window that looked into yawning black
space. Beneath lay several hundred feet of
empty darkness flanked by sheer brick wall.
Quickly he reached the fingers of his right
hand inside his left sleeve; they seized upon a
hard knot. When he drew it out a shimmering
length of silken rope followed. It was slender as
wire and as strong. Coiled around and around the
sleeve under the lining, it spun out as Operator 5
quickly pulled.
Sharp, stinging sensations stabbed into his
ankles; he sprang to the window-sill, crouching.
On his shoes and above them the ink-black
scores of ants were crawling. The tearing of their
beak-like jaws brought almost unendurable pain
as he slapped them off. Quickly he cleaned
himself of them as his hands grew sticky with
oozing blood; and, peering down, he saw the
black flood seeping upward over the wall, toward
the sill on which he crouched!
Jimmy Christopher drove his knuckles hard
against the pane beside his head. It shattered
out; and he swiftly picked the frame free of its
jagged teeth. He whipped the end of the silken
cord around the frame and knotted it; he gripped it
tightly and swung backward into the darkness,
hanging to the silken cord. He dangled, peering
up-and the black stream clinging to the rope,
dripped downward after him!
SWIFTLY he paid out the silken rope from
the coil concealed in his sleeve as he lowered
himself. Darkness enveloped him; but the shine
from the window showed him the rope stretching
above. Rapidly the blackness was moving down
it-moving toward him. The silken filament slipped
through Jimmy Christopher's fingers, burning hot.
The lighted window receded above; the wall
rasped at him like a gigantic file; he dangled into
the narrow, darkened passageway. Suddenly he
felt the end of the strand flick past his body and
his clenching hands jerked him to a stop.
He looked down through twenty feet of
darkness; he looked up to see the living black
destruction streaking along the rope. He
wrenched about; released his hold, and dropped.
Air tore past him for one instant; his shoes
smacked stingingly to smooth pavement. He
rolled, slapping frantically at the pitchy insects still
tearing at the flesh of his ankles.
He could not be sure, in the darkness, that
he was free of them. A swift glance around
showed him light streaming through the pebbled
pane of a door yards across the court. He sprang
up, slipping the little filters from his nostrils,
drawing deep of the clean air. Then he tensed as
a throaty voice shouted from above.
Something glassy flashed in the light from
the window above. A sharp crash echoed from the
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wall; a wet mist sprayed down on him. Jimmy
Christopher flashed a glance upward that showed
him a dark hand reaching through another
window-a hand clutching a glass sphere, poising
to hurl it after the first.
Fumes, richly sweet, swelled around Jimmy
Christopher. He took one choking breath and the
light above grew dimmer; darkness thickened.
His muscles went numb and he staggered against
the wall to break into a staggering run.
The gleaming pane of the court door was a
shapeless blur of light as he stumbled toward it.
His hands felt grotesquely huge as he fumbled for
the knob. He jerked through the door toward
another fog of light that appeared farther away.
Then it vanished into gloom.
He felt himself reeling across the sidewalk,
tottering across the gutter. He heard, as if far
away, the rasp of a horn. He swayed to a stop;
hands seized him. A voice shouted at him, but he
could not answer. The world was a spinning
blur-a blur that became a whirlpool of blackness
that spun itself into nothingness....
JIIMMY CHRISTOPHER became slowly
conscious of the crisp cleanness of sheets
enveloping him; he sensed the odor of
disinfectant, and raised his head slowly from a
pillow. Out of a haze, the walls of a room
appeared, spotlessly white. A voice said softly:
"Easy."
Operator 5 turned his head and saw a girl's
face, topped by a starched nurse's cap. The girl
was taking his pulse. He watched her as if she
were unreal.
"Where-?" he muttered.
"The Memorial Hospital," the girl answered.
"You've been here all night. You'll be yourself
soon."
He demanded quickly: "How'd I get here?"
"A taxi-driver found you in the street and
brought you."
"Where did he find me? It's important!"
"That information we don't have," the nurse
said. "You'd be in the emergency ward now if you
hadn't been so well-dressed-apparently a man of
means. What happened to you?"
"Look here!" Jimmy Christopher straightened
anxiously. "I've got to know where I was picked
up-who that taxi driver was! Tell me that!"
The nurse rose. "I've told you all we know.
The taxi driver ran out hurriedly before the
attendants could get his name or license number.
Now, you're to rest until I come back."
Jimmy Christopher lay back as the nurse left
the room. The secret temple; the room into which
he had been thrown a prisoner; the flood of the
tiger ants; the burst of vapor enveloping him in the
dark court; all seemed some weird dream.
All except the certainty that, hidden
somewhere in the greatest city in the world, a
temple of evil worship existed-a temple whose
walls shut away centuries of civilization-whose
atmosphere lay heavy with the mystic spell of
black ages long past. Hidden somewhere....
When, an hour later, the nurse returned, she
found one hundred dollars in currency lying on the
pillow, and her mysterious patient gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Power of Zaava
IT WAS, to all appearances, a brokers'
office. At desks in the outer partitioned space
girls worked busily; tickers chattered; buyers'
accounts were handled efficiently. It was no
different from hundreds of other offices in
Manhattan, except in one particular.
That particular was a sound-proofed room in
the rear of the suite into which the clerks never
penetrated. It was, unknown even to them,
Secret Headquarters R2 of the United States
Intelligence Service.
Jimmy Christopher code-worded his way
past two secretaries and pushed through the door
into the secret room. Z-7 rose quickly from his
desk. "Operator 5, I came from Washington
immediately I received your report. It's the
weirdest report I ever read!"
"Every word of it is true, Chief," Jimmy
Christopher answered briskly. "And the report isn't
half as strange as my experience. I'd almost
believe it was a dream-if it weren't for these."
He drew back his cuffs and indicated many small,
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red abrasions on both wrists marks left by the
flesh-tearing jaws of the tiger ants.
"Great Scott!" Z-7 exclaimed. "If you hadn't
got out of that room-"
"At this moment, I'd be nothing but a
fleshless skeleton-such as M-11 almost
became."
"You believe it was the tiger ants-"
"-That killed M-11? Without a doubt! It's
another fact proving that the deaths of our secret
operators are linked to the black-robed men and
the spreading use of bhang.
"Huge quantities of bhang have been
brought into the United States, Chief, and it is
being devoted to the use of snaring men and
women to the worship of Zaava. Mrs. Stanbridge
was not only lured into becoming a member of the
cult, but now she has become one of many who
are bringing others under the spell."
"Great Scott! A woman of her breeding, her
social position-"
"Enslaved by a drug she did not know she
was taking. Everyone in that hidden temple, Chief,
was under the same influence. The incense that
was burned in the temple, according to my
analysis of the sample I took, contains bhang."
Z-7's fingers tattooed the desk. "And this
temple of Zaava-where-?"
Operator 5 shrugged. "We're at a dead end
there, Chief. Every lead's been a total loss. Mrs.
Stanbridge's chauffeur had directions to stop the
car at Park Avenue and Fifty-Second Street. He
left, and another man-an Asiatic-took his place
and drove the rest of the way. Mrs. Stanbridge I
have not seen, but I'm certain that she, like the
others, doesn't know the location of the temple.
"I've advertised, offering a good reward for
the taxi driver who picked me up, but have had no
reply. The records of the Department of Buildings
show nothing about an apartment in which a large
freight elevator has been installed. Either the work
was done secretly, or the records have been
destroyed."
Z-7 swore under his breath. "This thing is
evidently more than just the operations of a dopering!"
"A GREAT deal more, Chief. The drug itself
is merely a means used by these Oriental mystics
to bind the worshippers to the cult of Zaava. As
to the cult itself, I've been able to learn nothing
about it not even from the most eminent students
of Oriental religions. Excepting that its fiendish
seeds have been sown in the United States.
"New devotees are being sought, apparently.
That was why Carleton Victor was invited-as a
new disciple. Even now I feel the effects of that
devilish drug; I have to fight the craving to go
back to that temple and join with the other poor
souls."
"Good Lord! Once they've caught a person,
he's lost. It-it's fanaticism of the most destructive
sort. That's its danger-but it still seems
impossible that here, in the civilized world of 1934
in New York City-How can such a belief gain
headway?"
Operator 5 smiled coldly. "Each worshipper
converts others-with, of course, the aid of the
drug. And that temple may be only one of many
others in the country. Persons you would never
dream capable of such a thing-bankers, naval
officers, actresses, social lights-everyone!"
Jimmy Christopher removed from his pocket
a week old newspaper clipping, and handed it to
Z-7. The marked headline featured the name of a
member of Congress.
SENATOR COTTRON CRIES
NEED OF NEW BELIEFS
That materialism will bring the world to an end
was the belief expressed by Senator Sidney Cottron
in a speech made tonight before a Large assembly
in Town Hall. He declared that the decline of
Western civilization was imminent unless our
peoples turn from the mad pursuit of money and
possessions to the cultivation of the soul. The beliefs
of the East, he declared, were our only hope of
surviving.
"The greatest spiritual revolution the world has
ever known is taking place today," the Senator
declared. "We are turning away from false creeds to
those which are rooted in the very beginnings of the
world. Renunciation of self is necessary if we would
save our souls."
Senator Cottron made only one direct allusion
to the belief to which he is turning, and, following his
speech, refused to explain its nature to reporters. He
called it Zaavanism.
These statements, coming from an avowed
conservative who is descended from a pioneer
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American family, were startling in the extreme, but
his audience received his thesis with eager
welcome.
Z-7 peered intently, silently, at Operator 5.
Jimmy Christopher handed him another clipping
beside which an elderly man's photograph was
printed. Silently he read it:
MINISTER OF GOSPEL VANISHES
The Rev. John Murdock, pastor of the Unified
Church on Fifth Avenue, has been missing from his
home for four days, according to his family. He was
last seen preparing his sermon in his study, from
which he apparently disappeared during the night.
The Missing Persons Bureau is endeavoring to
locate him, but no clues as to his whereabouts have
been found.
He is a man who has devoted his life to
Christianity, having entered the ministry when very
young. He is now sixty-two, an impressive man with
snow-white hair....
Jimmy Christopher said quietly: "There is a
definite connection, Chief. The sermon which
Murdock was preparing, at the time he
disappeared, was an answer to Senator Cottron's
speech. It was a plea for Christianity as opposed
to Eastern mysticism. It was left unfinished when
he vanished."
Z-7 blurted: "Great Scott! You can't believe
that the Zaavanists would-"
"They are mad with a delirium of exaltation,
enslaved by bhang. They are capable of any
crime. No horror is beyond them.
"Chief." Jimmy Christopher leaned forward
intently. "That's not all. In this morning's paper
there is an item that tells of a church burning to
the ground, in Kansas City-an old church
completely destroyed. Why it burned is a mystery,
unless you realize that the fanatical Zaavanists
have avowed the destruction of all creeds
opposing theirs."
Z-7 straightened electrically. "Good God! It's
not possible that-"
"It is only too possible, Chief. The burned
church in Kansas City is just one instance. Look
through your newspaper files and you'll see at
least a dozen other accounts of churches being
burned. One in Los Angeles, another in Boston, a
third in Detroit, a fourth in New Orleans-one
after another, wiped out. In each case, the cause
of the fire mysterious.
In each case, it was the cult of Zaava
striking to destroy!"
Z-7'S EYES smouldered. "Operator 5, you
believe that? You believe that this cult is
spreading-"
"Like poison. And it will spread, unless it is
stopped, until it destroys all opposition. It will
wipe out everything save itself. The industries, the
institutions of our world will moulder to the ground
if Zaavanism grows strong enough to rule us. It
will rule by destruction-it will make us a world of
slaves to Zaava and bhang-unless it is stopped
in time!"
Operator 5 drew from his pocket three
folded, closely-written sheets. He said: "I want the
three best operators in this district, Chief. One is
to question Mrs. Stanbridge, and keep her under
constant observation. Another is to shadow
Senator Cottron. The third is to work secretly on
the disappearance of the Reverend Murdock. I'm
going to work independently. It's going to take
everything we've got to run this thing down, and if
we fail-"
Operator 5's voice trailed off. His fingers
strayed unconsciously to a tiny gold ornament
dangling from his slender watch-chain. It was a
cunningly fashioned skull-and-crossbones, its
eyes glittering ruby-red. His fingers were playing
with it absently when a knock sounded on a rear
door.
Z-7 called, and the door opened to admit a
shirt-sleeved young man who brought a yellow
sheet covered with teletype strips. He placed it
before Z-7 and retired to the communications
room. The Washington chief's bushy eyebrows
arched in alarm as he read it; silently he handed
it to Jimmy Christopher.
NEWSPAPERS NOW RECEIVING FOLLOWUP
FLASH...BEACON MASSACHUSETTS...ENTIRE
CONGREGATION OF SMALL CHURCH VANISHED
DURING PRAYER MEETING... THIRTY MEMBERS
FAILED TO RETURN TO THEIR HOMES LAST
NIGHT STILL MISSING THIS
MORNING...INVESTIGATION DISCLOSED THEIR
CARS PARKED NEAR CHURCH BUT EVERY
PERSON STRANGELY MISSING EXCEPT
MINISTER WHO WAS FOUND DEAD BEHIND
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PULPIT...POLICE BAFFLED...ALL WlNDOWS OF
CHURCH SMASHED DESTROYING BIBLICAL
FIGURES. ...ALTAR STATUES BROKEN AND
SMALL UNKNOWN IDOL SUBSTITUTED... MYSTIC
IMAGE HAS FACE OF RED WITH STARING,
HYPNOTIC EYES....
"Zaava!"
Jimmy Christopher peered intently. Z-7 sat
motionless, his black eyes smouldering. The
yellow sheet fluttered to the desk and Operator 5
started briskly toward the door.
"Wait!"
Z-7 rose. Hand on the knob, Operator 5
turned to gaze at him. In the black eyes of Z-7
there was now a far-away, absent light. When he
spoke his voice was husky. "Where are you
going?"
"To Beacon."
Operator 5 was halfway across the room
when he turned sharply at a sound from Z-7. For
an instant he gazed in surprise at the ashy face of
the Washington chief, as he sat slumped in his
chair, his hands clasped before him, the knuckles
showing white.
"Don't-don't-" Z-7 said, and his voice
sounded strangely tired and old. "This-this is
something that we can't see to fight, Operator 5.
You-you're too valuable a man to risk by
attacking this unearthly power. Leave it to others,
for God's sake-"
The flashing blue eyes of Operator 5 lowered
for an instant. He frowned. Z-7-Good Lord!-he
must be well over sixty by now. He'd been so
long in the service, without rest, without leave of
absence. Operator 5 felt a wave of sympathy for
his chief, but even as he looked Z-7 seemed to
get a grip on himself.
"Nerves, my boy. I must be getting old. Don't
pay any attention. Of course you must go-"
Jimmy Christopher smiled, placed his hand
for a moment on the bowed shoulders of Z-7.
"Take a vacation," he said softly. "You'll be feeling
fine and fit in no time."
Z-7 looked up, his eyes distant. He nodded.
"Perhaps you're right. But not now. Good luck, my
boy, and I'll be standing by.... "
Jimmy Christopher's step was soundless as
he went out the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
Out of the Gem
IN FRONT of a modest brownstone house in
the East Forties, in Manhattan, Jimmy
Christopher brought his roadster to a stop. A key
admitted him into a quiet hallway. As he stepped
in an eager voice called from above: "Jimmy!"
Tim Donovan bounded into sight at the head
of the flight of steps that led to the living-room and
paused. He gave a leap that carried him to Jimmy
Christopher.
"Gosh, Jimmy, where've you been? We've
been worried-not hearing from you all last night
and today! Gee, Jimmy, I was afraid-"
"Sorry, Tim," Operator 5 smiled. "I've been
busy-and I've had to keep out of sight."
Tim Donovan gave a sobbing sigh. "Gee, I'm
glad you're all right. After seeing those eyes in
the sky-and those black men, I don't know what
to expect. Dad's here, and Diane, but Nan's out.
You had us worried!"
As they started up the stairs, a girl's voice
called eagerly. Diane ElIiot appeared suddenly,
trim and pert, her bright eyes sparkling; she
hurried to Jimmy Christopher with a smile. She
put her arms around his neck; she kissed him.
"There!" said Diane Elliot. "Jimmy, I'm terribly
excited-the boss has given me a swell
assignment!"
Operator 5 laughed as he went up the stairs
with the girl and Tim Donovan beside him. "A
newspaper woman first, last and all the time," he
commented. "Diane, you're incurable. One whiff
of news, and you're off."
Diane Elliot's insatiable appetite for news
was responsible for her first meeting with the
young man she later learned was Operator 5 as
well as Carleton Victor. Young as she was, she
had won her way to special assignment work with
the far-reaching Amalgamated Press. Though her
purpose was directly opposed to that of Operator
5-the widest possible publicity for her reports,
whereas his work was done in strictest secrecy-
they had worked shoulder to shoulder on several
cases.
"It's a feature series this time, Jimmy," she
explained. "I'm going to interview some big men,
and run down my own leads to get stuff that has
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never before been published, I've already begun
and I've got an appointment with-"
"Jimmy-hello!"
A quick voice spoke as Operator 5 entered
the living-room. A quiet-mannered man advanced
to grip his hand warmly. Jimmy Christopher's
father had once been known as Operator Q-6 of
the United States Intelligence Service. A severe
wound had forced him to retire with a bullet
embedded so close to his heart that death might
claim him at any moment. He smiled wistfully and
said: "Something's up, son. I can see it in your
eyes. Another case has got you."
"A case such as I've never tackled before,
Dad. The strangest-"
"Jimmy!" Diane Elliot interrupted eagerly. "I
insist on telling you all about my new job. I'm
doing the first article in the series right away-an
interview with Senator Cottron."
"COTTRON!'' Operator 5 exclaimed. "Good
Lord, Di!"
"Why-what's the matter?" she inquired
quickly. "It's a follow-up on his speech about
Zaavanism. You wouldn't be interested in that
though, Jimmy. I have to find out what it is and-
"
"I happen to be very much interested in it,
Di," Jimmy Christopher said slowly. "And I advise
you to become very uninterested in it at once."
"You don't understand, Jimmy. I'm going to
get a by-line on the series of articles-it's going to
mean a lot to me. I wouldn't think of giving it up!"
"I know better than to try to argue with you,
too, Di," Jimmy Christopher grinned. "The more I
try to shift you off a lead, the tighter you stick-
but this is different... You won't learn anything
from Senator Cottron, and if you do-it will be
dangerous information!"
"Dangerous? But Jimmy"-Diane's eyes
lighted-"That only makes it the more interesting!"
Jimmy Christopher sighed. "You mean too
much to me, Di, I don't want you to take
unnecessary risks. If anything happened to you-
"
"But what could happen to me, Jimmy? I
don't understand at all!" She smiled. "You're only
trying to scare me, but I don't scare so easily. I'm
terribly glad you came before I left. My
appointment with Senator Cottron is in half an
hour."
Operator 5 watched her anxiously as she
tugged an impertinent hat on her head and quickly
powdered an equally impertinent little nose. She
whirled toward the door with a smile, leaving a
quick kiss on Jimmy Christopher's lips. As she
hurried down the stairs he hesitated; then he
quickly went after her, and at the outer door
caught her arm, bringing her to a stop. She looked
into his eyes puzzledly. "Jimmy-you're so
strange."
"Di, listen. I meant that. You mean the world
to me. I can't let anything happen to you. If you
run onto anything strange-if you find yourself in
any trouble at all-you've got to let me know as
soon as possible. Will you do that, Di? "
"Of course, Jimmy, but-"
"Keep those blue eyes of yours wide open,
Di. You don't know what you may be facing. Run
along, now."
She went out the door, glancing back
curiously. He turned at once and hurried into the
living-room. He took up the telephone and called a
number, his eyes narrowed anxiously. It was the
secret number of Headquarters R2, and the voice
of Z-7 answered.
"Chief, Operator 5. Diane Elliot-B-10's
sister-is having an interview with Senator
Cottron tonight. Newspaper work. You have a
man watching him?"
"Yes. F-6."
"Warn F-6 to keep an eye on Diane. She is
after material to print on Zaavanism, and if she
gets it-it means danger, Chief. Danger to her."
"I understand. I'll relay orders to F-6 at once."
Jimmy Christopher turned quickly from the
phone, while Tim Donovan hovered near him. "I'm
driving to Massachusetts tonight, Dad," he
declared. "It may be days before I come back."
"Gee, Jimmy!" Tim Donovan exclaimed. "Let
me come with you! You've been away so much-"
"Not this trip, Tim."
The boy's freckled face clouded with
disappointment. Operator 5 grasped his father's
hand and turned to the door as the boy trailed
him. Tim spoke eagerly. "Jimmy-remember the
handkerchief trick you showed me? I can do it
slick as a whistle. I've fooled all the kids in the
neighborhood with it!"
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"Try a new one on them, then, Tim," Jimmy
Christopher smiled. "Got a dime?"
"Sure!" Tim eagerly drew the coin from his
pocket. "You can't put one over on me this time,
Jimmy!"
"Better watch close, Tim," Operator 5
smiled. "First mark the dime-that's right, a pencil
will do. Okay? Then put it right there on the table.
Right! Now I'll pick it up and"-Jimmy Christopher
suited the action to the words-"close my hand on
it a minute and then-Say, Tim! I asked you for a
dime, not a penny!"
HE DISPLAYED the penny on his palm,
fingers separated, and Tim's eyes became round
as marbles. "But it was a dime, Jimmy!"
"Was it? Sure? My magic must be getting a
little out of control, then. Suppose I just rub it a
little-make a little pass like this and then-why,
you're right, old-timer! It's a dime! With your mark
on it, too!"
Tim Donovan stood breathless. He examined
the dime minutely; he pried Jimmy Christopher's
fingers apart in wonderment. His head wagged as
he sighed.
"Gosh, Jimmy, you're too quick for me.
Changed a dime to a penny and back again right
under my nose! How'd you do it?"
"Simple, Tim. You can practice this while I'm
gone. The marked dime is lying on the table, like
this. I pretend to pick it up... Instead, I give it a
quick flip with my finger, and it flies to the edge of
the table-and into my sleeve. Hold your sleeve
just right and the coin will disappear in a flash.
"I had a penny in my hand, of course. Then,
when I made the pass, I did two things. First I
lowered my arm, and the dime slipped from my
sleeve into my hand. Then I dropped the penny
when my hand was behind my trouser leg. The
penny simply slipped down into the cuff of my
trousers. Here it is!"
"Gosh, Jimmy," Tim laughed, "I'm going to
work it on the kid in the delicatessen right now! So
long, Jimmy-be right back!"
Tim Donovan raced out of the room and
down the stairs while Operator 5 grinned. And
when he left the house and slipped behind the
wheel of his car, his thoughts were still on Diane
Elliot. He could not shake off his anxiety about
her.
As he left the city, driving northward,
swinging onto U. S. Route 1, one single word
echoed again and again in his mind. "Danger-
danger!"
CHAPTER SIX
The Dread Command
THE sign-post at the side of the road read,
"Beacon 2 mi." Dusk had brought thick darkness.
The headlamps of Operator 5's car probed far
along the tar road. He had made the trip swiftly,
and with ease. His Diesel engine softly whispered
as he swung toward his destination.
A glance into his rear-view mirror sent a
shock through him. He saw in it, not a reflection of
darkness, but a face, faintly visible. A face of a
boy, grinning from ear to ear, peering at him in the
glass.
"Hello, Jimmy," came with a chuckle from the
gloom of the rumble-seat.
"Tim, you rascal!" Jimmy Christopher's brows
drew together in annoyance. Tim Donovan
clambered to the front seat as the car slowed. His
hand curled around Operator 5's arm; his grin
vanished. His eyes pled as he said: "Gee, Jimmy,
don't be mad. I wanted to be with you. I didn't
come out sooner because I was afraid you'd send
me back."
"You didn't want to show the trick to the kid
in the delicatessen at all, Tim, did you? You
hopped out to hide in the rumble. Well-" Jimmy
Christopher had to grin in spite of himself-"I'm
glad you're here."
"Jimmy-are you? I don't care what happens
now-so long as I'm with you."
"Good boy, Tim. I wouldn't want anything to
happen to you, that's all. I-what's that?"
In the direction of Beacon a red glow sprang
into the sky spewing sparks upward in a swelling
cloud; the glow flashed across the clouds and
spread rapidly.
"Fire, Jimmy!" Tim exclaimed.
Operator 5's eyes narrowed. A slight
pressure of his foot sent the roadster whizzing
through the night. Ahead, the fountain of shining
embers drove higher into the air.
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A sharp turn swung Jimmy Christopher's
roadster toward the town. Lighted streets lay
ahead, into which wind-fanned sparks were
drifting. Through the quiet came a shrill whine
from a siren. Jimmy Christopher was speeding
between rows of stores when a fire-engine swung
suddenly into the street and roared away.
Overhead a whistle hooted a signal, quickly
repeated. A second siren shrilled behind Operator
5's roadster as he followed the first. He swerved
into a side road along which the red light of highleaping
flames beat like a surf. Half a mile away
the blaze lighted the night-a wooden structure
completely enveloped.
High among the leaping tongues of fire
loomed the eaten outlines of a spire. The burning
structure was a church!
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER swung to the side of
the road near the next intersection. His face was
drawn, his eyes glinting with the light of the blaze,
as he slipped from the wheel. Tim Donovan
hurried beside him toward the huge torch.
The rubber-coated men leaped off the fireengine,
playing out a hose. A motor whined high
as a pump went into action and the hose fattened
and writhed. Shouts echoed along the road while
scores of cars choked to a stop and men and
women came running. Jimmy Christopher hurried
ahead and noticed other cars, parked and empty,
in a space beside the church.
Through the sheeting flames Jimmy
Christopher could see windows broken out. He
advanced close as the rubber-coated men dove
with their spitting nozzle toward the entrance.
The high-pressure stream shocked the doors
open. Through them the interior of the church
became visible-walled in flame. Through the
floor, between the ancient pews, fire was leaping.
In its weird light one object alone was distinctly
visible-a figure sitting behind the pulpit, a graven
image that rested seemingly untouched among
the flames.
Its face was as crimson as the fire leaping
around it. Its eyes peered into the heat of the
inferno with gloating triumph. It sat like an
implacable power-the image of Zaava!
Jimmy Christopher stood in the blasting heat.
Behind him crowded hundreds of onlookers and
their voices mingled with the crackling of
weakening timbers: "It's the devil's work, I tell
you!"
"The pastor killed-the whole congregation
missin'-and now the church catchin' fire all of a
sudden!"
Jimmy Christopher turned to see a wrinkled
face lighted by the glare, the eyes gazing in terror
through the yawning doors of the church.
"It's that thing in there that's done it-that
devil behind the pulpit!"
Operator 5 asked quietly: "This is the church
from which the congregation vanished last night?"
"Yes, sir! Every one of 'em. All missin'-no
sign of 'em yet! It's the devil's work!"
"The pastor-?" Operator 5 continued.
"We found him dead, right where he was
standin', like he was struck down on the spot!
Nothin' was the matter with him-he wasn't sick
or nothin'-and there wasn't any marks on him,
like he'd been hit or shot-but there he was, stone
dead! Stiff when we found him!"
"Where is the pastor's body?"
"Buried, this afternoon. I tell you, it's got us
scared! We never wasted time about gettin' him
under. Not when it's the devil's own work, this
strikin' from the dark! We put him in the cemetery,
right up that road there, behind the hill-God rest
his soul!"
The garrulous townsman gulped into silence.
Terror shone in his eyes, and terror was mirrored
in the faces of the scores who had come to watch.
"Burying him," Jimmy Christopher said
quietly, "may have been a mistake."
"What?" The wrinkled-faced man turned with
jerk. "A mistake? What?"
Operator 5 turned slowly away. His face was
drawn, his lips compressed as he strode up the
rise in the road with Tim Donovan at his side.
When he started down the opposite slope, he
entered shadow. Blanketing trees shrouded the
ground beyond in darkness-darkness in which
the headstones of graves shone whitely in the red
glow reflecting from the clouds.
Tim Donovan's eyes kept questioningly on
Operator 5's face, but he spoke no word. He
turned at the gate of the cemetery. It was a
rolling stretch arched by huge elms that led back
into thicker blackness. Jimmy Christopher was
moving quietly, deep in the gloom of the
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graveyard, when his hand shot out to Tim
Donovan's arm.
Quiet! warned the pressure of his fingers.
STOPPED short, he listened. Out of the
quiet came a dull, rhythmic sound, a grating,
sliding noise. From the shadows of trees ahead it
beat. Jimmy Christopher's eyes swept about,
seeing nothing save the faint outlines of the
headstones; he placed the source of the sound,
and then walked quietly over grass.
Dimly now he could see movements. In the
shadows a man stood, tall, erect, motionless. He
was a figure of black, except for the light glinting
around his head-gleams that shone from a
golden turban. With folded arms he stood, gazing
down.
Before him two men were stooping, driving
the blades of shovels into the earth. They were
working quickly, heaving the damp dirt aside.
Beside them black robes lay; their bodies, bare
except for black loincloths and black turbans,
glistened in the dim light. Their shovels were
opening, bit by bit, one of a row of graves.
Tim Donovan's hand came tremblingly to
Operator 5's arm as the figures materialized in the
gloom. Jimmy Christopher resumed his silent,
slow movement forward. Low branches shrouded
him with shadow as he paused again, within a few
yards of the spot where the turbaned men were
digging. His hand crept to his arm-pit holster, and
he watched.
The grave-diggers were hip-deep in the
yawning cavity. The loose earth flew out quickly;
the grave was new. There was no sound save the
chunking of their shovels as they deepened the
hole. The ground was level with their shoulders
when hollow, thumping sounds echoed softly
through the night.
They stooped out of sight. A ripping sound
followed. Up from the opened grave came the dirtdampened
cover of a pine box. They slid it aside.
They reached for ropes, and bent down again.
Presently they leaped from the grave, and one
stooped at each end. Their muscles bunched and
flexed; they pulled the ropes upward hand over
hand. Out of the blackness of the grave, swinging
slightly, glistening in the dim glow, rose a metal
casket.
Watching them, motionless every minute,
stood the figure in the golden turban.
The casket swung, and thudded to the
ground. As the two men worked over it, shore
sounded the screeching of loosening bolts. They
straightened, lifting the metal cover of the casket.
They stepped back alertly, hands crossed over
their bared chests. Then, for the first time, the
gold-turbaned man moved.
He glided toward the opened casket; he
looked into its darkness. Faintly, there in the
gloom, lay a motionless body. The face was
visible to Operator 5-a placid, white face. The
body was garbed in black. It lay as if in the rest of
eternal death, yet the turbaned man spoke softly
to it.
"Arise!"
The word was a whisper in the night.
"The Power of Zaava bids you rise! Rise and
look into the sky that mirrors the power of Zaava
to destroy all disbelievers! Rise and witness the
wrath of Zaava!"
Dead silence within the casket-silence and
stillness until, slowly, quietly, the eyelids of the
white face fluttered into the sky, swirling with the
sparks of the burning church, looked the eyes of
the man in the casket. Then, slowly, one of his
hands stirred; then the other. As if with infinite
weariness, the figure moved....
The dead man rose-rose from the casket,
which he had lain buried beneath black earth-
rose and lived!
In the darkness beneath the tree Operator 5
stood fascinated, watching. Tim Donovan huddled
beside him, eyes widened in wonderment. There
was no sound while the man who had risen from
the casket looked fixedly into the red sky.
Again the gold-turbaned one spoke
whisperingly: "Hear the voice of Zaava."
From the lips of the dark-garbed man an
echo came: "I hear."
"Zaava brought to you the darkness of death.
Zaava returned you to life. Zaava commands!"
"Zaava-commands. "
The gold-turbaned one turned slowly. He
glided toward a dark path leading between
gravestones that stood like frozen ghosts.
Following him went the man who had been
brought up from the depths of the earth. Like
shadows behind him drifted the two others,
clothed now in their black robes.
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The weird procession passed quietly through
the gloom of the graveyard. As they vanished,
Operator 5 moved quickly. He left the shadows of
the trees and darted forward, along another path.
He saw for a moment, the dark figures as they
trod down a slope that soon shut them from view.
Again Operator 5 hurried forward. The stretch of
highway was empty. The turbaned Orientals had
vanished, and with them had gone the man who
had risen from the grave.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Into the inferno
THE church was a shell of crunching embers
when Jimmy Christopher again hurried past it.
The rearing spire had collapsed into the flames,
before which the rubber-coated firemen had been
forced to retreat helplessly. The scores who had
come to watch were huddled on one side, the red
embers reflecting the terror in their eyes. The
wrath of Zaava had destroyed a House of God.
Jimmy Christopher gripped the wheel of his
roadster while Tim Donovan clambered into the
seat beside him. He twisted his way past the
parked cars and into the cross-road. His motor
hummed musically as he swung past the
cemetery. Once down the rise he switched off his
headlamps and drove like the wind.
"Jimmy!" Tim Donovan's voice came
breathily. "What happened-where're you going?"
Operator 5 answered grimly: "There's
nothing supernatural in the way they disappeared,
Tim. They drove off in a fast car. They went this
way."
"But, Jimmy-he was dead-and he came
back to life! He was buried there this afternoon;
he was hours in that grave! What is it, Jimmy-
were we seeing things?"
"No, Tim. He'd been buried there for hours-
but he wasn't dead."
"But, Jimmy, how?"
The car rushed swiftly over the rolling road
as Operator 5 peered ahead; and he broke into
the Irish lad's words to answer: "It's one of the
least strange powers controlled by Oriental
mystics, Tim. The man who lay in that grave was
in a condition of catalepsy-suspended animation.
Some power, a drug or a hypnotic influence had
slowed down his bodily functions unfit they were
almost not functioning at all. To those who buried
him, Tim, he seemed dead-"
He swung the roadster around a sharp turn,
still peering. The stretching road ahead was still
black and empty.
"But he lived. His breathing and his heartaction
had become so slow that they could not be
detected. When he was buried there was enough
air in the casket to keep him alive this long. East
Indian Fakirs have been known to induce a state
of catalepsy in themselves and remain buried for
weeks. It seems incredible to us, Tim, because
we know so little about these weird mental powers
of the mystics, but it's real-only too real!"
"But why did they do it to him, Jimmy? Why
did they let him be buried, and-?"
"To impress him with the Black Power of
Zaava. To convince him that-"
"Look! There's a car!"
Tim Donovan pointed excitedly along the
black stretch of road. Far ahead, a bright red
gleam in the darkness, the taillight of a fast-trailing
automobile became visible. Jimmy Christopher
glimpsed it at the same instant. He slowed his
quiet motor, but continued at a speed which kept
the car ahead in sight.
"Gee, Jimmy!" Tim Donovan gasped. "They
might do that to anybody! They might cause a
man to be buried, and leave him there. He might
come out of the spell and find himself buried
alive! Gosh, Jimmy, you're taking an awful
chance, working against men like that!"
The lad's hand curled apprehensively about
Operator 5's arm. Jimmy Christopher smiled
grimly.
"It's a chance, Tim, old boy-but I've got to
take it. And that's only one of-"
He broke off as the red light of the car ahead
winked away. On a stretch of open road the other
automobile seemed to vanish; yet in a moment its
flying outlines became dimly visible. The man at
its wheel had switched out its lights. Another
moment, and it swung sharply off the road, across
a grassy field.
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER slowed, watching.
The other car whirled out of sight, seeming to melt
into the ground, as Operator 5 eased to the side
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of the road. He left the wheel quietly and Tim
Donovan scrambled after him.
He crossed the road, and strode swiftly in the
direction the vanished car had gone, and Tim
Donovan followed at his side. They crossed a
long, flat stretch and slowed when a black
depression opened ahead. Easing toward it, they
saw that it was a small, grass-sloped valley,
flooded to the rim with darkness. This was where
the other car must have disappeared; but now in
the valley there seemed to be nothing but black
silence.
The ground folded into a narrow-walled pass
that led into the depths. With Tim at his side
Jimmy Christopher crept down, automatic in hand.
Each step took him deeper into the pooled night,
into the spreading silence. They were almost at
the floor of the valley when-
Black power struck them!
It came like silent, invisible lightning, a
terrible force that drove all strength from Operator
5's body. He had sensed merely a touch of
something in the darkness-something dangling
through the air. He had swung a hand to brush it
aside when the force of it came like a stunning
blow. He fell breathless, writhing, hands gripped
to an invisible strand.
"Jimmy!" came Tim's startled cry. "Jimmy!"
Operator 5 writhed on the ground, teeth
bared in agony, attempting to tear his hand from
the unseen filament-attempting hopelessly. He
knew, even as he fell prey to the power, what it
was. A bare wire, draped across the narrow
pass, charged with high electric potential-
pulsating power that throbbed through his body
into the ground, paralyzing his muscles.
Sputtering sparks played out of the darkness as
he strove to free himself.
"Jimmy!"
"Stay away!" Operator 5 cried. "Don't touch
me! Stay away!"
Even as he gasped it, a moan sounded in his
ringing ears. He heard the sound of Tim Donovan
falling to the ground. An aura of light sprang into
being; streaking fire played in the air and through
the dew-wet grass. The boy was writhing beside
him, helpless.
"Jimmy-I can't-let go!"
Jimmy Christopher summoned all the
strength of his trembling body, pulling back
against the hand that gripped the wire. All his
strength was not enough to draw his fingers from
it. The tightened muscles of his arm and wrist
remained tense as unbendable metal. He
squirmed, racked with the torture of the high
potential, and again he heard a moan from the
constricted throat of Tim Donovan.
He fought to move his free hand. It was
weighty as lead as he brought it toward his
trousers pocket. Lifeless and numb, he thrust it
deep until he reached his knife. He drew it out
slowly, fearful that it would spill from his fingers
and become lost in the dark grass; carefully he
pressed on the button that released a springactuated
blade. It snapped out, a keen edge,
gripped tightly.
Operator 5 brought it slowly against the
glowing strand, close to his clenched other hand.
At the first touch the pain in his body doubled. He
straightened convulsively, teeth bared, lips drawn
tight in agony. Desperately he pressed the blade
against the wire. Flickering light played over his
fingers; his body-gave off snapping sparks.
Harder he pressed.
Suddenly the power vanished.
A severed length of wire dropped into the
grass, its sharp end spewing flame. Jimmy
Christopher lay back strengthless, releasing his
hands. Breath beat in and out of his lungs as he
reached for Tim Donovan. The boy was sobbing,
striving to rise. Jimmy Christopher seized his arm,
anxiously. "Tim, boy! You all right?"
Tim's voice was a broken whisper. "Sure-
Jimmy-I-I'm not hurt!"
"Take it easy, Tim-easy. Wait.... "
Jimmy Christopher whipped away the length
of wire beyond the cut, and peered around. The
valley beyond still was black and silent; the
spitting cable led off into the night, untraceable.
Moments passed while Jimmy Christopher
recovered his strength. At last he brought himself
to his feet, and Tim rose beside him.
"Tim. If there's a meter attached to that wire,
they know we're here. Watch sharp!"
Operator 5's automatic had dropped into the
wet grass. He groped and found it. Straightened,
with Tim at his side, he moved forward, crouched.
He strode slowly through endless dark space; and
now he paused, his hand on Tim's arm.
"Building ahead," he whispered.
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IT was vaguely visible, a lightless structure
sitting in the depths of the valley. Operator 5
moved toward it soundlessly and saw, next, black
windows. Through the wooden walls a faint hum
was issuing as though a dynamo were spinning. It
was a sprawling building around which hung a
sweet, cloying odor. Jimmy Christopher
recognized it immediately. Bhang!
The structure was surrounded by a high,
wire-mesh fence. As he drifted along it, Operator
5 examined its base. A gate opened through it, to
the upright of which a heavy insulated wire led
from the building beyond.
Jimmy Christopher quickly drew gloves from
his pocket. Pausing at the gate, he gestured a
warning to Tim, and gave the metal the swiftest
possible flick of his fingers. None of the charge
penetrated the leather of his glove. He reached
for the catch and raised it slowly; he swung the
gate open. Alertly he stepped through and Tim
Donovan drifted behind him.
"Don't touch it, Tim!" he warned in a whisper.
He stepped toward the door which opened into
the building, and with each step the sweet fumes
of bhang grew stronger. Through the walls now
the humming was louder, blending with the
hissing of steam and a slow, scraping sound.
Jimmy Christopher slowly took the knob of the
door into his hand. He found the way blocked.
From his pocket he drew a leather folder of
keys. They were an assortment like no other in
existence; Operator 5 had devised them in his
workshop-master implements capable of
springing any lock. One after another he inserted
into the key-hole of the door. The fifth turned. He
was pressing the door open and a chink of light
was appearing, when-
Out of the darkness rushing figures sped.
They leaped toward the door, robed and turbaned
in black. Powerful hands seized Tim Donovan and
whirled him away. Operator 5's shoulders were
gripped in sharp-nailed claws. He wrenched back,
jerking up his automatic; but instantly, as if by
superhuman power, it was torn from his fingers.
White-rimmed eyes flashed in the gloom;
bared teeth glinted in the sliver of light shining
through the door. Steel-muscled arms encircled
Operator 5 from behind as he heard Tim
Donovan's body thrown violently to the ground.
He was lifted; he saw the glitter of a slashing
knife-blade....
Operator 5 sagged in the arms pinioning him.
His right hand swung upward, reaching behind his
shoulder; his fingers clamped hard to the neck of
the man gripping him, then a swift, forward bend,
and over Operator 5's shoulders spilled the darkskinned
man. He leaped, pinning the struggling
body beneath him. His fingers darted to the dark
neck. A swift pressure, and a nerve-cord
snapped.
The body of the dusky-skinned man went lax.
Operator 5's defense had been two swift jiu-jutsu
moves, one blending into the other. He rose
quickly, knowing that his assailant would remain
unconscious for hours. He whirled at another
black figure bearing its weight upon the gasping
Tim Donovan.
He shot one arm around that turbaned man's
neck; he jabbed the other forcefully against the
robed man's spine, and the click of a displaced
vertebra sounded sharply. The man who had
seized Tim Donovan went rigid. Operator 5 spilled
him aside like a graven image. He made a swift
inspection, as Tim Donovan struggled up,
ascertaining that the second assailant would lie
paralyzed even longer than the first would remain
unconscious.
The struggle had been swift, sharp and
soundless. No alarm came through the partly
opened door. Operator 5 listened alertly as Tim
Donovan huddled at his side. He signaled the boy
to be silent.
Operator 5 recovered his gun, peered
through the crack of the door, and eased it open.
A dark passageway lay beyond, lighted dimly by
the shine radiating from a series of small windows
placed at the height of a man's eyes. He crept to
the first, gun ready. Through the panes he
peered into a brightly lighted room filled with
steamy air.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Zaava Strikes Again!
MEN, naked except for black loincloths,
were at work, their bodies shining in the light. In
the center of the room a huge cauldron sat, full of
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a simmering brew; one of the men was stirring it
with a wooden paddle. Electric wires led to it,
supplying heat. On tables around the room, great
retorts stood in metal stands, containing amber
fluids, their necks connected with hoses that led
to inflated skins.
Fascinated, Jimmy Christopher watched the
operations, alert for any glance of the duskyskinned
men. Into the retorts several were
dropping a black liquid. As it mixed with the amber
suffusion, fumes rose, flowing through the tubes
into the balloons. At another side of the room, a
tightly inflated skin had been attached to a pump.
A sizzling piston was forcing the gas from the skin
into heavy iron cylinders. Bhang was being
converted into gaseous form!
Jimmy Christopher turned from the window
quickly. At the next he saw other loin-clothed
men, in another room, working around a giant
chopper that was converting bricked bhang into
powder. On a table sat canisters of black dust like
that which had been burned in the hidden temple
of Zaava in New York.
Here, secluded in the country, only a few
miles from Boston, lay a laboratory in which
modern equipment was converting the dread
narcotic to its fiendish use-to make enslaved
worshippers of Zaava, god of destruction!
There was yet no sign of the gold turbaned
man who had stood at the side of the opened
grave; no sign of the man who had risen from it.
Jimmy Christopher saw, at the end of the
passageway, a black door. He tried it and found it
locked. Listening, he heard far-away voices. His
fingers found the face of a lock, and again he
brought his master-keys into play. He tried one
after another swiftly; and when the bolt drew
back, he applied gentle pressure to the door until
a dark crack appeared.
Beyond the sill lay a small room draped in
black. In its center sat a teak-wood desk. In one
corner an urn on a standard was giving off
sweetish fumes-the perfume of bhang. The
witchery of it crept into Jimmy Christopher's blood
so he breathed it.
He removed quickly, from his vest pocket, a
small silver case, and from it extracted a pair of
nose-filters. He silently instructed Tim Donovan in
their use; he applied a second pair to his own
nostrils. He breathed deep, and felt the grip of the
bhang cease to close upon him. Quickly he
stepped into the room, toward voices that were
issuing from some hidden point.
One came droningly: "You have witnessed
the Black Power of Zaava-the Power of Zaava to
destroy at will-to bring you out of the depths of
death at his pleasure. You cannot deny the Black
Power of Zaava!"
An echoing voice answered: "I cannot deny
the Black Power of Zaava."
"It is good," the first resumed chantingly. "I
will bring you before the Nameless One. You will
declare to the Nameless One your conversion to
the Timeless Faith. You will devote yourself to
the sowing of all the earth with the seeds of
Zaava's wisdom."
"I will devote myself... "
"You will find your congregation alive, joyful
in the Everlasting Peace of Faithfulness. In the
Black Temple of Zaava, where the Nameless One
rules, you will find them. You will go to Zaava now
and forever... "
"Now and forever... "
Jimmy Christopher's hands crept across the
black draperies of the room. He felt a hard wall,
then a yielding. Here lay an entrance to a room
beyond. He signaled Tim Donovan back; he
sought an opening in the curtains. His automatic
leveled, he stepped through.
FOR a moment his presence was absorbed
in the calm of the room he entered. Its walls
glistened with golden mosaic. At its far end sat
an image with skin blood-red, whose hypnotic
eyes peered straight at Operator 5 as he stood
backed to the drapes. Before it, two men were
kneeling in abeyance. They were the goldturbaned
Oriental who had stood at the side of the
opening grave; and the man who had risen from
its darkness.
The air was misty with the fumes rising from
incense urns.
Operator 5 spoke in a voice that shattered
the silence of the gold-walled room: "Up! Hands
high!"
The gold-turbaned man froze to
motionlessness. The minister straightened slowly,
his eyes dreamy, filled with a faraway lift. He
looked unseeingly at Operator 5, placid, absorbed
in the spell of the idol. Operator 5 commanded:
"Go past me, quick!"
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He made no move.
The head wreathed in the golden turban lifted
slowly. Its wearer rose. He turned toward
Operator 5 a dusky, implacable face from which
wide, white-rimmed eyes peered. They were
venomous, commanding, like the eyes of the redfaced
idol. There was power in them that even
Jimmy Christopher could not deny.
The dark lips spoke: "Fool, you have
violated a sanctuary of the eternal Zaava."
Jimmy Christopher's voice rang again
"Perhaps. You've overlooked my order. Raise
your hands-and be careful!"
Again the dark lips moved: "Fool, I do not
fear you. You are puny under the Black Power of
Zaava. Your defiance is futile. Zaava is the
supreme force-Zaava, who destroys all who
disbelieve!"
A shudder passed through Operator 5's
body. The uncanny eyes of the gold-turbaned
man did not blink. They pierced Jimmy
Christopher's with an insane gleam. Slowly the
robed man moved one sandalled foot forward.
"Stand!" his voice came hauntingly. "Stand
before the Black Power of Zaava. You are
helpless to oppose him. You are helpless to harm
me. Your weapon is a mere toy. You cannot use
it. You can do nothing but submit-submit.... "
Jimmy Christopher's finger tightened on the
trigger; yet he felt a resistant to the slight
movement that appalled him-a resistance from
within himself, born of the spell of the turbaned
one's eyes.
"Stand!" The command came again. "You
feel the Black Power of Zaava claiming you. You
feel your mind responding to his supreme will.
The toy in your hand is heavy-heavy. It is
dragging your hand downwards. You are yielding
to the Black Power of Zaava!"
In spite of himself, Operator 5 felt his hand
lowering. He willed it to raise it again-but he
could not. He sensed a movement behind him
and knew somehow that Tim Donovan had jerked
aside the black drapes and was staring in. Yet,
inevitably, his hand kept lowering, his fingers
opened. His automatic dropped.
"Stand!"
The gold-turbaned one turned slowly. His
dusky hand reached to a sword hanging beside
the idol of Zaava-a sword resting in a scabbard
crusted with jewels. He drew out its gleaming
blade. He turned again, raising the razor-keen
edge. He gripped the hilt in both tightening hands;
he raised the blade above the head of Operator 5.
"Jimmy!"
A choking cry came from behind Operator 5,
but he scarcely heard it. He saw the suspended
sword; he knew that one powerful blow would
cleave his head. Yet he could not move. "Jimmy!
Oh, God-Jimmy!''
TIM DONOVAN'S eyes had not left Operator
5's white, drawn face. He sprang forward, seizing
Jimmy Christopher's hand, and it was cold as ice
in his. Suddenly he threw all his weight
backward, jerking Operator 5 away. The move
was so quick that Jimmy Christopher spun-and
for an instant his eyes were torn from the spellbinding
ones of the man in the gold turban.
"Jimmy!"
The ringing cry brought an electrical
response from Operator 5. Instantly, as the spell
of the white-rimmed eyes broke, the temple
returned to the realm of reality. He glimpsed again
the high-poised blade. He stumbled away and his
hands flew to the buckle of his belt.
A click and a whisk, and he flicked out his
supple rapier. It flashed from the narrow leather
sheath he wore as a belt. The needle-like blade
swished downward, clashed with the up-raised
sword. At the same instant the gold turbaned
man lunged.
Jimmy Christopher's rapier struck sparks
from the flashing metal of the sword. He sprang
forward, parried the sword upward, and twisted
the hilt from the powerful dark hands. The blade
spun and clattered away and a hoarse, snarling
cry came from the dark lips.
Jimmy Christopher's rapier whipped toward
the body of the springing man. He was
motionless when a tremor passed along the whip
of steel. He stepped back quickly, and its tip
shone red. The gold-turbaned one stood with
hands clutching his chest, poised on the toes of
his golden sandals. He shouted once, then stiffly
toppled forward and dropped.
Operator 5 whirled. "Tim! Out, quick!" He
leaped across the golden-walled room to the
motionless figure of the minister who had been
raised from the grave. He seized that man's arm.
There was no resistance as he forced his way
back to the black-draped door. He sprang through
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it, thrusting the minister before him, as Tim
Donovan raced to the entrance. He reached the
sill and paused.
Dark movements flashed from the gloom.
"Out the gate!" Operator 5 snapped at Tim.
"Don't touch it! Take him!"
He whirled, his rapier flashing toward the
darting shadows. The sharp tip nicked toward upthrown
knives. Again steel sparkled against steel;
again file sharp edge struck red. Jimmy
Christopher leaped toward the open gate and
through it. He clicked it shut with one gloved
hand, rapier poised in the other.
Behind him he heard the quick sounds of Tim
Donovan running with the drugged man. He sped
to follow. There were shadows climbing out of the
lip of the valley when he reached it. He spun to a
stop in the gloom of the narrow-walled pasts, and
then suddenly behind him the night was torn
asunder by a deafening roar!
A lightning bolt seemed to strike the hidden
building in the valley. It flew to fragments among
thick-flowing, yellow fumes. Thunder roared over
the walls of the valley and into the distance as the
flash vanished.
The shock struck and passed in an instant.
Jimmy Christopher stumbled away as splintered
wood rained from the sky. Out of the rumble Tim
Donovan's voice called: "Jimmy! Where are you?"
"Here, Tim, okay. Keep going!"
"What happened, Jimmy?"
"Dynamite. They deliberately destroyed the
building, and everyone in it. Head for the car!"
Jimmy Christopher on one side, and Tim
Donovan on the other, forced the unprotesting
man along between them. They reached the road
quickly. Soon, they knew, the thunderous
explosion would bring a mob of curious
spectators. The secrecy of Operator 5's work
demanded that they leave the scene before the
crowd arrived. He slipped to the wheel of his
roadster.
The man whom Operator 5 had brought out
of the darkness of the valley sat dazed, looking
into nothingness. Tim Donovan's hand clung
tremblingly to Jimmy Christopher's.
"Gee, Jimmy! You couldn't move-you
couldn't do anything! I was afraid-"
Jimmy Christopher's arm tightened across
the little Irish lad's shoulders.
"Tim, boy-thanks. I'd never have come out
of there alive if you hadn't done that-never. I'm
glad you came along, old-timer!"
As the roadster swung into the road,
Operator 5 glanced back toward the blackness of
the valley. Out of it, a rising cloud, yellow fumes
floated, wreathing a gigantic crater that had
opened raw in the ground. The terrific power of
the blast had broken the hidden structure to flying
fragments. There the Black Power of Zaava had
struck-even to destroy itself!
CHAPTER NINE
Tim Takes the Trail
IN Secret Headquarters R2 of the United
States Intelligence Service in Manhattan, there
was silence.
Operator 5 sat erect in a straight-backed
chair, the window-light streaming over his
shoulders. He faced another man sifting stiffly,
whose face was declined, picturing a desperate
mental struggle. That man was the pastor of the
destroyed church in Beacon-the man who had
risen from the grave, whom Jimmy Christopher
had snatched from the spell of Zaava's evil magic.
Once away from the hidden valley, he had
questioned the man, but he had not penetrated
the fog of bhang that clouded the pastor's mind.
He had returned at once to New York City, driving
through the still hours of the early morning. Now,
he saw the spark of reason returning to the
drugged man's eyes.
"Try to remember, Mr. Wilkins," he urged in a
quiet tone. "Think back to night before last.
Picture the scene-the inside of your church.
Your congregation gathered in prayer-meeting.
You recall that. Now, do you remember something
strange that happened that evening-night before
last?"
"It seems so long ago," the Rev. Mr. Wilkins
answered slowly. "Like an old dream. Yes, I
remember-the air-the sweetness-"
"Something came into the air?"
"Yes. I noticed it before. Every Sunday,
every Wednesday night, for weeks, I'd noticed it.
Faint at first, then stronger and stronger. It was
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pleasant, and it brought a strange peace with it.
My congregation came more regularly than usual;
they seemed to want to come back to the
sweetness, as I did."
Jimmy Christopher glanced at Z-7 who,
sitting behind his desk, was watching the color
returning to the face of tile pastor.
"And then-night before last-"
"Yes-yes, I remember," the black-garbed
man went on wearily. "I was leading the
congregation in prayer. I felt, suddenly, that there
was a presence in the church. The prayer
seemed to fade out of my mind. I could not bring
it back. The church became silent. The sense of a
presence grew stronger, and I looked up. I saw,
standing just within the doors, a strange figure-a
man of dark skin wearing a golden robe and a
golden turban. A strange figure, yet I felt no
surprise."
Operator 5 remained tensely silent, allowing
the pastor to continue. "He came forward, slowly.
All the congregation saw him, yet none of them
spoke or seemed startled to see him. He
mounted to the pulpit, and I stepped aside to yield
it to him. There seemed to be some power in the
air commanding me to efface myself before him.
He looked at me with his spell-binding eyes, and
turned to the congregation.
"He spoke the name of Zaava. He
commanded those of my church to come to the
worship of the world-old god of Zaava. He placed
before them the red image. Then there came into
the church other men. Again the mystic on the
pulpit spoke, commanding my congregation, and
they rose. Quietly they left the church. I heard,
outside, the humming of motors. I knew that the
congregation was being taken away, but I could
not tear my eyes from the image of Zaava.
"I could think only of the commandment,
forbidding the worship of any graven image. It
was as though the power of God were battling
within me with the power of Zaava. All the
teachings of my life rose in rebellion, in spite of
the spell in the air. I ordered the man in the gold
robe to go away, to take his image with him. I
denounced him for desecrating the house of God.
He did nothing but look at me with his deep, black
eyes. Then he said, 'The Black Power of Zaava is
greater than the power of your God' and then I
felt myself falling... dying. That is all-all I
remember.''
"Your congregation," Operator 5 asked
tensely. "Do you know what became of them? Or
the Black Temple of Zaava to which you were to
be taken-do you know where it is?"
"No."
Operator 5 took the pastor's arm, and led
him through a door in the rear of the room. There
a physician, one of the unknown army of
Intelligence Operators in New York, whom
Operator 5 had summoned, took the man in
charge. Jimmy Christopher returned to the desk
of Z-7.
"HE will have to undergo treatment, Chief, in
order to be released from the effects of the bhang
absorbed into his system. It will mean a
struggle-a struggle for anyone who wishes to
resist the power of Zaava-but it can succeed."
Z-7's fist clenched. "But if this cult spreads-
if its numbers become too great-it will be
impossible to reclaim everyone who has
succumbed. Even those able to rescue the
worshippers will be under the influence!
Eventually it will mean a nation of slaves to Zaava
and bhang-even an entire world subjected to the
spell of that hideous idol!" Z-7 sat back rigidly.
"Operator 5, is it possible that the cult has already
spread so far, that its hold has already become so
strong-that it is hopeless to combat it?"
"Hopeless or not, Chief, I haven't given up,"
Operator 5 declared.
"But we are completely in the dark. We don't
know the priests of this cult-where they are or
how they operate. We still don't know the
locations of the temples-and there must be
many of them. While we grope through the
darkness, the Power of Zaava spreads!"
Operator 5 nodded. "True, Chief. But that
means we must work quickly, take desperate
measures to combat the power. We have made
headway. The laboratory, which was converting
bhang to its various strange forms, has been
destroyed. There may be huge stores of bhang,
ready to use, in the temples there must be. Yet,
we've made headway."
Z-7 leaned forward. "Operator 5. Yesterday I
almost urged you to abandon this case. If I had
known then what we know now, I would have
warned you more strongly. I repeat, you must let it
alone. The Service can't risk you, Operator 5, in
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this blind struggle against such a gigantic force-
what is bound to be a losing battle-"
"I'm going straight ahead, Chief," Operator 5
declared quietly.
Z-7 answered slowly, "But don't you realize
you are fighting too strong a power? The mystic
forces that come out of the Orient are too terrible
and uncanny to risk. They're unearthly,
inhuman....
"You already know, of course, that men
whose words cannot be doubted, have witnessed
strange, incredible miracles in Tibet and India.
Such things as men running a hundred miles
without fatigue; of a tree withering up when a holy
man points his finger at it; of remarkable feats of
self-levitation. And the most baffling to the
Western mind is the Tibetan mystery of
summoning back to life the spirits of the dead.
"These are not hallucinations, Operator 5;
they are fact-cold fact, witnessed and
demonstrated before men of science-reputable,
trustworthy persons. And if these priests in the
cult of Zaava possess powers strong enough to
defy the natural forces of the universe, how can
we dare hope to defeat them?"
"I know of these things," Operator 5 said
quietly. "I do not doubt them. I know that
unguessed at danger and peril-strange and
horrible death will probably overtake me"-he
shrugged-"but I'm on the case. And I'm not
letting go."
Z-7's forehead was gray and sweat-streaked,
and his hand trembled as he rubbed his palm
across it. "But, my God, don't you see that some
other case may come up, Operator 5? You're our
ace agent. If something should happen to you on
this-"
Operator 5 smiled. "I've seen death before,
Z-7. So have you. At very close quarters. I like
living, just as much as anyone else. But", he hit
the desk-top softly with his clenched fist, "what's
one man's life against the deadly pestilence of
Zaavanism?"
The Washington chief shook his head; his
shoulders slumped hopelessly. "How can we stop
it from spreading?" he asked in a dead voice.
"What can we do to check it-to kill it?"
Operator 5 answered grimly: "By destroying
the men who are spreading it-and in no other
way!"
"Impossible!"
Operator 5 rose slowly. "Perhaps," he said
quietly, "but I don't agree. If it is impossible,
then I'm going straight ahead with an impossible
job!"
"My boy, I implore you-"
"It's no use, Chief."
A KNOCK sounded on a door connecting
with the communications room. At Z-7's word it
opened, and a shirt-sleeved teletype despatcher
entered carrying a yellow sheet pasted with strips.
The Washington Chief read it quickly. He stared
at Operator 5 and passed the yellow sheet.
Jimmy Christopher's blood grew chilled as he
read:
TOWN OF BETHLEHEM OHIO A RELIGIOUS
MUNICIPALITY SIMILAR TO ZION CITY ILLINOIS
COMPLETELY DESTROYED BY FIRE...
RAVISHING MOBS RUSHED THROUGH STREETS
WITH TORCHES... SCORES KILLED... CITY A
SCENE OF BARBARIC HORROR... ALL ROADS
CUT OFF BY FRENZIED MOB AND ALL MEANS OF
COMMUNICATION DESTROYED... CITY NOW A
SMOULDERING MASS OF RUINS... MOB HAS
SCATTERED AND DISAPPEARED... ONLY
OBJECT LEFT INTACT IN ENTIRE CITY IS
STRANGE IDOL LEFT IN CENTER GREEN...
UNKNOWN IMAGE APPARENTLY THE SAME AS
THAT LEFT IN BEACON MASSACHUSETTS
CHURCH.... MEN AWAITING ORDERS....
"Zaava-again!"
A strange gleam had come into the black
eyes of Z-7: Jimmy Christopher noted it.
"You are ordering our men near that town to
investigate, Chief, of course?"
"Yes-of course!"
Operator 5 leaned across the desk and
spoke in decisive tones. "I have only one thing to
say, Chief. So long as I am convinced there is
some hope of stopping the spread of Zaavanism,
I'm not giving up. Do you hear that? I'm not-
giving-up!"
He turned quickly and strode from the room.
Z-7 remained motionless at the desk. Operator 5's
last glimpse of him was of black eyes glowing. His
stride was quick and determined as he left the
outer office.
When he stepped into the foyer of the
building from an elevator, Tim Donovan hurried
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toward him. The boy had been waiting there.
Jimmy Christopher immediately took his arm and
led him aside.
"Gee, Jimmy-something's wrong. I can tell."
"Something is devilishly wrong, Tim. Oldtimer,
I want you to do something for me. I want
you to shadow Z-7."
"Shadow Z-7!" the boy blurted. "Gosh,
Jimmy-our own chief?"
"Our own chief," Operator 5 nodded. "My
chief, and yours, when you become old enough to
enter the Intelligence Service, Tim. There's
something strange about Z-7 now-very strange.
I've got to learn what it is. You've got to help me,
Tim."
"Sure Jimmy! I'll do it!"
"Okay, boy. Keep completely out of sight.
Trail Z-7 when he shows up. Never let him out of
your sight longer than you can help it, and never
show yourself. If you see anything or hear
anything unusual, come to me as fast as you can
move."
"I'll do it, Jimmy!"
Operator 5 passed into Tim Donovan's hand
a small silver case containing porcelain filterwafers.
The boy tucked them out of sight at once.
"You may need them, Tim. And-you may
need that, too."
He touched a chromium ring which Tim
Donovan was wearing. On it was pictured a silver
skull against a black background; and on the
forehead of the skull was a black numeral 5. It
was a replica of the grim golden ornament
dangling from Operator 5's watch-chain: he had
designed it himself, and presented it to Tim
Donovan. Every Intelligence operator in the
service had been informed that by the sign of the
ring, Tim Donovan could be identified as the
unofficial assistant of Operator 5.
The boy's eyes brightened proudly. "Jimmy,
that ring means more to me than anything else in
the world!"
Jimmy Christopher glanced about quickly.
"On your toes, Tim. Look sharp. So long now,
and if things happen, report fast!"
He strode to the street-entrance. When he
glanced back he saw no sign of Tim Donovan.
The boy had quickly, expertly effaced himself;
already he was on the job of watching the chief of
the United States Intelligence. Jimmy
Christopher's eyes sparkled grimly as he strode
away.
EARLY that evening Operator 5 entered the
brownstone house in the East Forties, the home
of his father. During the day he had been obliged
to be present in the Fifth Avenue studio of
Carleton Victor; he had, necessarily for the sake
of maintaining his double identity, dined at Victor's
apartment, painstakingly attended by the
fastidious Crowe.
As he entered the door a girl came toward
him with reaching arms. She hugged him,
exclaiming her happiness at seeing him. Nan
Christopher was her brother's twin; a remarkable
similarity of face characterized them; yet she was
utterly feminine. She kept her hand affectionately
on Operator 5's as he greeted his father.
"Lord, it's good to be here again," he
declared. "A quiet normal home is a rest to the
nerves. I'm up against the most damnable thing
I've ever tackled, Dad."
Nan declared: "It's troubling you, isn't it,
Jimmy? Perhaps you're too worried; perhaps it's
not as serious as you think."
Operator 5 gazed at her curiously. "What
makes you say that, Nan? I think it's impossible to
exaggerate its seriousness."
"I don't know," Nan smiled, "but I've been
feeling so happy lately that I can't imagine being
worried. Look, Jimmy-like my new lip rouge?
Isn't it seductive!"
Operator 5 laughed. "The eternal woman!"
he exclaimed. "Nick must be back in town and-"
"No, Nick's still South," Nan declared. She
was speaking of the young man to whom she was
informally engaged. "And I haven't a new beau,
either. I just feel peaceful and happy-and I like
it."
Jimmy Christopher turned to Ex-Operator Q-
6. "Any word from Diane, Dad?" he asked. "She's
been on my mind constantly. She's in this thing
too, you know, though she doesn't realize-"
The ringing of the telephone interrupted.
Operator 5 lifted the receiver. As a girl's voice
came over the wire he said, "It's Diane now." Her
voice sang happily over the wire.
"Jimmy, you're a perfect darling-thank you!"
"You're very welcome, Di," he answered with
a chuckle, "but what are the thanks for?"
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"The roses, of course!"
"Roses?" he repeated curiously. "Is someone
sending you roses?"
"You are!" she laughed. "A dozen gorgeous
red roses, the most wonderful I've ever seen.
You're sweet, Jimmy, to-"
"I wish I could accept your thanks, Di," he
answered, his voice lowered, "but I didn't send
them."
"Please stop joking, Jimmy! Your card was
with them, and-"
"My card," Operator 5's face darkened with
renewed worry. "You're sure it's my writing?"
"Why, of course! Jimmy, you're so strange! I
was so glad to get them-especially after just
making a beginning on my new assignment,
and..."
"Diane!" Operator 5's voice came sharply.
"Listen to me! Don't ask me for reasons, but
please do as I say. Get rid of those roses now-
right away. Don't waste a moment!"
There was a silence. The girl's voice came
slowly, dreamily.
"I wouldn't do that, Jimmy-I wouldn't.
They're so fragrant, so sweet-"
"Diane! Listen! Do as I say! Throw those
roses out now-do you hear?"
Again a silence. Jimmy Christopher gripped
the telephone tightly. He heard a faint sound
come over the wire, a noise as of a latch clicking.
As though far away, another voice sounded-the
low-toned voice of a man speaking
indistinguishable words. As Operator 5's nerves
tensed he heard again Diane's voice, scarcely
audible-a sigh.
"Yes... Yes.... "
"Diane!"
There was no answer from the other
instrument. He heard a clatter, as though it were
being lowered Again came the intonations of the
strange, droning voice. The faintest sounds
followed, as of slow footfalls across the floor, and
then a click, as of the door closing.
"Diane! Diane!"
The receiver at the other end of the line had
not been hung. The line was still open; but now no
sound came over it.
Operator 5 spun. His father and sister gazed
at him wonderingly as he dashed for the door.
His quick footfalls sounded down the stairs; the
outer door clicked; then, sighingly, came the
sound of his roadster's motor as he sped away...
Moments later, Jimmy Christopher rapped
sharply at the door of the little apartment where
Diane Elliot lived. When no answer came he
brought into play his pack of master keys.
He thrust into the room. The lights were
burning. On a table the telephone sat with its
receiver dangling, as though it had been dropped.
He crossed quickly to that table, replaced the
receiver, and peered at the vase in which bloodred
roses had been placed. He saw a card:
With all my love,
JIMMY
Handwriting that resembled his-but a
forgery! Operator 5 circled the room quickly,
anxiously. Diane's hat and coat were gone. Grimly
he returned to the flower-vase. As he inhaled the
perfume of the roses his face turned white.
From the blood-red petals came the heavy
sweetness of-bhang!
CHAPTER TEN
The Destroying God
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER snatched the
drugged flowers from the vase; he jerked open a
window and flung the blooms into the darkness.
When he turned back he glimpsed a folded
newspaper which had been tossed to the bed.
At the head of a column a prominent black
headline declared:
WORLD-OLD FAITH FINDS
ADHERENTS IN AMERICA
SENATOR COTTRON REPEATS HIS PLEA
FOR A RETURN TO PRIMITIVE BELIEFS
By Diane Elliot
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Jimmy Christopher tucked the paper into his
pocket as he hurried into the hallway. In
response to his ring at the elevator bell a cage
appeared. Of the uniformed operator he asked
quickly: "Miss Elliot-did you see her go? Did you
see someone with her? How long-?"
"Miss Elliot? No, sir, I didn't take her down. I
haven't seen her since she came in early this
evening, sir. Unless she went down by the stairs."
The jangling of a telephone bell came
through the open door of the apartment. Operator
5 strode to the instrument quickly. Through the
receiver rang the voice of Z-7.
"Operator 5! Your father told me where to
locate you. I have a report from F-6, the man we
put to shadowing Mrs. Stanbridge. He followed
her from her home tonight-and it's possible she
led him to the hidden temple!"
"Go ahead, Chief!"
"Her chauffeur drove her to upper Fifth
Avenue. There he yielded the wheel to a man who
was waiting-a man who looked like a Hindu. The
car went on to an apartment house on Park
Avenue. F-6 saw the car enter a freight elevator
before it passed out of sight altogether. He's
watching the place now!"
"Where is it, Chief?" Operator 5's
astonishment mounted when he heard Z-7 repeat
an address on Park Avenue in its most expensive
and exclusive district. "Then it means there's
another meeting in the temple!"
"Yes!"
"Call every available operator in New York,
Chief!" Jimmy Christopher urged.
"Order them to join F-6 and remain out of
sight until I show up. We've got to get into that
place. Get the men together as soon as possible!
I'll direct them."
"My boy, remember how they trapped you
there before! They may-"
"Send out the orders, Chief! There's not a
minute to lose. The longer those people remain in
the temple of Zaava, the stronger the hold on
them grows. That's not all. Diane has
disappeared. There's every chance she's been
taken to the temple-under the influence of
bhang!"
"Great Scott! They've struck at her?"
"Yes. Because they want to silence her, to
keep the cult of Zaava secret. If they're holding
her in the temple, there's no horror they might not
force on her. I'm leaving right now, Chief! Snap
through those orders!"
Operator 5 turned from the telephone
quickly. Without waiting for the elevator, he ran
down the steps encircling the shaft. It was evident
that Diane might have been taken down them and
out of the building unseen. Urged by his anxiety
for the girl, Jimmy Christopher hurried to his
roadster.
The motor coughed as he swung away,
bearing toward upper Park Avenue where, in all
certainty, the Zaavanist temple was hidden.
A BLOCK from the address given him by
Z-7, Operator 5 left his car. He walked briskly
while traffic streamed along the street, between
massive buildings. Once within sight of the
apartment-house which bore the designated
number, Jimmy Christopher studied it.
A pattern of lighted windows shone in its
high, broad facade; but the entire top floor was
dark. Was it because the panes were blackpainted,
because beyond them lay the temple of
Zaava? Jimmy Christopher's heart quickened as
he turned down a side-street and walked past. In
the side wall of the building he noted a broad
doorway, such as might give entrance to an
elevator large enough to hoist a car.
He noted an automobile pause in the street
as he went on. Once he was past, the car swung
toward the apartment building. A glance
backward showed Jimmy Christopher the broad
doors opening. The car rolled through, and
immediately the way closed. It was being raised
even then on the elevator; even then a disciple of
Zaava was being lifted to the hidden temple!
Jimmy Christopher crossed back. A soft
voice spoke as he passed a doorway. He saw in
the shadows the Intelligence operator known as
F-6, a short, stocky man with a build like a
pugilist's. Two other men were already with F-6:
they were also secret agents. Jimmy Christopher
turned in the gloom to watch the suspected
building.
"No doubt of it, Operator 5," F-6 declared
quietly, "Fully a dozen cars have gone up since
Mrs. Stanbridge's. They're evidently lowered
again to a space behind the building. Notice that
globe burning above the doors. It lights when the
elevator is ready to receive another car."
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A moment after F-6 spoke, the bulb flashed
on. Presently, as Operator 5 waited, another car
approached; again the broad doors opened and it
disappeared through them. During the silent
minutes that followed, several men left the street
as they passed the dark doorway, and joined
Operator 5 and his brother agents.
"No doorman here," one of the men
observed. "We're okay for a little while."
They were silent as they watched. Presently
a car swerved to a stop a short distance away.
The man who alighted was Z-7. He entered the
doorway quietly, and stood at Operator 5's side.
"Five more men coming," he declared,
glancing at those present. "All I could reach."
Within the space of ten minutes, the five
other operators appeared, moving quietly into the
doorway. When the last entered, Jimmy
Christopher signaled them around him.
"Two of you," he directed, "take the front
entrance," and he indicated the men who were to
station themselves there. "Two more the freight
elevator. One at the rear entrance from the court.
When we go in, another of you take the
passenger elevator. The others come up with
me. Chief-?"
"I'm going with you, my boy."
Operator 5 nodded. "Keep your eyes open,
and have your nasal filters ready. Lord only knows
what we may run into."
Operator 5 signaled and left the doorway.
He strode to the corner, and waited, as if for the
traffic lights to change, while half his men began
to scatter. Sure that they had taken their
positions, he walked with the others to the
building entrance.
He passed into a dimly-lighted foyer. In the
rear two elevator shafts opened. One of the
grilles was closed; the car was somewhere above,
in the shaft. The other was open. A wiry, oldfaced
man was waiting at the controls. Operator 5
stepped past him with Z-7.
"Top floor," he directed.
The attendant hesitated. "I can't take you up,
sir," he answered. "The top floor is not occupied."
Jimmy Christopher's searching gaze probed
into the eyes of the attendant.
"You're sure of that?"
"Yes, sir. Quite sure."
Jimmy Christopher shrugged, and stepped
forward. He twisted the latch of a metal panel
beneath the controls. Opening it, he seized a
copper-tipped tube held in clips, and clicked it out.
"You can't do that, sir! That's the fuse! The
car won't run without it."
Operator 5 answered "Exactly!"
THE men behind him silenced the attendant
as he turned to the other grille. A cage was sliding
down to the foyer level. When the door slid open,
Jimmy Christopher stepped in. He noted that the
second attendant's skin was dusky, that the man's
eyes lighted with suspicion. He said, briskly: "Top
floor."
The attendant began quickly: "There is no
tenant-"
Operator 5's automatic whisked from his
arm-pit holster and glittered in the light. Again he
ordered: "Top floor!"
The attendant stiffened, his eyes became
rimmed with white. No sound passed his blackish
lips as the other secret agents entered the cage
quickly. Jimmy Christopher slid the grille shut. His
gun pressed hard to the attendant's side.
"Up!"
"Very well, sir."
A black hand swung to the handle of the
control box. The movement that followed was
unseen even by Jimmy Christopher, it was so
deft, so quick. One dark finger slipped into a tiny
wire loop protruding through the bars of the cage,
and pulled sharply. At the same moment the dark
hand thrust the lever hard to the ascending
position. The car rose.
A brief glitter shone in the light overhead. A
snap sounded. A punging sound followed, like the
plucking of a harpstring. Instantly a gasp of
dismay broke from the lips of every man within
the cage. The seven of them were swept to the
rear of the car in a squirming mass by an invisible
force. They were crushed together, held
pinioned. Packed against one another and the
bars-knocked breathless.
Jimmy Christopher was caught by the force
as swiftly as the others. Thrown violently against
Z-7, he felt a quick tightening across his
abdomen, a pressure that came swiftly and grew
in an instant to unbearably painful proportions. At
the same time he was conscious that the car was
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straining to a stop-that, somewhere below, the
lifting motor was whining under a terrific load.
Blinding pain shot through him; muffled
gasps sounded in his ears from the men
squirming in torture. He glimpsed, in a blur, the
dark face of the attendant, the white-rimmed
eyes, and teeth bared in a triumphant smile. He
strove to raise his gun, but his arm was burning
with pain and clamped to his side; and peering
down he saw the reason for the sudden sweep of
the seven men across the floor of the cage.
Around them, at the level of their waists,
drawing mercilessly tight, was a thin strand of
wire. Operator 5 realized instantly that it had
rested, a giant loop, on the moulding above their
heads when they had entered. Its lower end was
fastened firmly somewhere below; the motion of
the car had flicked it downward and drawn it
instantly tight around every occupant of the car
except the attendant, who had warded it off. Men
huddled together by a thin steel strand growing
tighter with each excruciating second!
The mad-eyed attendant was holding the
control handle in the ascending position-all the
power of the huge lifting motor was snagging the
wire around the men in the cage! The pull behind
it, and its thinness, gave it the quality of a huge
knife-a guillotine striking horizontally!
Tortured moans, breathless cries, sounded in
Operator 5's ears as he realized the deadliness of
the loop. A quick glance showed him blood
flowing down the arm of a man crowded against
the bars-flowing from flesh into which the strand
had bitten deep. Another of the men had sagged
over the wire, and was hanging helpless and
unconscious.
Still the motor whined; still the evil-faced
attendant held the controls so that the full power
strained at the sharp strand!
"God-God, it's cutting through!" gasped in
Jimmy Christopher's ears from the blanched lips
of Z-7.
Jimmy Christopher was crowded almost
immovable against the Washington chief.
Desperately he wrenched his body, while the wire
drew tighter across his abdomen. He strove with
all his strength to draw up his left arm, to pull it
free. Deliberately throwing his weight forward
against the wire, while the others strained vainly
to escape it, he shot his clutching hand toward the
dark-skinned man at the controls.
His fingers fastened like the steel of a trap on
the man's neck, jerking the dark-skinned
individual toward him. Though the black hand slid
from the control handle the electrical contact was
unbroken; the pull on the wire continued. Jimmy
Christopher spun the Tibetan and tightened his
arm around the man's neck. He wrenched the
head forcibly aside; a stifled gasp came from the
blackish lips, and the Tibetan dropped. A jiu-jutsu
twist had left him powerless on the floor of the
car.
GASPING, eyeballs seared with pain so
intense that he could scarcely see, Jimmy
Christopher reached for the control handle. His
finger-tips scarcely reached it. He gave a lunge
that brought excruciating torture into his body, and
struck at the handle. The car bobbed; the whining
of the motor ceased. Another desperate blow-
and Operator 5 forced the switch to the
descending position.
Instantly the cruel pressure lessened. The
men in the car grasped frantically at the glistening
strand and pulled it free. They stumbled apart,
dazed; one of them tottered to the floor and lay
still.
Jimmy Christopher steadied himself, and
stooped over the man on the floor. The wire had
slashed through the secret agent's clothing; the
vest, coat and trousers were blood-drenched. One
glance at the man's injury was enough to whirl
him to the control box and send the cage
streaking downward to the floor level.
"Grab a phone!" he called breathlessly to one
of the two operators stationed at the entrance.
"Call an ambulance!"
Z-7, breathing hard, stooped beside him as
he again turned to the injured man. Operator 5
sighed. "I'm afraid it's no use, Chief. The wire cut
him halfway through. He's dying now."
The noisy breathing of the men in the car
grew quiet. They stared in anguish at the victim of
the wire. One of them, whose arm was cut, grimly
began tying a handkerchief about the gaping
wound. Jimmy Christopher, staggering, helped lift
the dying secret agent from the floor of the car
and carried him to a couch in the foyer. He rose,
turning back slowly. From the cage his men
stared.
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"I had good reason for the warning I gave
you," he declared. "You know that now. I'm going
up. If any of you want to fall out, you may."
The man with the cut arm glared. "Drop out?
Not me! I'm seeing this through. I want to get the
rats who planted that thing!"
A low-voiced murmur of assent followed.
Jimmy Christopher stepped back into the car. Z-
7's face was white and drawn as he came to
Operator 5's side. They drew the wire loop, redstained
now, out of the car. Jimmy Christopher
slid the grille shut and took the control handle.
"Next stop," he said grimly, "the temple of
Zaava!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Man-Trap
AN automatic cut-out slid the cage to a stop
at the top of the shaft. Operator 5 leveled his gun
as he eased the grill open soundlessly. He
grasped the handle that released the outer door,
and slowly pulled.
As it opened, blackness shone through.
Beyond lay an empty room, its walls draped. It
was entirely soundless, the hum of the city was
gone. Operator 5 stepped forward first. Z-7
came quietly after him. The others, guns steadied,
every nerve alert, followed.
Jimmy Christopher circled the room and
found, concealed by draperies, a doorway. He
swung back the curtain and saw, ahead, a long
corridor also walled in black. He signaled one of
the men to remain at the elevator, and led the
way into it. As the dark curtains fell into place
behind the last of the secret agents, a flashlight in
the hand of one of them shot a white beam
ahead.
In the walls were dark doorways. Operator 5
paused at the first sight of them. Soundlessly he
opened it; and again darkness lay beyond. The
shaft of the hand-torch played in upon packingcases
piled high. Jimmy Christopher gave them
only a glance and stepped back. "Bhang."
He went quietly to the next door. Again the
knob horned in his hand. As he eased it inward, a
faint chink of light appeared. Quickly he pushed it
wide.
In the room were three men who, startled by
the movement, turned quickly. They were wearing
black robes and black turbans; theirs were the
dusky faces of Tibetans. They were seated
around a table on which was spread money-
heaps of currency, stacks of silver, even gold
pieces. They jerked up from their chairs as
Operator 5 appeared in the doorway.
Swiftly he stepped back. His gun glinted, and
his gesture brought one of his men forward. He
commanded, "Raise your Hands! Stay where you
are!"
The Tibetans recoiled in surprise. Rigidly
they confronted the intruder who entered to cover
them with his gun. Operator 5 returned to the
corridor, and warned his man: "Watch sharp-but
look away from their eyes!"
As he closed the door, Z-7 gazed at him
anxiously, and the three remaining men moved to
Operator 5's side. "Donations to Zaava, that
money," he declared.
He trod forward into the depths of the
passage. Two doors remained: one on the left,
one on the right. That on his right Operator 5
opened first, silently.
Dim lights glowed in the room it disclosed,
and it was empty. The gold-mosaic walls, the soft
rug, the sweetness of the atmosphere, brought a
flood of recollections to Jimmy Christopher. This
was the room into which, as Carleton Victor, he
had been brought. It was here he had first seen
Prince Horpa Tal!
He had moved only a few feet from this
room, into the temple of Zaava. The entrance of
the temple-?
Jimmy Christopher turned to find that F-6
had gone to the opposite door. He was reaching
for the knob when Operator 5 began a whispered
warning.
The soft words were lost, suddenly, in a
sharp hissing. It came like a vicious blast: it
seemed to bring force out of nowhere into the
gloom of the corridor. Into the air, instantly, came
a penetrating chill, a cold so sharp that it struck
through Operator 5's flesh. At the same instant a
white, swirling mist enveloped F-6.
Z-7 uttered a startled cry and started
forward. Operator 5's voice came huskily: "Chief!
Don't touch him!"
He thrust at the two other men to force them
back; he blocked Z-7's way. The shaft of the
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wavering hand-torch shone full on the door at
which F-6 stood, unmoving. The stuff swirling
around him glittered like snow. It wafted and
settled and, as the air cleared around F-6, those
in the black passage could see that, from head to
foot, he was covered with glittering frost!
"God!" blurted from Z-7's cold-numbed lips.
"He's not moving!"
Operator 5 spoke with grim quietness. "He'll
never move again, Chief-never. He's-dead."
THE stinging coldness in the air persisted as
the fluttering flakes of hoar settled. The three men
beside Operator 5 stared in mute horror. The
figure of F-6 was standing straddled, his whitefrosted
hand barely touching the knob. His rigid
body swayed a little during that moment of
strained silence.
Again Operator 5 spoke in a hushed tone.
"Stay away from that door. Touching that knob will
kill you-as it killed F-6. The slightest pressure on
it releases highly compressed gas-"
"Gas?" Z-7 echoed.
"Or liquid that vaporizes instantly. It shot out
from openings all around the door, striking F-6
from every angle. Cold enough to freeze him
instantly-every cell of his body. It may have
been liquid oxygen which creates a temperature
of more than two hundred degrees below zero
when it evaporates. Stay away from that door!"
Z-7's hushed voice asked: "The temple?"
"Is beyond."
"He-he's falling!"
The cry came breathlessly from the man
gripping the electric torch. The eyes of those in
the black corridor clung to the rigid form of F-6.
The horror of the moment paralyzed them as they
watched the frost-covered figure tottering, settling
backward. It fell as numbed hands reached for it
too late.
Sharp cracks sounded as the icy body fell to
the floor. The gleam of the torch lighted, for an
instant, a greater horror. One frozen arm of F-6
broke loose in its sleeve. The brittle fingers of the
outstretched hand snapped off. A dark line
appeared beneath the chin of F-6; and slowly, the
misted eyes staring, his hatted head rolled loose
from the bloodless neck!
A long-drawn breath sounded in the tense
silence of the passageway. The light of the handtorch
vanished. Utter blackness came to blanket
the frozen horror on the floor.
An age of unbearable silence followed; then
a quiet click. Before the hand of Operator 5 a door
opened. He stepped alertly into the light of the
room walled in gold mosaic. His face was white
and drawn as he turned to face Z-7. The
Washington chief came in slowly, grimly gripping
his gun; quietly the others followed. In the yellow
shine they stood motionless, gazing widely at
Operator 5.
"For God's sake, watch yourselves-every
move you make!" he warned. "The men in the
temple may know we're here!"
He glanced around the gold-walled room.
Here the air was permeated by a faint sweetness.
As from far away came faint, high-pitched music.
Operator 5 crossed the thick rug quickly.
There was no window; there was no door visible
except the one through which they had passed.
He paused at a huge golden chair which sat
against the rear wall-a chair fashioned of
precious metal, studded with glittering gems,
raised like a throne on a dais. He placed his
hands gingerly upon one glittering arm, then bore
down hard.
There was no result. He shifted to the other
side and again thrust his weight against it. This
time, soundlessly, the throne moved. It slid on
noiseless casters, bringing with it a hinged section
of the wall. A satisfied breath came from Jimmy
Christopher as he peered into the darkness
beyond.
His gun went level; he signaled the others to
follow, and crept into the hidden opening. They
straightened in the blackness and the man with
the torch pressed its button. Light glinted off the
surfaces of glass-sided boxes which sat around
the walls. Within the cages there were
movements; movements that brought the men to
a startled pause.
Jimmy Christopher quickly took the torch into
his hand and swung it upon a huge box placed
flush with the wall. Within it was a mass of black,
which flowed, slowly, like thick tar, across the
floor of the cage and began to rise upward on the
plate-glass sheet near which Operator 5 stood.
Faintly from it came a high-pitched chorus:
Cheep-cheep! Cheep-cheep!
It was the lair of the tiger ants!
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Jimmy Christopher saw, on the far side of
the glass box, a glass tube penetrating the
wainscoting, a valve closing it. Beyond, then, lay
the bare room into which he, as Carleton Victor,
had been thrown a prisoner. He stepped back
and shifted the light to the other cages.
In them he saw crawling things. One cage
housed hooded cobras, rearing to strike, their
hoods flaring. In another, two glistening coils-fer
de lances. A third contained evil-eyed gila
monsters; in a fourth, shining-scaled tropical
rattlers. Creeping death imprisoned within glass
walls!
HERE, too, faintly, the strains of distant
music could be heard, and the hooded heads of
the cobras swayed in weird unison with the
rhythm. Silently Jimmy Christopher stepped
beyond. He opened a door that yielded into
another short corridor. Slowly he followed it to its
far end, where another door blocked the way. His
cautious hand went slowly to the knob; he paused
as light shone. The twanging strains of the music
became louder. The sweetness in the air
thickened. Operator 5 peered along gently waving
black drapes through which came a rustling that
meant presences beyond.
He drew quickly from his pocket a silver case
containing respiratory filters and gave a hushed
command to the secret agents and Z-7. He drew
on over his eyes a mask of black velvet and
moved through the door.
He was halfway along the dark-draped
corridor when, suddenly, the curtains flicked, and
a robed form appeared. The Tibetan stopped
short, eyes black-centered circles, breath caught
in utter surprise. From the lips of Jimmy
Christopher came the whisper of a name: "Shuru
Cho!"
One hand of the Tibetan darted toward the
jeweled hilt of a short sword girdled around his
waist. Jimmy Christopher reached swiftly; his
fingers snatched the blackish wrist. He stepped
aside, twisting so sharply that bone grated against
bone. A muffled gasp came from the lips of
Shuru Cho as he toppled off balance.
Jimmy Christopher struck once, sharply. His
stiff fingers brought numbing power to the nervecenter
at the Tibetan's diaphragm. An explosion
of breath came from Shuru Cho's lungs; he lay
helpless.
Operator 5 straightened slowly, signaling
silence to those behind him. His hand moved to
the opening in the black curtain through which
Shuru Cho had appeared. He fingered a narrow
slit and peered through.
Beyond, bounded in shadows, lay the hidden
temple. There, kneeling on cushions, robed in
black, were the worshippers of the savage god.
Kneeling in abeyance they faced the great
crimson-faced idol with the spell-binding eyes-
Zaava!
Before the evil image, gold-robed, goldturbaned
head bowed, stood the sinister Prince
Horpa Tal. From the Asiatic's lips came a whisper
that echoed into the walls of darkness. "Hail
Zaava."
And the black-robed worshippers echoed:
"Hail Zaava."
Jimmy Christopher glanced backward at the
amazed men behind him, and his eyes signaled.
He took a quick step that brought him through the
black curtains into the aura of golden light. His
stride carried him swiftly toward the gold-robed
figure. His automatic glinted and his voice rang
sharply. "Stand where you are!"
The words shocked through the hush of the
temple. From the black-robed assembly there
came no movement. No sound stirred the misty
silence save the quiet footfalls of Z-7 and the men
following through the folds of the black drapes.
Their guns swung at the shadowy depths as
Operator 5 faced Prince Horpa Tal.
Motionless, a statue of gold, the Tibetan
stood. No muscle of his body moved, save those
that shifted his eyes. He was bowed close before
the image of Zaava and only his eyes moved.
Slowly they turned to Operator 5, bringing with
them a numbing power.
Jimmy Christopher spoke tersely over his
shoulder to his men. "Watch the others! Don't look
at his eyes!"
He dropped his gaze to the blackish mouth of
Prince Horpa Tal, avoiding the weird optic power
that came through the quiet.
"Back away!" he commanded again. Again,
during the strained moment that followed, hushed
and prolonged, there was no response save a
slow movement of the eyes of Prince Horpa Tal.
They returned to the blood-red face of the image.
As though there had been no interruption, no
command spoken, as though he was conscious of
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nothing but the image before which he bowed,
Prince Horpa Tal swayed forward to Zaava.
"Back!" Jimmy Christopher's repeated
command ended shortly as the stiff fingers of the
Tibetan reached the base of the idol. One dark
fingertip touched a golden spot.
INSTANTLY a roar swept away the hush of
the misty air. Instantly flaring light tore at the dark
shadows. From all sides of the temple at once
sharp tongued flames leaped out, red, voracious.
Within the space of a second flickering light
danced up the black draperies that shrouded the
walls. From floor to ceiling the flames swept
swiftly. In the far corners, along each wall, and
behind the staring image of Zaava the fire sprang.
With the first flashing roar the husky voice of
Prince Horpa Tal cried out: "Zaava destroys!"
An instantaneous pandemonium swept
through the temple. The robed worshippers
sprang from their cushions. They became a black
cloud, sweeping through the flaring light that filled
the temple. The fire-torn draperies, flaking swiftly
to the floor, disclosed black doors connecting with
a corridor beyond. All the black-garbed
worshippers crowded toward them from the
roaring envelopment of the flames.
Startled cries came from the men behind
Operator 5. He drew up straight; his gesture sent
two of them racing toward the crowding devotees
of Zaava at the row of doors. Z-7 remained
motionless, appalled, staring at the gargantuan
visage of the idol. Jimmy Christopher's gun still
leveled at the motionless gold-robed figure.
"Stay where you are, Prince Horpa Tal!" With
amazing swiftness the flames spread along the
walls. Creeping red rivulets of fire poured across
the floor of the temple from all sides, toward the
center. Into the air gusted black, billowing smoke,
swallowing the misty vapor of the burning bhang
incense. Through the fumes Prince Horpa Tal
peered at Operator 5.
Jimmy Christopher snapped a command
over his shoulder at Z-7.
"Chief! Get to the men at the elevators!
Order them to take everyone to the lower
corridors! They'll be safe there, but this floor is
going. Quick, Chief!"
Z-7 heard the ringing words as if in a dream.
He turned slowly from the strangely powered eyes
of Zaava. He moved somnambulantly toward the
doors through which the last of the black-robed
worshippers were crushing. Jimmy Christopher
remained motionless until he heard Z-7's voice
relaying the orders to the men at the elevators.
"Go out with them!" he commanded the
Prince Horpa Tal. Still the gold-robed figure did
not move. While the spreading edge of flames
crept inward from the walls he remained before
the flame-lighted image of Zaava.
Then Prince Horpa Tal took a gliding step
backward. The move brought him closer to the
image. Jimmy Christopher tensed alertly, and took
a step to follow. Again Prince Horpa Tal glided
backward. Eyes directed below those of the
Tibetan, Operator 5 saw the blackish lips part,
saw white teeth gleam in the light of the spreading
flames. Another step....
Then Jimmy Christopher saw the heel of
Prince Horpa Tal bring quick pressure to a black
button protruding through the shining floor in front
of the idol. He sprang away as he heard a dull
click from above. One quick glance showed him a
black viscous mass spilling from the ceiling-a
swift oily flow. The stuff streamed down from
vents opened by the pressure of the Tibetan's
heel on the button, to splash to the floor and
spread to the creeping flames.
Hungrily fire whipped over the oil. Instantly
columns of flame mounted high. Over all the
cleared space in front of the image the blaze
splashed downward, over the features of the redfaced
god itself, drenching it in living fire!
But for Jimmy Christopher's quick leap aside,
he would have been showered with the
combustible oil; in an instant he would have
become a thing of flame.
The sheeting, flaring wall appeared as if by
magic between him and Prince Horpa Tal. Its
glare blinded Jimmy Christopher as he whirled
away. The Tibetan was wiped from view for one
short minute by the flaming cascade. Operator 5
spun, seeing the oil flooding across the floor,
bringing leaping crimson with it. From all sides the
blaze had advanced, leaving a cleared space in
the center, narrowing quickly-a space entrapping
Jimmy Christopher.
He hesitated a moment, then sprang toward
the row of doors in the far wall. His feet swung
through blistering heat; the soles of his shoes,
picking up the spreading oil, flamed as he ran. He
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glimpsed a quick glitter in the light-a sparkle
from the robe of Horpa Tal.
The Tibetan was hastening to the nearest
door. Operator 5 leaped to bar the way. His
automatic spat a protest across the avenue of
escape. Prince Horpa Tal whirled; flames leaped
around him as he swiftly swerved to pass
Operator 5. He darted to the rear wall, and as he
reached the single door opening through it his
hand shot toward a golden chain dangling from
the ceiling. His fingers gripped to jerk it as
Operator 5's automatic spat.
THE bullet drilled the arm of the Tibetan and
flung him back. Mad rage flared in the whiterimmed
eyes; the dancing flames mirrored in them
a savage desperation. The gold-sleeved arm
dropped, broken. Horpa Tal staggered away as
Jimmy Christopher bounded. Frantically he flung
himself against the door beside which the golden
chain hung; madly he thrust through it.
A sharp hiss! From the frame of the door as
it opened a white cloud sprayed. Around the
golden figure there appeared white, hoary mist
which instantly vanished in the heat of the flames.
The sibilant sound brought to a frozen stop the
body of the Tibetan. Enveloped in the terrific cold
of the trap he stood a moment-frozen amid the
spreading fire! For a moment he stood rigid, then
fell into the creeping flames.
Jimmy Christopher whirled through the last of
the row of doors in the side wall of the temple.
The passageway was flickering in the light of the
fire, but the blaze had not crept far across the
sills. He hurried along it, and came into the blackwalled
room into which the elevator shafts
opened.
It was crowded with robed figures whose
eyes were shining with terror. Pressing against
the grille, they clamored for the return of the cage
from the floors below-their only means of
escaping the engulfing flames. Behind them, gun
leveled, stood Z-7, his face dark-lined, grayed
with a strange suffering. Operator 5 grasped his
arm. "Diane!" he exclaimed. "Have you seen
Diane? She is not one of the-?"
"I've seen the face of every one who has
gone down," Z-7 exclaimed. "She isn't among
them!"
A moan broke through Jimmy Christopher's
lips as he jerked aside black curtains and stepped
into the corridor which he had first entered. At its
far end a door was standing open; beyond, the
flaming interior of the temple of Zaava could be
seen and, through the crimson sheets, the staring
eyes of the enveloped image and the stiff figure of
Horpa Tal. To each of the doors along the
passage Jimmy Christopher hurried.
He thrust open each room. He called
"Diane!" There was the growing roar of the
flames; but no answering cry.
Jimmy Christopher whirled back. The maze
of rooms around the temple were a roaring
confusion. He ran through them-through the
secret door in the gold-walled room, past the
glass cages containing the poisonous, crawling
things. He hurried through suffocating heat,
shouting the name of the girl into the thunder of
the flames. Nowhere in that labyrinth was there a
sign of the presence of Diane Elliot.
The air was black with the fumes of the
burning oil as Operator 5 groped his way back.
The blaze was spreading into every room.
Through heat-cracked windows wind was rushing,
fanning the flames to a fierce intensity. When
Jimmy Christopher reached again the outer room
where the worshippers had herded, he saw the
last of them crowding through the open grille of an
elevator.
The secret agent at the controls called out
sharply. "Operator 5! Come down!"
"Z-7!" Jimmy Christopher answered
breathlessly. "Where is he? Has he gone-"
"No, he hasn't gone down! He was here
when I saw him last. Operator 5, for God's sake
get into this car!"
Jimmy Christopher turned swiftly. "Take 'em
down!" he commanded. "If Z-7's still up here-!"
He darted again into the passageway-and
paused. At the far end, near the door which
looked into the fire-filled maw of the temple, the
silhouetted figure of a man was standing. He was
peering into the roaring heart of the flames,
peering at the face of the idol which shone
flickeringly through them. Motionless he stood,
eyes on those of the image-Z-7.
Jimmy Christopher caught his arm. "Chief,
we've got to get out of here. The whole place is
going!"
Z-7 seemed not to hear. His gaze remained
fast on the fire-surrounded idol. His face was
pasty in the glare; he was trembling.
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JIMMY CHRISTOPHER gripped Z-7's arm
and spun him away. The Washington chief's
smouldering eyes jerked from those of the image.
His stare was vacant, dreamy, as it came to the
face of Operator 5.
"Chief!"
By sheer force Jimmy Christopher tore Z-7
from the flame-bordered door. Through choking
heat he struggled to the outer room, drawing Z-7
with him. They came toward the grille as a cage
opened and the agent at the controls looked out
frenziedly. Operator 5 thrust Z-7 into the car,
followed. Instantly the grille clacked shut and the
cage shot downward.
"Ground floor!" Jimmy Christopher gasped.
The beating heat vanished. Z-7 sank against the
bars of the cage, covering his parched face with
trembling hands. Operator 5 heard him mumble:
"What-what happened?"
Operator 5 breathed deep of the cooler air,
his sooted face drawn and haggard, and drew off
his velvet mask.
"Those cultists are prepared to destroy
themselves when their secret is discovered.
Horpa Tal touched an electrical contact on the
idol. It set off fire bombs placed around the walls."
Z-7 turned haunted eyes at Operator 5 as
the cage bounded to a stop at the foyer level.
From the street, through the open entrance, came
the screaming of a siren.
"Somebody's sent in an alarm!" Jimmy
Christopher exclaimed. "We've got to clear out
while we can, Chief. Those people in the
corridors upstairs-"
"I've ordered the men to put them into any
empty apartments they can find. They'll be kept
here until the excitement dies down-out of sight.
God, we can't condemn them for being enslaved.
It's the leaders of the cult we want, not the people
they've trapped."
"Back to Headquarters, Chief!" Jimmy
Christopher exclaimed. "I'll follow!"
Z-7 hurried out into the Avenue. Traffic
officers were shrilling their whistles; fire-engines
were screaming to the cross street. Overhead,
flames were pouring out of the broken windows of
the top floor, giving off billowing smoke that
brought a pall into the sky. Down the fire-stairs
on the side of the building frantic tenants were
hurrying.
Jimmy Christopher crossed the street, to see
Z-7 hurry to the car which had brought him. Z-7
started up, and immediately a taxi, parked yards
behind it, began to move. Operator 5 saw a
round face look back through the rear window of
the cab-a face he recognized.
It was that of Tim Donovan. The boy was still
on the job, following orders-shadowing Z-7.
Jimmy Christopher shouldered through a
crowd gathering on the sidewalks. He came to
his roadster and slipped behind the wheel. His
feet and legs were throbbing with pain; his
trousers were charred to the knees. But he gave
no thought to his burns as he peered back at the
flaming windows. "Diane!" came through his lips in
a sob. "Diane!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tool of the Black Power!
TIM DONOVAN peered through the
windshield of his taxi toward the car traveling half
a block ahead. Since Operator 5 had given him
the task of shadowing Z-7, he had followed the
Washington chief's every move. Having seen Z-7
enter the Park Avenue apartment house in Jimmy
Christopher's company, he had waited outside,
then picked up the trail as Z-7 emerged. Now he
saw the chief's car swing to the front of a building
near Gramercy Park.
He ordered his driver to stop, and watched
while Z-7 entered the building. He paid the driver
from a wallet containing funds for emergency use,
and trod ahead along the dark street. At a
position from which he could watch two sides of
the building, he studied the pattern of lighted
windows.
The upper stories were stepped back to form
terraces, the first terrace eleven floors above the
street, the next on the thirteenth, where a
penthouse sat. Presently, at the first terrace, Tim
Donovan saw a gleam flash behind curtains. He
started toward the entrance of the building, but
abruptly he stopped.
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Another car had swung to the marquee; a
man was alighting. His appearance startled Tim
Donovan. He was garbed entirely in black; a black
turban wreathed his head. Long, swift strides took
him out of sight through the entrance. Tim hurried
on.
When he entered the foyer, he found it
empty. The indicator above the elevator door was
gliding toward the high numerals on the dial. The
pointer paused at 11; a moment later it began to
swing back. Amazement filled Tim Donovan. The
black-turbaned man had gone to the floor on
which Z-7 apparently lived; perhaps he had gone
to Z-7's own apartment!
The Irish-lad glanced around swiftly. A short
corridor led him to the rear of the building;
pushing open a metal door, he saw a flight of firestairs.
He ran up them swiftly. At the eleventh
floor he came breathlessly to a pause. He raised
on tip-toes to peer through the small pane of
another fire-door, and saw-a black-turbaned
head.
The Tibetan was standing motionless at the
end of the corridor, facing a closed door, peering
at it with wide, fixed eyes. The door of Z-7's
apartment?
Tim Donovan turned back. Two more flights
raised him to still another door. When he pushed
it open, cold night air gusted in. He looked across
a gardened plot and stepped out on the roof, into
the shadow of the penthouse. Lights shining
through heavy curtains told him it was occupied;
he might be seen. Cautiously, he trod across the
grass, to the iron-railed garden.
Two stories downward lay a narrow terrace
across which light was shining. It was, Tim
Donovan felt sure, the apartment at the door of
which he had seen the Tibetan standing. He
judged the distance of the drop: twenty feet.
Unhesitatingly he crawled over the fence. He
lowered himself against the outer wall; he hung,
hands gripping the rail above his head, staring at
the shelf below. He took a deep breath; he let go.
His feet stung against the tile; he toppled
against the rail breathlessly and brought himself
up, listening. In a moment he became sure that
he had not attracted attention; he glided toward a
lighted window.
Through mesh curtains he saw a large room,
brightly lighted. At one side of it was standing a
man with raven-black hair-Z-7! The Washington
chief was alone; he seemed to be peering into
vacant space. His black eyes, usually glittering,
almost fierce, were dreamy and distant.
NOW Z-7 moved slowly forward. He reached
the center of the room, then paused. As though
some strange force were enveloping him, he
turned to peer at the closed entrance of the
apartment.
There had been no sound, no signal that
someone was at the door; but Z-7 called softly:
"Come in!"
Tim Donovan saw the door-knob twist. He
saw a dark figure come into view in the corridor. A
black-turbaned man crossed the sill, and closed
the door silently behind him. White-rimmed eyes
peered intently at Z-7, and the Washington chief
stood motionless.
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Even through the window and the curtain,
Tim Donovan could feel an uncanny power
shafting from the eyes of the turbaned man. He
looked away quickly, to Z-7. The Washington
chief was still standing rigid, facing the Tibetan.
The dark-skinned man came forward with
slow, gliding steps, his eyes never wavering from
those of Z-7. His dark lips moved. Tim Donovan
could hear the slow, dreamy words.
"You are at peace... at peace."
Z-7's face did not picture surprise; it was,
instead, relaxed, almost vapid. It was an
expressionless mask; the eyes were vacant.
Again the Tibetan spoke: "Rest. Accept the
ease of Timelessness. Rest and enter the
exaltation of Zaava. Rise into the Sphere of
Peace.... "
Z-7 turned slowly; he lowered himself into a
huge chair. His every muscle went loose as he
looked up into the Tibetan's eyes, who turned to
face him.
The Tibetan droned. "Zaava is strong....
Zaava is the strength of the Universe. It is futile to
combat his Dark Power. This you believe...
believe with all your soul. Zaava destroys even
himself, only to rise from the ashes of destruction
more powerful than before. You have attempted
to wage war against Zaava, yet now you know the
hopelessness of it. You have surrendered to his
Black Power. Your commands become the
commands of Zaava. You speak with his voice!"
"Yes.... "
The Tibetan leaned closer, his eyes
widening. "The puny, futile attempts to destroy
him must cease. You will command that they
cease. You will marshal your strength with that of
Zaava to destroy those fools who would destroy
him."
"Yes.... "
"Above all, you will demand subjection of the
one known as Operator 5. You will speak the will
of Zaava to him and, if he refuses to obey, you
will destroy him!"
The droning voice of Z-7 repeated, as if faraway:
"I will destroy him."
"It is good."
The Tibetan straightened. Still his eyes
clung to those of the Washington Chief; and
through the silence there seemed to pass
soundless, unspoken words. Z-7 leaned forward,
his face lighting, his eyes shining anew with a
savage exaltation. He declared suddenly: "Yes I
promise it to Zaava!"
THE black-turbaned man glided toward the
entrance. He passed through it; and when the
click of the latch sounded, Z-7 was left alone,
sitting in silence. Alone-while the amazed eyes
of Tim Donovan gazed at him through the
curtained window-pane.
In the Irish lad's mind startling words echoed:
"Above all... Operator 5... you will destroy him!"
He watched as Z-7 rose. The Washington
chief followed the path of the Tibetan toward the
entrance. Self-absorbed, he pulled on coat and
hat; he opened the door. Tim Donovan saw him
go, and the door shut.
The boy straightened from the window,
sudden panic bringing turmoil to his mind. A
glance over the iron railing showed him a sheer
wall below; there was no way down the outside of
the building. The door through which he had
come, at the penthouse level, lay far above,
unreachable. He hesitated a second; then,
quickly, he sidled to the door which opened from
Z-7's room onto the terrace.
He stepped through and paused. In the air of
the room lay a thick, heady sweetness. It was an
all-enveloping vapor that cloyed about the mind,
numbing it. Tim Donovan held his breath and
hurried to the entrance, and heard an elevator
grille clicking open. Z-7 was going down.
Tim pushed into the fire-stairs; his feet flew
down the cement flights. When he reached the
ground level he sidled into the corridor that
connected with the foyer, and heard heels grit on
the tiles. He eased forward to see Z-7 walking into
the street.
The back of the Washington chief was turned
when Tim Donovan darted out. He slid into the
shadows of the wall, then sprang across the
sidewalk and crouched behind the car. He heard
its door shut, and Z-7's voice give an address to
the driver. The motor purred and the taxi spurted
away.
Tim Donovan hurried in the same direction.
At the corner he darted into a drug-store.
Wriggling into the booth, he slotted a coin and
quickly dialed a number. He fidgeted with
impatience before a voice answered-the voice of
John Christopher, Operator 5's father.
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"Dad!" the boy blurted. "I've got to talk to
Jimmy!"
"Jimmy's not here, Tim," Ex-Operator Q-6
answered. "He left a moment ago for
Headquarters R-2."
Tim Donovan's hand gripped the receiver
moistly. "Gee, Dad, I've got to find him! If he calls
you, warn him-warn him against Z-7. Tell him-"
"Against Z-7!" John Christopher's startled
voice echoed. "Tim, are you crazy? Warn him
against his own chief?"
Tim blurted: "I can't tell you now, Dad! I've
got to find Jimmy!"
He wriggled from the booth. He rushed to
the corner, eyes shining fearfully. Quickly he
clicked open the door of a waiting cab and ducked
inside. The address he breathlessly gave the
driver was that of the building in which was Secret
Intelligence Headquarters R-2.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Doomed to Destruction!
WHEN Operator 5 had quickly entered the
living-room of the house in the East Forties, John
and Nan Christopher had gazed at him in
amazement. He was a startling figure, his face
blackened by soot, his eyes red-rimmed, his
shoes charred and his trousers tattered. Ex-
Operator Q-6 came to his feet anxiously.
"Good Lord, Jimmy-what's happened?"
"Has there been any word from Diane Elliot?"
he demanded. "Have you heard-?"
"Nothing, Jimmy."
"They-they've got her! Oh, God, they've
got her! They've taken her somewhere-taken her
and-"
He paused when Nan Christopher caught at
his arm.
"Jimmy-you mustn't worry about Diane-
you mustn't!"
Operator 5's lips tightened. "Worry about her!
I've never been more worried in my life. You don't
realize-!"
"But she's all right, Jimmy; she must be. I'm
sure she's safe, wherever-"
"Nan!" Jimmy Christopher took his sister's
shoulders into his hands tightly. "Do you know
where she is? Have you heard from her?"
"Of course not, Jimmy, but Diane can take
care of herself."
"If it were any other thing we were fighting,
Nan; anything but this damnable mystic power-I
could believe that. But not now!"
Operator 5 strode into his room. He stripped
off his burned clothing; he salved his reddened
skin, scrubbed his face and hands clean, and
drew on a freshly pressed suit. He was a different
picture when he stepped again into the livingroom
-neat, trim, dustless, but his eyes were still,
deeply shadowed with worry.
"I've got to report to Z-7 at R-2," he said
quickly.
He drew on his hat and coat and was starting
for the door when he paused, looking at a late
edition of an evening newspaper thrown on a
chair. Excited headlines on the front page
declared:
GIRL STUDENTS VANISH
FROM EXCLUSIVE N.Y. SCHOOL!
Disappearances From Mrs. Garrett's
Academy Completely
Baffling
Jimmy Christopher's eyes narrowed. He
carried the paper with him as he started out.
Again Nan Christopher tugged at his arm. He
looked back to find her smiling.
"Jimmy."
"Yes, twin?"
"Don't worry."
He smiled, and kissed her. When he
straightened, there was a startled light in his eyes,
and, for an instant, he saw that look mirrored in
the girl's. He said, in a quick whisper: "Nan!
Have you-?"
"Have I what, Jimmy?"
He hesitated. "I-my thoughts are running
wild. I feel the damnable power of Zaava
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everywhere, even here. Shaky, I guess, Nan.
Good-bye. So long, Dad."
He hurried out to his car. He drove quickly to
Fifth Avenue and turned south, his manner selfabsorbed.
In his nostrils hovered the sinister
essence of bhang. The dread aroma enveloped
him, faintly, though persistently....
His movements were quick and anxious as
he left his roadster near a Fifth Avenue
skyscraper. An elevator carried him to that office
which was, to all appearances, a broker's. A key
admitted him; he went at once to the soundproofed
room. He found it dark and empty; but,
under the door of the communications room, a
line of light was shining; the clicking of the
teletypes was audible.
OPERATOR 5 nervously settled into a chair,
and took from his pocket the two newspapers he
had brought with him: the one containing Diane's
first article on Zaavanism, and the other the
revelation of the mysterious disappearance of
students from Mrs. Garrets Academy. Quickly he
read them.
Diane's was not a straight news account: it
was colored with skepticism, even humorous
incredulity at the views expressed by Senator
Cottron. It brought even more clearly to Operator
5's mind the reasons which lay behind her
disappearance. He heard, like a faint haunting
echo, the hushed words of Prince Horpa Tal
spoken in the hidden temple: Zaava destroys!
Jimmy Christopher turned quickly to the
second item. The dean and the president of Mrs.
Garrett's Academy, a fashionable private school
for girls, had endeavored to keep the strange
facts from becoming public when the first girl had
vanished, a week ago. Even when the second
had disappeared, the police had worked secretly.
When the third was missed, the story had broken.
All of them had been good students, yet recently
their studies had suffered; they had seemed
preoccupied, strangely detached from their
surroundings and their usual activities. In the
accounts were hints which Operator 5 could
interpret only too clearly-suggestions that
indicated the workings of the Black Power of
Zaava, and of bhang!
Girls taken by the evil god, entrapped in its
cruel worship? Girls to be sacrificed, in the
exaltation of the barbaric god's spell, as Sylvia
Chester had been?
Even as he thought of the girl he had first
seen fleeing from the black-robed men in the
Virginia mountains, the girl he had seen lashed to
unconsciousness in the hidden temple of Zaava,
Operator 5 glimpsed another item in the late
edition:
UNKNOWN YOUNG WOMAN DYING
IN BELLEVUE
An unidentified girl in her early twenties, found
wandering in a delirium of pain by police late last
night, was taken to Bellvue Hospital immediately for
treatment. Her body is cruelly lacerated, indicating
that she had been beaten almost to death. She is
unconscious, and physicians despair of saving her
life.
Jimmy Christopher heard a quick step
outside the door as he glanced at another
headline: "Rev. Murdock Still Missing." He rose
quickly as the latch clicked, and Z-7 strode in.
The Washington chief strode, without a word,
to his desk, flinging off his hat. When Operator 5
was about to speak, a buzzer sounded, and Z-7
answered it with a pressure on a pearl button.
A teletype operator stepped in, bringing to
the chief a yellow despatch. Z-7 gave it scarcely
a glance, peering at Operator 5.
"The fire," Z-7 declared, "was brought under
control too late. All the trappings of the temple
were destroyed. The rest of the building was not
injured. The men and women rounded up have
been released. I have all their names. They're
going to be given medical treatment."
Operator 5 nodded. ''That temple must be
the only one in New York, Chief. We've wiped it
out. We must make every effort to keep another
from being established. In the meantime, our
men must search for other temples in all parts of
the country. The worshippers we can save, but
the leaders of the cult must be rounded up and
deported-or destroyed."
"MY BOY," Z-7 declared levelly, "you are
attempting too much."
"Too much, Chief?"
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Again the buzzer sounded, and again, in
answer to Z-7's response, the teletype attendant
brought a message. The Chief glanced at it and
tossed it aside. His gaze returned coldly to
Operator 5. "You realize," he declared flatly, "that
our Intelligence force is not an army-we work
with comparatively few men. Already we have lost
seven of them."
"Seven? M-11 was the fifth, F-6 the sixth,
and-"
"K-4, the man who was caught on the wire in
the elevator, died before he reached the hospital."
Jimmy Christopher's eyes saddened. "I'm
sorry. Yet, Chief, heavy as the cost has been, it
is nothing compared with-"
"You have succeeded so far, Operator 5,"
Z-7 declared, "in escaping the traps set by
Zaava's priests. The next time you may be taken
unawares. I've stated before, and I repeat it
now-I can't permit you to risk your life so
recklessly."
"That's my lookout, Chief," Operator 5
answered slowly. "Sometime, in some case it's
going to happen. My life belongs to the Service; I
expect, some day, to lose it in the Service. To
lose it fighting the spread of this damnable
Zaavanism-I'd consider it well lost!"
Z-7's eyes shone with a forbidding light. He
was silent a moment, and turned to the
communications which had been brought to his
desk. He read them, scowling, and replaced them.
Operator 5 asked quietly: "May I, Chief?"
Z-7 hesitated, then passed them. Jimmy
Christopher read the longer first. Its code
designated that it had been sent from the
Intelligence Headquarters in El Paso.
... RENEWED ACTIVITIES OF SMUGGLING
RING SPOTTED LAST NIGHT... ALL AVAILABLE
MEN PUT ON CASE... TRACED HUGE SHIPMENT
OF CAKED HASHISH TRAVELING BY TRUCKS
ALONG BROADWAY OF AMERICA ROUTE
THROUGH VAN HORN... CONFISCATED THREE
TRUCKS TONS OF CONTRABAND... MEXICAN
GOVERNMENT COOPERATING TO SHUT OFF
SUPPLY AT SOURCE... EVERY ASSURANCE
FURTHER SHIPMENTS WILL BE MADE
IMPOSSIBLE THROUGH HERE...
"A source of supply for the Zaavanists!"
Operator 5 exclaimed. "Chief, every hour brings
new headway against the spread of the cult! Each
move we make-"
"This," Z-7 interrupted coldly, "is not
headway," and he indicated the shorter of the two
communications.
FOLLOWING ORDERS, DROVE TO NORTON
IN SEARCH OF J-8...NO SIGN OF HIM HERE...
ALSO NO SIGN OF COTTRON... WORKING ALONE
MAKING EVERY POSSIBLE EFFORT TO LOCATE
BOTH MEN...
...S-3...
"J-8," the Chief explained, "is the agent I
ordered to shadow Senator Cottron. I received a
report from him early last night stating that
Cottron had left the city by car, driving north as far
as Norton, which is two hours away. There
Cottron vanished. I ordered J-8 to make every
effort to pick up Cottron's trail, and asked that he
report to me this morning.
"J-8's second report did not come. The entire
day passed without word from him. I sent S-3 to
Norton in an effort to find him. There is the
answer. J-8 cannot be located. There is every
possibility that Senator Cottron was responding to
some command of the Zaavan priests in going to
Norton-every possibility that J-8 ran into a trap.
Any imaginable horror may have happened to
him. Danger lies on every hand, Operator 5-
everywhere!"
Jimmy Christopher asked quietly: "Chief, why
wasn't I informed of this report from J-8 earlier?
It's an important lead. It should be followed up. I
know that S-3 is one of our most capable men,
but he's at a standstill. It's an angle I want to
follow up myself.''
"It's an angle,'' Z-7 returned coldly, "that no
operator is going to follow up-not even you!"
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER'S lids lowered.
"What do you mean, Chief?"
"I mean," Z-7 declared, "that we are
abandoning this case!"
"Abandoning it?" Operator 5 blurted. "That's
impossible! If we abandon it, it means complete
domination by the cult of Zaava! It means
transforming the United States into one vast
barbaric, bhang-crazed fanatics!"
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Z-7 rose stiffly. His knuckles pressed hard to
the desk. His black eyes smouldered. "My
decision is made!"
"Chief! Good Lord, you can't do that! Seven
of our men have died on the case-seven men
serving our orders loyally. You'll make their
deaths a mockery if you do this!"
"Seven sacrifices to Zaava!" Z-7 declared.
"Seven, and it is at an end! If it continues, the
entire Intelligence Service will be wiped out! I can't
face that!"
"Your men can face it, Chief," Operator 5
declared softly. "They can face it-and will."
Z-7 grew pale. His fists pressed harder. The
light shining in his eyes grew to a mad intensity.
"Operator 5, in the past you've worked with a free
hand. You've handled cases independently
because I've allowed you to. The fact remains that
you are under my orders-that when I give you
orders, you will obey them!"
Operator 5's gaze sharpened. "Am I to
understand, Chief, that I-"
"You're to understand that I am ordering you
off this case-ordering you off it instantly!"
Jimmy Christopher slowly replaced the
teletyped messages on the desk, his gaze never
leaving the face of Z-7. Quite unconsciously his
fingers strayed to the tiny gold ornament dangling
from his watch chain-the glittering skull with its
eyes of ruby red. His voice was scarcely a
whisper as he answered: "Z-7, those are orders I
cannot accept."
"You have no choice but to accept them!"
Z-7 snapped. "You have sworn to obey me!"
"Those are orders, Z-7," Operator 5
declared again, his voice ringing cold, "that I
cannot accept. As for my oath, I swore to serve
my country, to devote my life to the preservation
of the nation-that above all else. I am obeying
that supreme command, Chief, when I tell you
that I refuse to accept your orders."
Z-7 echoed. "You refuse?"
"I refuse!"
The Washington chief straightened slowly.
His eyes narrowed to black, gleaming slits.
"Operator 5," he said sharply, "I demand your
resignation at once!"
Jimmy Christopher straightened. "I also
refuse to tender my resignation," he declared.
"Then-!" White tendons shone on Z-7's
neck. His lips thinned vehemently. "Then-
consider yourself under arrest!"
Jimmy Christopher's clean cut features
slowly lost their color. The appalling words echoed
through his mind like a pronouncement of doom.
His lips parted in soundless astonishment.
"Consider yourself under arrest!" Z-7
declared again raspingly, "Consider yourself liable
to the penalty exacted from all who turn traitor to
the Service!"
TRAITOR! The word swayed Jimmy
Christopher like a blow. He drew up straight, his
chin lifted, his eyes brightly defiant. And that
penalty, Operator 5 knew, was death. He leaned
forward slowly. He placed both palms on the
desk-hands that were suddenly cold and numb.
He looked straight into the savage eyes of Z-7.
"I still consider you my chief, Z-7. I still
consider myself a member of the United States
Intelligence Service. I still consider myself bound
by the oath I have taken to serve my country, and
I will uphold that vow as long as I live. Nothing-
not even you, Chief, can stop me."
He turned slowly. He reached for the knob of
the door. He was twisting it when Z-7's voice
snapped again.
"Operator 5! I've declared you under arrest!
If you leave this room I'll have you hunted like a
criminal! I'll have you seized-imprisoned! I'll treat
you like any traitorous-"
Operator 5 looked back. The steely glint in
his eyes silenced Z-7's rushing words. He spoke
again, quietly, firmly.
"I-a traitor! This is not you speaking, Z-7. It
is the voice of Zaava!"
He stepped out of the room and crossed
quickly to the outer door. He jerked the way
open, stepped into the light of the corridor, and
peered into the anxious, drawn face of Tim
Donovan.
"Jimmy! I came here as quick as I could.
You've got to look out for Z-7!"
Operator 5 smiled tightly.
"I know, Tim," he said. "I know!"
As he stepped toward the elevator grille, he
glanced back once at the door through which he
had passed. A door forbidden to him now. A door
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which the simple act of closing had transformed
him into a hunted fugitive....
In the soundless inner office, Z-7 stood
glaring across his desk. He passed a cold hand
vaguely before his face. He choked "My boy-my
boy!" and started anxiously for the door. Before
his hand touched the knob he paused, peering
into nothingness, seeing phantom, magic eyes
that peered into his....
He turned back slowly. He sat tensely at the
desk and wrote rapidly on a pad. He ripped the
sheet off, thrust open the door of the
communications room, and thrust it to the table
before the startled dispatchers.
"Put it on the wire!" he commanded.
"Telephone every Intelligence Agent in this city at
once! Now! Do you hear me-at once!"
He stood erect, pale, trembling, as the
amazed dispatchers complied. A teletype
machine began to click. A voice began to drone
into the transmitter of a switchboard to which led
a web of secret wires. Over them the message
carried...
"To all Intelligence Headquarters; to all
Intelligence Operators: Operator 5 to be arrested
on sight and held prisoner as a traitor to the
Service!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Secret Summons
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER stilled the power of
his roadster when he reached the front of the
building near Gramercy Park in which Z-7 lived.
Tim Donovan hurried with him into the elevator.
They were silent as the cage lifted them to the
eleventh floor. At the door of Z-7's apartment
Operator 5 paused, hand on the immovable knob.
Inside, a telephone bell jangled. Jimmy
Christopher brought his master keys into play.
When he pushed in, with the wide-eyed Tim
Donovan beside him, the telephone was still
chattering. He paused, inhaling the sweet
heaviness of the air.
"Open all the windows, Tim!" he ordered
crisply. "Snap it up!"
As the boy obeyed, he moved to the
telephone. He hesitated before he brought the
receiver to his ear. He spoke in a low voice, and
an answered him sharply: "Z-7! This is N-14
calling. I've just received telephonic orders to
arrest Operator 5 on sight. I can't believe it! I'm
calling you for verification."
Operator 5 smiled tightly. "It's quite true,
N-14," he answered.
"Two other operators are here with me,
Chief!" the voice continued. "They've received the
same orders. Is it possible we are expected to
arrest the ace of the Service?"
"When Intelligence men receive orders,"
Operator 5 answered quietly, "they do not
question them. They obey them."
He hung the receiver slowly. Cold air was
gusting through the open windows when he
turned to face Tim Donovan. Amazed light still
shone in the boy's eyes-bewilderment and deep
concern for Operator 5.
"Gosh, Jimmy, I heard it just like I told you!
That man in the black turban commanded Z-7 to
promise to kill you-and Z-7 promised!"
"It seems, Tim," Jimmy Christopher
answered, "that Operator 5 is a fugitive. Every
Intelligence agent in New York, perhaps every
agent in the entire country, has been warned to
arrest me on sight."
"Jimmy! They can't do a thing like that to
you! Why, they're crazy if they-"
"The order's out, Tim," Jimmy Christopher
answered. "We'll have to watch ourselves. Once
I'm grabbed, it's all over. I'll be kept a prisoner,
and the case will be ended. As long as Z-7 is
enslaved by the Power of Zaava-"
"He didn't make a move to grab the man in
the turban, Jimmy! He just stood and looked."
"Which was his mistake-looking into the
Tibetan's eyes," Operator 5 declared, turning
quickly. "That and breathing the air of this room. I
know what that lure is! I've felt it myself. It takes
all the strength a man possesses to fight it. It
must have gotten hold of Z-7 without his knowing
it, somehow-"
He spoke with self-absorbed quietness as he
moved around the room. Tim Donovan's eyes
followed him anxiously.
"I put you to trailing the chief in the first
piece, Tim," he continued, peering about,
"because he was acting strangely. It wasn't like
Z-7 to try to induce me to drop a case. He's
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never done that before. He was going under the
spell even then. It's been growing on him over a
period of time-growing stronger and stronger."
Operator 5 had come to Z-7's desk. He
leaned across it, light shining into his face from a
green-shaded standard, mystified and alert.
"Think of that, Tim! The cultists discovering Z-7's
identity-his apartment. Only a few of his own
men know where he lives, but the Tibetans
located him. They began to bind him in a spell
that robbed him of his intelligence-made him a
slave. A spell that comes with the fumes of
bhang-"
Suddenly, Jimmy Christopher's hand went to
the shaded light. He unscrewed the green-glass
reflector; he peered at the two bright bulbs.
Quickly he twisted one of them loose.
"That's it!" Tim Donovan crowded close, and
saw, in one side of the globe, a small aperture. It
had been blown into the glass; it was the mouth of
a small cavity contained within the shell, yet open
to the air. Jimmy Christopher turned the bulb
over, and amber drops fell from it to the blotter.
"Bhang concentrate!" he exclaimed. "Another
of their devilish tricks! A Zaavanist put that bulb in
this standard, substituting it for a regular light. The
heat vaporized the concentrate and forced the
fumes into the room. Lord, Tim-every night Z-7
has been breathing this stuff!"
Jimmy Christopher hurled the bulb through
the open window. It struck the tiles of the terrace
and dully exploded. Next he ripped the bhangmoistened
blotter to shreds, and fluttered them
into the air. He left the windows open, and
gestured Tim Donovan to the door.
"But, Jimmy-they're looking for you!" the
boy cried anxiously.
"Yes, Tim, they are. I might be picked up at
any moment. You may rest assured of one thing,
old-timer-if an Intelligence operator arrests me, I
won't resist him. I'm acting alone now, but I'm not
fighting them."
"Not alone, Jimmy!" Tim exclaimed. "I'm
sticking with you. You know that!"
"Good boy. Good boy, Tim!"
Operator 5 smiled as he opened the door.
Tim Donovan caught at his hand. The Irish lad's
question was strained and quiet: "Jimmy, what
can we do? Where can we go? If they're watching
for us everywhere?"
"We've got to keep out of reach for a little
while, but we can't keep out of the hands of the
other operators for long. They have too many
leads on me. It's hopeless to try to escape them
for more than a few hours."
"Jimmy, you mean you're sure you'll get
caught?" the boy blurted, wide-eyed.
"Sure of it, Tim-absolutely sure. They're
good men, those other operators. There's just
one chance I can take, and it's a big one. Just
one chance, Tim-and I can't even guess the
end. But I'm going to take it... I've got to take
it..."
Tim Donovan's eyes clung apprehensively to
Operator 5's grave face as they closed the door of
Z-7's apartment behind them. They spoke no
word while the elevator cage carried them to the
foyer. Cautiously Jimmy Christopher went to his
car. Tim Donovan's hand closed warmly on his as
they whisked away through the gloom.
IT was an apartment house on the West
Side, with the garish lane of Broadway running
hard by. Taxi horns blared past it and the air was
continually gray with motor fumes. Run down,
disreputable looking, sooty, it stood with "To Let"
signs in its grimy windows.
Toward its door a middle-aged man detached
himself from the stream of passers-by. He went
into the odorous hall, and up a dark flight of stairs.
A yellow bulb lighted the way to a paint-peeled
door in the corridor. He gave a hitch at his gun
and hesitated. He was known as Operator T-4 of
the United States Intelligence Service.
Warily he pushed the door open. He looked
into an utterly bare room, the floor of which was
layered with accumulated dust. It was empty and
silent save for the muffled hum of the city; yet in it
now a yellow bulb was burning.
Operator T-4 moved suspiciously through
two large rooms, through two smaller ones in the
rear, through a dismantled bathroom and a
stripped kitchen. He looked puzzled as he
completed the round; he shrugged, and returned
to the entrance door.
He was reaching for it when a quiet step
sounded outside. He jerked at his gun as the knob
turned. His weapon glinted level into the widening
crack of the door-at a face that peered in.
Operator T-4 grunted: "I'll be damned!"
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The man in the hallway exclaimed: "What the
devil are you doing here?"
"I might ask the same of you!"
The second man entered quietly. He was
also a member of the United States Intelligence
Service: his designation was P-9. The two secret
agents peered at each other strangely.
"What is this?" T-4 demanded.
"All I know," P-9 answered, "is that early this
evening I got a telephone call ordering me to
come here. I thought it might be Z-7 calling, but
the man who talked didn't identify himself. He
spoke as if he meant it, saying that I should be
here at this particular minute-no reasons given.
It's damned strange."
"The same thing happened to me," T-4
explained. "Strange is right. I'm for-"
He broke off as another quiet sound echoed
from the corridor. The two men drew away from
the door, watching it, as the footfalls came closer.
The steps paused at the door; then the knob
turned.
Through a widening slit an eye looked-an
eye that widened in surprise.
The third man who entered was W-2. "Well,"
T-4 demanded, "do you know any more about
why you're here than we do? Did you get a
telephone call-"
W-2 had. He was explaining the mysterious
nature of the summons when repeated sounds
came from the corridor. They fell silent, again
watching the door. As before, it opened; as
before, the face disclosed in the light was that of a
secret agent. R-8 came into the room quietly,
puzzled, half-smiling.
R-8's explanations were interrupted by the
appearance of a fifth Intelligence man, H-15. The
mystified group settled down to a period of
puzzled waiting. Each moment brought another
of their number. One after another Intelligence
agents appeared, until a score were present in the
musty room. With the regularity of clockwork the
door opened to admit them; but soon the
procession was broken. Minutes passed and no
other man appeared.
"We all got the same calls, anyway," T-4
declared, "and the times were set so that we
wouldn't run into each other outside. Either
somebody is pulling off a joke on us or-"
He broke off, as another step sounded in the
corridor. It was the firm rhythm of long, quick
strides. Then again the door opened, this time
quietly. Again a man stepped into the room, into
the yellow shine of the bared globe.
T-4 gasped: "Operator 5!"
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER stood with his back
to the door, his face grave, his blue eyes shining
brightly. His hands were at his sides; his chin was
lifted. His unexpected appearance stunned the
score of agents in the room; they hesitated
uncertainly. His firm voice broke the startled quiet.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I am the one who
telephoned you and called you here."
T-4 blurted: "Good Lord! Don't you realize
that orders are out to arrest you?"
Operator 5 answered quietly: "I summoned
you here because I know each of you has
received those orders from Z-7. I want to talk to
you for a very few minutes. If at the end of that
time you choose to take me prisoner, you may do
so."
"You mean-you're giving yourself up?"
"That," Jimmy Christopher answered softly,
"rests entirely with you, gentlemen."
He moved away from the door while their
eyes followed him in wonderment. He stood under
the shining yellow globe, his gaze passing from
face to face. His words came rapidly now. "Z-7,"
he began, "demanded my arrest because he
ordered me to abandon all attempts to prevent the
spread of the cult of Zaava, and I refused to do
so. I refused because I consider it my duty-a
duty higher than mere obedience to Z-7-to see
the case through to the end.
"You are the only power that can stop me,
and you possess that power now, at this minute,
because I have chosen to give it to you. You are
able, if you choose, to carry out Z-7's orders
tonight. If you arrest me I won't resist you in the
slightest way. If you decide to overrule Z-7's
orders, as I have done, I ask your allegiance, your
aid in fighting the power of Zaava."
W-2 exclaimed: "You mean you're asking us
to disobey the chief's orders? If we do that, we'll
be false to-"
"You will not be false to your oath of service,"
said Jimmy Christopher. "You will be false only to
the influence of Zaava-because Z-7's orders
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came not from his own mind, but from the minds
of the cultists who have taken control of him."
"Taken control!"
"By means of bhang," Operator 5 went on.
"They drugged him without his realizing it. They've
changed him from a man of his own strength into
a tool of the cult. They've influenced him to order
the case dropped because our work is the
greatest existing threat against the spread of
belief in Zaava. Night after night Z-7 breathed the
fumes of bhang, until-"
The score of men in the room listened
intently as Jimmy Christopher narrated the
circumstances.
"You have only my word for what I've told
you," he declared then. "Under the circumstances,
I can't prove the facts are true. Now, gentlemen,
the decision is up to you. Loyalty to the service-
following me-or loyalty to a manifestation of
Zaava's power."
The men glanced at each other in
wonderment. It was T-4 who stepped forward as
spokesman. "You mean that if we decide to obey
Z-7's orders and take you prisoner, you'll come
with us without a protest?"
"I mean exactly that," Operator 5 answered.
"I could not keep out of your hands for long in any
case. I'm placing myself entirely at your mercy.
With you rests the decision of whether or not the
fight against Zaava goes on."
W-2 exclaimed: "Damn it, Operator 5, I know
what you've been up against. I went with you into
the hidden temple. You saved us from the wire in
the elevator cage. God knows there was danger
in every corner, but you led the way. You might
have died as F-6 did-frozen stiff in an instant-
but you didn't hesitate. By God, I can't turn my
back on a man like you! I'm with you!"
A CHORUS of assent followed. They
crowded forward to grip Jimmy Christopher's
hands. A slow smile came to his lips, a smile of
unbounded relief.
His throat grew tight at the loyalty of these
men.
"You can trust us absolutely, Operator 5," T-
4 declared. "Give us orders and we'll follow them
to the letter."
"Thank you, gentlemen," Operator 5
answered softly. "Here are the orders: We have
succeeded in wiping out the temple of Zaava in
New York, but it is only one arm of the cult. There
are many others. Somewhere is its head-
unknown. From it the cult's tentacles reach over
the country. Zaava's strength will not be
destroyed until that head is destroyed. It is our
job to find it and destroy it.
"There is only one lead," Operator 5
continued. "J-8 trailed Senator Cottron to a small
town two hours north of here-Norton, New York.
He vanished. S-3 went in search of him, and has
not discovered him. In that region there may be a
hidden temple of Zaava which is only another arm
of the cult; but, too, it may be the head we are
seeking. I am leaving for Norton now.
"Gentlemen, hold yourselves ready. These
rooms are your headquarters for the time being.
In the closet in the kitchen you'll find a telephone
which is connected with a special wire. If
developments rise to warrant it, I'll communicate
with you over that line. At all hours of the day and
night you must be ready to go into action on the
shortest notice."
T-4 declared: "Count on us to the limit,
Operator 5!"
Jimmy Christopher's smile grew. He moved
to the door through which he had entered. He
opened it and stepped out.
He went down the stairs quickly. He emerged
into the noisy side-street, and a small figure slid
from a doorway to join him as he walked slowly
along the street. Tim Donovan peered anxiously
into Jimmy Christopher's face.
"They're with you, Jimmy-I knew they'd be!
They'd be crazy if they weren't!"
Operator 5 took a deep, slow breath.
"I played the chance, Tim, and it won.
But the job's still ahead of us, old-timer,
and God only knows what lies along the way.
God-and the Devils of Zaava."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Terror in the Night
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER entered the
brownstone house on the East Forties and quickly
climbed the stairs with Tim Donovan at his heels.
He paused as he neared the door connecting with
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the living-room. A quick sound reached him
through the panels-a sound that vanished
instantly. He pushed in and looked across the
empty room. "Dad!" he called. "Nan!"
There was no answer. He looked about for
any note that might have been left for him, but
there was none. Eager to lose no time, he hurried
into the workshop situated in the rear of the
house.
It was equipped with countless electrical
devices, a chemical laboratory bench, a complete
wood-working shop, and strange machinery the
uses of which were known only to Operator 5.
Here he often worked late into the night on plans
and devices the nature of which he never
divulged. Here, too, he originated or perfected the
feats of magic which Tim Donovan waited eagerly
to see demonstrated.
Jimmy Christopher stored in his pocket a
small box containing a number of the impregnated
nose-filters. He checked his automatic, hurried
into the room and filled an over-night case with a
change of clothing. He was closing it when
another furtive sound came from the living-room.
He glanced quickly through the door and surprise
tightened his face.
He glimpsed Nan Christopher slipping quietly
from the front parlor, onto the stair-landing. He
called her name quickly; she gave no response
save to move away more rapidly. He crossed
after her and saw her hurrying toward the outer
door. She glanced back, her face white and
frightened, and Jimmy Christopher sprang after
her anxiously.
"Nan!" He caught her arm as she was
opening the entrance. "What's the matter? Why
didn't you-?"
"Let me go, Jimmy!" Nan Christopher plead
breathlessly. "Please let me go!"
A strange light came into his eyes. He drew a
deep breath. Again he sensed that strange
sweetness that haunted him-the fumes of
bhang! They had come out of nowhere; they were
faint, yet distinct. Jimmy Christopher peered
intently into his sister's frightened eyes.
"What's up, Nan?" Operator 5 asked quietly.
"You were hiding in the front room when I came
in, and you didn't answer me. You tried to slip out
without my seeing you. Why? Where're you
going?"
"Please let me go, Jimmy!" the girl implored
anxiously. "I-I can't tell you where I'm going, but
please don't stop me!"
Jimmy Christopher hesitated. "Nan," he
asked gently, "do you smell that sweetness in the
air-do you? Doesn't it seem to reach into the
depths of your mind and take you out of yourself?
Do you feel-?"
"Jimmy-please!"
A new light shone in his eyes. Suddenly,
surprisingly, he stooped and pressed his lips to
Nan's. He drew back quickly, as a stronger breath
of the essence of bhang came to him. The girl
recoiled as he closed his hand around her purse.
She struggled to keep it; but she yielded, sinking
away in fright.
He thrust his fingers into it; he brought out
the little tube of metal which contained lip-rouge.
He bared the crimson pencil and smelled it. His
lips tightened as he peered into his sister's eyes
again.
"In that stuff!" he exclaimed. "Bhang! Nan,
did you realize-?"
"No, Jimmy! No!"
She made a move to snatch the purse from
him; but he kept it. This time he brought from it a
crumpled bit of paper. A protest came from the
girl as he spread it out. On it he saw black-written
characters, twisted strangely into the semblance
of an alien language. He read:
The happiness of Heaven awaits your embrace-
Beneath, incongruously, was written an
address on Fifth Avenue-nothing more.
"You were going there, Nan!" Jimmy
Christopher exclaimed. "Why?"
"I don't know, Jimmy!" the girl exclaimed. "I
felt I had to go, all at once. I-I tried to tell myself
I shouldn't, but-it seemed to make me want to
go!"
Jimmy Christopher brought the paper close
to his nose. From it, as from the rouge, came the
heavy vapor of bhang. He gripped Nan
Christopher's wrist.
"You're not going, twin. You're never going!
You've got to stay here."
"I know, I know I must! If I go I'll be-lost,
Jimmy. Lost!"
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HE turned her toward the stairs. She went
almost frantically into the living-room, as though
trying to escape the strange power that lured her.
Tim Donovan gazed at her curiously. Jimmy
Christopher turned her by her shoulders, faced
her squarely. His words were terse.
"Nan. You read in the papers of the
disappearances from Mrs. Garrett's school.
You've heard me tell dad of Zaava. This is the
power of Zaava, Nan-these fumes! This is the
power that took those girls into the unknown-that
will take you with them if you yield!"
"I know, Jimmy," Nan whispered.
"You've got to fight it! Every moment, with all
the strength you've got, you've got to fight it.
Remember, Nan-never forget it!"
"I'll try, Jimmy! Really I will!"
Holding her hand tightly he led her into her
room. He kept the tube of lipstick and the drugged
paper in his hand. Her eyes watched his eyes
frightenedly.
"Where did these come from, Nan?"
"Through the mail," she answered. "The
rouge came in a little box with a card saying
'Compliments of the maker.' The message came
in the mail, too, just a little while ago. Jimmy, it's
made me feel so strange."
Jimmy Christopher whipped out his
handkerchief and took the bhang-scented rouge
from his sister's lips.
"Nan, I can't stay with you now. I can't help
you resist the lure of this stuff. It's got to be your
fight-yours alone. Can you do it, Nan? Can you
fight it down?"
"I'll try, Jimmy!"
"You've got to stay here, Nan. Here, in this
house. If you leave it, you're lost. If you yield for
one moment-it's all over. I've got to go now,
Nan-I've got to. When I come back I want to find
you still here. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Jimmy!"
He turned away slowly. He closed the door
and quickly took up the telephone, called the
secret number of the rendezvous on the West
Side. T-4's voice answered.
"Operator 5 talking: Come to this address
right now," and Jimmy Christopher read the
address from the bhang-scented slip of paper.
"Watch yourselves when you go in. Say nothing
about it to Z-7. I'll connect with you again later."
Jimmy Christopher took up his black case
and passed it to Tim Donovan. The boy hurried
out and he turned again to the bedroom door.
Opening it, he found Nan sitting tense on the
edge of the bed, her face white, her fists
clenched, a hysterical light shining in her eyes.
"Fight it, Nan," he said quietly. "Never stop
fighting it."
The girl forced a smile. She lifted her head
firmly.
"I'm trying to, oh, I'm trying!"
He closed the door again. His face was grim
as he hurried down the stairs. He passed from
the entrance to find Tim Donovan waiting for him
in the car. He was slipping behind the wheel
when a quick voice called from the sidewalk.
"Jimmy!"
John Christopher was hurrying from the
corner; his face was drawn and anxious. He
came to his son quickly. "My boy, I've heard the
report-Z-7's orders! You can't risk showing
yourself now! I don't know the reasons behind it,
my boy, but I can't believe-"
"It's all right, Dad," Jimmy Christopher
answered. "Every operator in New York is with
me. We've got a job to do-the biggest job we've
ever faced."
John Christopher clicked open the door and
settled beside Tim Donovan. In the glow of the
dash his eyes shone brightly. "Go ahead, Jimmy,"
he suggested quietly. "I'm with you too."
"Dad, you can't take the chance!"
"You mean," John Christopher answered,
"that this damned bullet embedded near my heart
may kill me, any excitement might finish me off. I
know that, Jimmy, but I'm not staying back.
Whatever chance I'm taking is nothing compared
with yours, son. Let's go."
Operator 5, his jaw tightening, threw the car
into gear. His lips were a thin line as he touched
the accelerator. The roadster swished from the
curb.
John Christopher sat erect, his eyes shining.
Tim Donovan huddled close at Operator 5's side.
Operator 5 peered intently ahead as the car
streaked forward.
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TWO hours of swift driving had brought him
from New York City into lonesome country where
a brooding darkness lay over undulating hills. The
twining road he had followed toward the town of
Norton was black and deserted. It was midnight,
and silent...
Now water glistened blackly in the glare of
headlights. The road dipped abruptly into it. A
fragile shell of a moon, rising slowly, spread a dim
glow across the rippling lake that lay hidden in the
gloomy isolation. At its center, the moonlight
showed a black hump rising out of the surface of
the lake, a hilltop on which stood a lightless,
rectangular silhouette which might be a house.
"Wrong turn," Jimmy Christopher said
impatiently. "We've got to go back."
Jimmy Christopher drove quickly to a turn.
After a few moments of fast driving, lights
appeared. The buildings of a small town stood
grouped in the night beside the spreading water.
The town seemed asleep, but a bright gleam
disclosed that a gasoline filling-station was still
doing business. Operator 5 drew into it. A
wizened native ambled out of the cottage,
chewing tobacco industriously.
"Is this Norton?" Jimmy Christopher inquired.
"Yeah, it's Norton. Travelin' late, ain't you?"
"What's that lake?" Operator 5 persisted.
"Why, that ain't exactly a lake," the old man
declared. "It's a reservoir. There's lots of 'em
around here, but that's the newest. Feeds water
down to the city."
"I almost drove into it, then," Jimmy
Christopher observed. "I took the right turn a bit
farther back and-"
"You did? They put posts up, cutting that
road off so nobody can go that way. Now
somebody's gone and stole those posts again for
firewood. That road used to lead over there to the
hill, but it's been under water for years now."
"That house on the island?"
The old man drawled his explanation. Once
the valley, which lay now under the surface of the
reservoir, had been farmland. The houses which
had once nestled on the slopes had vanished with
the rising of the waters. They were all gone,
except the one which remained on the hilltop.
Once it had been a magnificent mansion, but
it had been abandoned with the building of the
reservoir. Now it was a collapsing shell, swaying
in the winds, its eaves nested with countless
bats-an old ghost of a house crumbling day by
day into the waters that moated it.
"It's stood there like that five years now," the
old man declared. "Ain't a soul stepped foot on
that place since the water came up. The city is
plumb careful to keep the water clean. There ain't
any swimmin' allowed in it, of course, or even any
fishin'. Nothin' over there but maybe ghosts-"
"Ghosts?"
The old man wiped his chin. "Folks says
they've seen things movin' over that island," he
declared. "On dark nights they've seen it. I have
myself-sort of black figures movin' around, like.
Only, it's just the wind, I reckon, makin' noises in
the leaves of the trees and wavin' the grass. If
ever a place was cut off from the rest of the world,
it's that house as she is today. Nobody-nothin',
there-"
But at that very instant, as though to belie
the old man's word, sparks flashed out of the
night-light glinted from the isolated hilltop
surrounded by the water-and the reports of gunfire
echoed.
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER peered across the
lake at the black hump of the hill. The island again
was covered with dark silence.
"Godfrey!" the old man blurted. "Sounded like
a couple shots, didn't it? But there can't be
anybody over there!"
"Why not?" Operator 5 demanded.
"There ain't any way of gettin' there without a
boat, and boatin' on that reservoir is illegal. There
ain't any boats around here, either. Wait a minute!
Godfrey, there is-one!"
"A boat kept near here?"
The old man explained quickly that a family
named Thomason living a mile down the road had
a canoe. They kept it in the barn during the winter
and took it with them when they went to their
camp in Maine during the summer. They had
returned to Norton several weeks ago, and the
canoe must be at their place now. Perhaps
tramps had stolen it, and gone to the island.
Jimmy Christopher said succinctly, "Thanks!"
The old man eyed him in surprise as he
turned the car again, and drove the way he had
come. Tim Donovan kept watching the black point
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of the isolated island. John Christopher asked
curiously: "Can it have a connection, Jimmy?"
"J-8," he answered, "came to this town and
disappeared. That's lead enough. We're going
over there."
The speedometer registered the passing of a
mile when a dark house loomed into view at the
side of the road. Its windows were lightless.
Behind it sat a huge barn. On a mailbox was a
painted name: "Thomason." Jimmy Christopher
rolled past it, slid to the side of the road, and
clicked out the lights and ignition.
He slipped from the wheel, Tim Donovan and
his father following. They drifted past the house to
the old barn. Operator 5 found its door
unfastened. He eased into the darkness, brought
a small electric torch from his pocket, and
touched its button.
The cone lit up cobwebbed beams. In a rear
corner, resting on two supports and covered with
tarpaulin, lay the overturned canoe. Tim Donovan
observed in a whisper: "The old man was wrong,
Jimmy-nobody's taken it. Then how could
anybody be on the island?"
"That," said Operator 5 softly, "is what we're
going to try to find out, Tim."
He signaled the boy, and they lifted the
canoe from its supports. Quietly they carried it out
of the barn and past the house. They heaved it
upside down, so that it rested on the top of the
roadster and the raised rumble-seat cover.
Operator 5 returned to the wheel. He swung
into the road carefully. John Christopher steadied
the canoe with one up-raised arm as they swung
around the bend which had taken them to the
edge of the water. The headlights glittered on
rippling waves as Jimmy Christopher brought the
car to a stop.
They lifted the canoe down and slipped it
silently over the moist grit. Tim Donovan
clambered in first. Jimmy Christopher, bracing to
push off, spoke quietly: "Stay with the car, Dad.
If we're not back soon, telephone New York-this
number." He passed to Ex-Operator Q-6 a small
memo book in which was recorded the secret
number of the West Side rendezvous. "That'll put
you in touch with every agent in New York.
And-watch yourself!"
Operator 5 crouched in the canoe and thrust
the paddle against the grit. It glided out into the
little cove formed by the covered road.
"Not a sound over there now, Jimmy," Tim
Donovan whispered. "It's cut off on all sides, all
right. It doesn't seem that anybody could be over
there at all-" He broke off.
A scream-a shrill scream of terror,
shivering in the cool night air came across the
water from the shadowed island. It echoed into
the silence and vanished.
Jimmy Christopher's glistening paddle
poised. Tim Donovan leaned forward intently. "It
came from the house, Jimmy!"
THE canoe shot on. The hilltop loomed
larger. As he swung closer, Jimmy Christopher
proceeded more cautiously. In the moonlight he
drew near to the shore-line.
"Not a soul in sight, Jimmy!" Tim Donovan
whispered.
Slowly Operator 5 drove the canoe onto the
grit. He pulled it up cautiously and climbed out.
Tim Donovan stole after him. They faced the
spreading blackness, motionless, listening. From
all around came the rippling of the water, but
there was no other sound.
Slowly they began following the waterline.
Where once a lawn had spread, weeds now grew.
Tall black trees surrounded the house. Its firm
lines had sagged; a smell of desolation hung
about it.
The lonely island was small, not more than a
mile in circumference. Jimmy Christopher and Tim
Donovan, moving cautiously every step of the
way, circled it completely. They came to a pause
near the canoe, facing the mansion.
Suddenly Jimmy Christopher's hand shot out
to Tim Donovan's arm. The boy jerked and
peered through the darkness. They dropped low,
huddled motionless.
Out of the gloom came slow, quiet
movements. The rank grass was stirring near the
side of the house. In the deep shadows nothing
was visible for a moment. Then, vaguely, a dark
figure materialized in dim silhouette against the
side of the house. It paused there. Jimmy
Christopher, stifled a gasp. For it was a man clad
in a dark robe-his turning head wrapped in a
black turban.
The figure again. At a rear door a squeaking
of rusty hinges sounded, and then the thicker
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darkness beyond the doorway swallowed him up.
Again for a moment there was quiet.
Quiet-until a choking, rasping cry of terror
tore out of the shell of the house.
Jimmy Christopher moved quickly. Tim
Donovan darted with him part way up the slope,
following an old path. When they reached the
darkness gathered beneath the low-hanging limbs
of a tree, they huddled again. Operator 5's gun
came into his hand as he heard quick, running
steps, sounding as if far away....
Suddenly a figure appeared at the rear door
of the house. It burst into the open wildly with a
man running in terror. He fled along the path
desperately, tottering and swaying. He did not
glimpse Operator 5 and Tim Donovan watching
from the shadows. He propelled himself crazily
down the slow toward the water's edge.
There the fleeing man sprang into the canoe.
Operator 5 rose quickly as the dark figure ducked
low and grasped up a paddle. Swift strokes cut
the water, and the canoe shot away from the
shore as Jimmy Christopher sped down the path.
Tim Donovan loped after him.
The beating of their heels, their shadowy
figures moving along the shore, filled the man in
the canoe with renewed terror. He bent frantically
to the paddle, slashing it madly into the water. It
darted across the glittering surface. Swiftly it
melted away in the darkness!
Jimmy Christopher peered and listened, as
Tim Donovan stared in consternation. "Jimmy!"
the boy whispered anxiously. "Who was that?
What can we do now?"
Operator 5 said tensely, "We're stranded,
Tim. Left high and dry."
He turned to face the black shell of the
house. His hand gripped hard the butt of his
automatic. Again he spoke, in a whisper: "Come
on, old-timer. Watch sharp-because we're going
in."
THEY walked soundlessly along the path to
the house, listening. The ground sloped steeply to
the old structure so that the foundations were
exposed at the rear, like part of a stripped
skeleton. The door which led into a dark cellar
was still standing open. Jimmy Christopher
paused on the sill.
Out of the dark depths came stealthy
sounds. He stepped aside quickly, pulling Tim
Donovan with him, away from the light of the
door. He steadied his flashlight, turning it toward
the source of the noises, and pressed the button.
A bright cone shot through the gloom. It cast
a shadow beyond-the shadow of a stooping,
black-clad figure. As swiftly as the light appeared,
white-rimmed eyes turned to Jimmy Christopher.
In one swift moment they were gone, and the floor
of the cellar was empty.
Operator 5 started forward. As he moved his
light swung. Abruptly he came to a stop, staring at
another shadow that appeared on the side wall-a
shadow that blended into the beamed darkness of
the ceiling. His torch turned: a soft sound came
from his lips.
It was a man's body-swaying-hanging in
mid-air! Its back was turned; its arms and legs
hung loosely; its head was thrown grotesquely to
one side.
Jimmy Christopher stepped forward slowly,
his light playing over the suspended figure. He
saw that it was dangling from a fixture set into one
time-eaten beam, a hand-wrought hook of iron.
The gleaming barb was driven deep beneath the
dead man's chin. Blood had poured down-blood
still wet. The odd beef-hook was supporting a
corpse, and the sight of its face brought a chilled
shock to Jimmy Christopher's nerves.
The dead man was J-8.
Operator 5 turned away grimly. In the light
Tim Donovan's eyes shone. They did not speak
as they peered around. That the scream they had
heard had been uttered by J-8 in the torture of
death they could not doubt.
Jimmy Christopher strode quickly into the
depths of the cellar. He paused beyond the
pyramid shaped foundations of a chimney that
rose through the house. This was the spot at
which the black-clad figure had vanished.
Operator 5's torch swung across the floor,
disclosing clean cracks. He discovered a large,
square section in the door to which an iron ring
was attached. A trap-door.
He seized the ring and pulled.
From beneath the floor of the old cellar dim
light shone. Up into the air came a heavy, wafting
sweetness-bhang! With it rose a rustling sound,
as if many presences were hidden beneath the
shell of the house. The glow shone in Jimmy
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Christopher's eyes as he bent down. He stiffened
involuntarily at what he saw.
A huge red idol, its tremendous, crimson face
from which stared gigantic eyes sat below, in a
great yellow-lighted cavity. Its base was hidden in
the gloom of the depths. Jimmy Christopher was
peering down from above its tremendous head,
almost close enough to touch it.
Suddenly there came swift, threatening
movements. Jimmy Christopher straightened in a
flash, as a gasped warning came from Tim
Donovan. The trapdoor dropped from his fingers
and closed; the glow vanished as the tremendous
cavity containing the idol of Zaava was instantly
lidded over. Jimmy Christopher's light swung to
black figures that came springing from the recess
behind the chimney foundation.
"Tim! Out!"
The light of his torch glittered on a knifeblade
flung high. Jimmy Christopher instantly
clicked the torch off. Its last gleam showed him
the whited eyes and the bared teeth of crowding
black men. He dropped to his side, threw his feet
up, squirming and thrusting against a rushing
body. Instantly he hooked one foot behind the
heel of the black man while he brought the other
sharply against the stiffened knee. There came a
scream of rage and pain. That jiu-jutsu blow had
meant a broken leg.
Tim Donovan was speeding toward the door.
The light shining through it was blotted away as
another dark figure leaped. Jimmy Christopher
bounded ahead; he clubbed his gun and slashed
it downward as steely arms clamped around Tim
Donovan. The blow brought a moan and a thump
of a body. Tim tore himself free; Jimmy
Christopher spun with him through the door into
the open.
THEY raced down the path. From the
shadows of the trees other dark figures appeared
as if by evil magic. Knife-blades glittered in the
moonlight as the dark horde rushed. Jimmy
Christopher whirled at the edge of the water,
stooping swiftly, straightening with a handful of
grit. It dashed stinging blindness into the face of
the first black man. Operator 5 leaped aside,
gasping at the boy.
"Tim! Into the lake-swim for it!"
His automatic was leveled; his finger was
tightened on the trigger, yet he did not fire
because the reports of the gun might bring more
of the black men in an alarmed attack. The dark
shadows were rushing closer down the slope.
Jimmy Christopher heard a splash behind him
that meant Tim Donovan had taken a running
dive. He whirled and leaped headlong into the
water.
Ten yards out Operator 5's head bobbed to
the surface. He saw Tim Donovan stroking swiftly
out into the water. Black figures were swarming
on the shore. One of them snapped an arm up
and forward, and a knife came spinning toward
Jimmy Christopher like a streak of light. He
heaved down swiftly, gasping a warning to Tim.
He brushed against the boy as the knife
slashed through. Operator 5 kicked along beneath
the surface until his lungs burned. He came up
swiftly, and saw Tim Donovan still close,
swimming quickly, panting.
On the island the black figures had melted
away. "Steady, Tim," he encouraged. "We've
done it, Tim! We've found it! Beneath that island
there's an underground temple, the Great Black
Temple of Zaava!"
Swiftly, smoothly, they stroked toward the
shore where the lights of the roadster gleamed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Perilous Paths
OPERATOR 5 trudged out of the water, his
clothing streaming, as John Christopher hurried
toward him. Tim Donovan tottered to the shore
gasping. They paused, peering back at the dark
hump of the island. Again it was a dead-black
mass of shadows.
Operator 5 stripped off his soaked clothing.
As he donned dry clothes taken from his case he
kept watching that black hump rearing out of the
water.
"J-8 traced Cottron to that place, Dad," he
explained, "and they killed him. Somebody rushed
away from the island with the canoe, and I want to
find that man."
Tim Donovan was peeling off his clothing,
tossing the wet garments into the rumble-seat. In
a few moments the boy and Operator 5 were dry
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and clothed. Jimmy Christopher slipped back to
the wheel of the roadster while Tim and John
Christopher crowded beside him.
The car swung back toward the village. An
intersection appeared a fraction of a mile away;
the cross-road was one which circled the
reservoir. Operator 5 turned into it.
He followed the curves swiftly, and all the
while the great black house was visible above the
water. Still it seemed empty, forgotten. Jimmy
Christopher watched the shore-line as the road
swung away behind a border of rank grass.
Fifteen minutes of fast driving passed while he
listened through the singing of the Diesel engine.
Suddenly his foot touched the brakes. The
car slowed as he leaned out, searching the
darkness. He glanced back and saw Tim
Donovan's eyes shining roundly. "I heard it,
Jimmy! Something's moving in the grass!"
Operator 5's automatic came into his hand
as he eased away from the wheel. Weeds flicked
past his legs as he took long strides. Tim
Donovan followed alertly, John Christopher at his
side. The moonlight flickering at the edge of the
water disclosed a drifting black shape.
"Jimmy!" Tim called softly. "It's the canoe!"
The sibilant sound of his voice brought a
response from the blackness of the rank grass. A
movement sounded, a rustling that disappeared in
a moment. Jimmy Christopher turned toward it,
gun leveled. As he drifted a low moan came.
Abruptly Jimmy Christopher paused, peering
down at a dark form lying in the grass. Tim
Donovan and John Christopher came to his side
as he stooped. The man lying in the grass was
stretched out, face down, clawing as though
desperately striving to drag himself along.
Operator 5 grasped his shoulder and turned him
face up.
"S-3!"
Another moan came from the lips of the
weakened Intelligence agent. He peered up wildly;
clutched at his chest. Crimson was flowing over
his shirt from two black bullet-holes; two slugs had
grilled into his body near his heart.
"EASY!" Jimmy Christopher cautioned. "It's
Operator 5."
"Operator-5!"
S-3 sagged weakly as Jimmy Christopher
supported him. His blurted words came in a
hoarse whisper: "The eyes... Oh, God, the
eyes..."
"Easy!" Operator 5 warned again. "Listen,
S-3! The temple-were you in the temple?"
"Yes...The eyes are there..." He straightened
again with a desperate effort. "There's a shack-
can you hear me?-a shack... West of the
water..."
Operator 5 urged: "Talk fast, S-3!"
"Follow paths from road... Another path
crosses it. Turn east. You'll see the shack-the
shack that..."
S-3 sank exhaustedly. His strained
breathing slowed-slowed gradually while the
secret agent lay with eyes closed. Soon it became
a mere whisper, then melted away. He was dead.
Jimmy Christopher looked down into the
strained, white face with saddened eyes. He rose
slowly. Tim Donovan was watching him; John
Christopher stood motionless.
Again they peered at the sinister shadow
looming blackly in the center of the reservoir.
Jimmy Christopher holstered his gun. He spoke
quickly, crisply.
"Poor chap, we've got to leave him here until
later. He was inside the temple and he broke
loose somehow. The shots we heard were the
shots that killed him. Dad, Tim-back to the car,
quick!"
Operator 5 strode through the rank grass and
slipped to the wheel of the powerful roadster.
When the boy and Ex-Operator Q-6 were beside
him, he turned the car about, headed toward
Norton.
Again lights appeared. Operator 5 drove
quickly to the center of the slumbering town. On
the main street sat a building bearing the name of
the district telephone company. He left the wheel,
pushed into the entrance, and sidled into a
telephone booth.
Tim Donovan hovered outside the booth as
he quickly put through a call to New York. The
number he asked for was that of the secret West
Side rendezvous. A hushed voice answered his
signal.
"We've followed your orders and raided the
Fifth Avenue place. We found plenty! Supplies of
bhang in the place, Operator 5! In all sorts of
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forms-perfume, rouge, cigarettes. Four Tibetans
there-we took them prisoners. In a rear room we
found the three girls missing from Mrs. Garrett's
school doped with the drug."
"Three?" Operator 5 asked quickly, his
thoughts flashing to Diane Elliot. "No more?"
"No others."
Operator 5 snapped: "All of you are to drive
immediately toward Norton, New York-two hours
north, in the reservoir district. Stay out of the
town-turn into the woods before you reach it.
Once you're near the reservoir, park and wait for
a heliograph signal to be relayed from a plane.
"Detail one of the men to get into a plane and
fly to Norton. He is to circle and watch for a signal
from the ground. The signal will direct you into the
woods, to make a mass attack on the Great Black
Temple of Zaava!"
"We'll start at once!"
Operator 5 turned quickly from the
telephone. With Tim Donovan he joined John
Christopher in the roadster, his face drawn, his
lips hard-pressed. He started the motor and
swung swiftly away from the main street of the
town, cutting toward the road which circled the
water.
THE roadster sped over the rutted road that
wound along the edge of the water. Jimmy
Christopher, leaning forward, peered at the rank
green whisking past. Every nerve tense, he
searched, with S-3's dying words in his mind.
He pressed hard and quickly on the brake
pedal, slipped from the wheel, and ran ahead into
the glow of the headlamps. Beside the road a
narrow footpath led off into the hills.
He turned back to the car, reached beneath
the seat and touched a spring that opened a small
compartment. From it he removed a black cube of
a box, and from the box an enameled contrivance
to which a lens was affixed over a shutter. He
turned a switch and pressed a lever quickly. The
flickering of the shutter sent intermittent beams
flashing through the lens.
He tucked the electric heliograph into his
coat pocket; he switched off the car's headlamps,
and signaled Tim Donovan and his father to
follow.
He led the way into the darkness. At
intervals he flashed his torch, and a gleam lit up
the ground ahead. The path twined over a hill and
down into a valley. Presently Operator 5 paused,
the shine of his torch showing him another path
crossing the first.
He turned east, following S-3's last
directions. Dark trees filled the hollow; the
moonlight was shut away. Beyond spread the
rippling water, the hump of the island looming
blackly. As the slope of the ground continued, the
spreading vista of the reservoir was shut away.
Now and again Operator 5's torch flashed and
presently he paused.
The cone disclosed a shack sitting against
the side of the hill. It was unpainted, weatherblackened,
leaning askew. Inside its broken
windows rotting curtains of burlap hung; its door
was shut. Leading toward it was a lane of
trampled grass. Operator 5 drifted to a pause
outside the door.
His gun was leveled as he pried it open. The
light of his torch probed into the blackness of the
shack. Its floor was of dirt; it was empty. Operator
5 stepped in, and noted another door opening at
the rear. He swung it wide and peered into
darkness.
The beam of his lamp showed him spademarked
walls, a circular tunnel leading deep into
the earth. It led far away, disappearing into deep
darkness. Operator 5 stepped in, flashing his light
about. At the entrance he saw initials cut in the
earth, and a date, 1858. He turned back slowly,
and passed his torch to John Christopher.
"An old slave station," he said quietly. "Slavestation,
Jimmy?"
As he examined the shack he explained
quietly. Before and during the days of the Civil
War Negro slaves were smuggled, and along the
roads hideaways were established for overnight
stops, cellars, hidden rooms, and passageways
such as this. Now forgotten, no doubt, by those
who lived in the valley, this tunnel still existed,
reaching deep into the earth, connecting with-
what?
"Perhaps," Operator 5 said quietly, "leading
to the temple of Zaava."
His fingers strayed to the golden ornament
on his watch-chain. Tim Donovan's eyes widened
at his flexing fingers. The boy knew the meaning
of that quiet gesture-knew that it signaled
danger.
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He knew, too, that inside the tiny golden skull
rested a pellet. A touch on a hidden spring would
release the lid and disclose it, a capsule of fragile
glass, containing a liquid which turned at once to
vapor on contact with air-one of the deadliest
poisons known to man, diphenolchlorasine.
One pinch of Operator 5's fingers would
crush it and release the lethal fumes. Tim
Donovan knew that Operator 5 carried it to use
only as a final extremity. The use of it would
instantly kill anyone near; and it would also kill
Operator 5. "My bad-luck piece," Jimmy
Christopher called it; and at times when danger
threatened, his fingers strayed to it unconsciously.
"DAD," he said quietly, "please stay here.
I'm going down that tunnel."
"Jimmy!" Tim Donovan blurted. "You can't go
alone. I'm going with you!"
Operator 5's lips tightened. "You're coming,
Tim," he said quietly, "because I may need you.
I've called every available agent from New York:
they're on their way now. They're going to wait for
my signal to be flashed to an airplane flying above
these hills, and the man in the plane will relay it to
the cars. That signal must be passed-a coded
message directing the men to this tunnel."
"Yes, Jimmy!"
"Flashed by the old Morse code, Tim-you
know it well. I'll give that signal myself, if I can. If
I can't-if anything happens-it's going to be up to
you, Tim."
"I'll do it, Jimmy!"
"We have just this one heliograph, Tim. It's
precious. I'm going to carry it. If anything
happens, think of nothing but that device. The
most important thing in the world will be getting
that message to the men who are waiting. Do you
understand that, old-timer?"
"You mean if-if anything happens to you,
Jimmy-I'm to leave you?"
"Leave me, Tim, as fast as you can move.
Don't give a single thought to me. Grab that
heliograph and get back here. Start signaling at
once into the sky. Don't let anything stop you,
Tim. Absolutely nothing must stop you."
"Gee, Jimmy-!"
"Okay, boy?"
Tim Donovan straightened determinedly.
"Okay, Jimmy," he said quietly.
Operator 5 moved toward the opening of the
passage. He swung the door wide, and glanced
back at his father.
"Guard this place, Dad. If anybody comes in,
stop them. Don't follow me, no matter what
happens."
John Christopher answered tightly: "Very
well, Jimmy."
Operator 5 stepped through the old door. He
paused with his light shining into the depths of the
tunnel. Beside him Tim Donovan came, eyes
turned to Jimmy Christopher's drawn face.
Operator 5 said quietly: "Down we go."
His light flashed on dark walls as he strode
down the slope. Cold air flowed out of the depths.
Their footfalls echoed muffled through the
darkness beyond. Every nerve alert, they followed
the sloping passage around a bend.
Out of the silence came a slow, rhythmic
drip-drip. The ceiling of the tuned glistened. In the
darkness loomed slender white cones which hung
from the ceiling and rose from the floor-
stalagmites and stalactites standing like hoary,
silent sentinels. Glistening drops fell through the
shine of Operator 5's torch, water seeping through
the roof of the tunnel.
"We're beneath the lake now, Tim," Jimmy
Christopher said quietly.
They trod down the slope slowly. In the soft
earth were footprints, shining fresh in the ooze.
Some were the imprints of shoes; some were the
marks of sandals; some showed the outlines of
bare feet. And ahead, except for the ghostly
white shafts, there was only pitchy darkness.
The tunnel turned abruptly. The passage
widened into cavities on both sides, old with the
years. Yet the passage led on...deeper....
Operator 5 went ahead, one slow step after
another. The roof of the tunnel rose above him
into a black cavity. He paused, flashing his light
up. Suddenly he gasped: "Tim! Look out!"
In the glow of the torch a quick glitter
flashed. Tim Donovan jumped back as Operator 5
spun to dash away. The boy saw a streak of silent
lightning in the gloom-a line of light that trailed
from above, connecting with Jimmy Christopher's
body. Instantly it snapped tight-it became a
shining streak. And a choking cry came from
Jimmy Christopher.
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TIM DONOVAN recoiled in terror. The torch
flew from Jimmy Christopher's hand and rolled on
the ground. In its gleam a movement became
visible above. In the roof of the tunnel shone the
open space of a trap-door. Dark forms were
huddling above it. White eyes gleamed; white
teeth shone. Black hands reached down, gripping
the glittering strand that trailed down.
Jimmy Christopher had released his light to
raise that hand to his throat. About his neck a
choking tightness had come swiftly. He felt the
smooth strand of a steel wire drawn into a noose.
He struggled to tear it away, to pry his fingers
beneath it and resist its power; but it was digging
deep. He dropped his gun, struggling with both
hands to grip the tight circle, but he could not.
"Jimmy!"
A choking, soundless cry came from
Operator 5's tortured throat. He abandoned the
attempt to free himself of the choking noose, and
jerked from his pocket the black case containing
the electric heliograph. He twisted desperately
and saw Tim Donovan through blearing eyes. He
hurled the box.
"Back!" he choked. "Back!"
Terrified, Tim Donovan crowded to the side
of the tunnel. He glimpsed through the trap-door
black hands slinging a second wire noose toward
him. It whipped against him as he threw up arms
to ward it off; he dashed toward the spot where
the black box had fallen. He snatched it up in cold
hands, and whirled staring at Jimmy
Christopher-Jimmy Christopher raised on tiptoes,
hands clawing at tortured neck....
"Back, Tim!"
The words were scarcely distinguishable.
Through them the Irish lad heard quick footfalls
echoing from the depths of the darkness beyond.
Men were rushing from some unseen point toward
the widened section of the tunnel. Helpless,
Operator 5 half hung while the wire noose cut
cruelly into his neck....
"Back!"
With all the power of his legs Tim Donovan
ran blindly into darkness.
From behind him came the sounds of quick,
moving feet and guttural voices. The length of the
tunnel muffled the sounds into silence as Tim
Donovan raced. Suddenly he collided with a
wooden partition. He groped to the door and
pushed through. He came into warmer, black air.
"Dad! They've got Jimmy!"
"Tim! Where is he?" John Christopher's voice
demanded from the gloom.
"Back there. They've got him. Gee, Dad-I
did what he told me. I left him! Don't go after him,
Dad, or-they'll get you too. Stay here. I-I've
got to-"
He burst out of the shack running. His feet
slashed through the rank grass as he hurried
along the bed of the black valley. When he
reached a clearing, a spot from which the signal
device could flash unobscured into the sky, he
paused, breathless, listening....
The sky was silent. There was no drone of
an airplane audible. Tim Donovan brought the
electrical device from its box and heft it so that its
lens pointed upward; he pressed the lever which
sent winking gleams into the sky, spelling out a
message in Morse code.
Follow light. Shack west of lake. Follow
light...
Tim Donovan peered up. Unbroken darkness
lay overhead, save for the dim shine of the moon.
A mist covered the stars, veiling the heavens.
Silence... silence everywhere. From the sky no
answering gleam came.
Follow light... Follow light...
Repeatedly Tim Donovan flicked the signal
lever. Long moments passed. He dropped to his
knees, sobbing, peering at the winking light
through bleating tears. Over and over he flashed
the signal.
"Jimmy!" he cried brokenly, aloud. "Oh, gee,
Jimmy... Why don't they answer? Why don't they
answer...?"
Over and over the signal flashed-but no
answering gleam came from the sky.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Cavern of the Damned
CHOKING torture filled the body of Jimmy
Christopher as he struggled to free himself of the
wire noose, as he heard the quick heel-beats of
Tim Donovan vanishing along the length of the
tunnel. His breath became an excruciating
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pressure around his drumming heart; the
blackness of the passage swirled into his brain.
He sensed men rushing upon him; he felt
hands grip him, drag at him. The tension on the
wire loosened and he sagged to the ground. The
noose was whipped off his neck, but he remained
helpless, pinioned and in pain, as he was carried
along the depths of the tunnel.
Breathing again, weakened from the
desperate struggle, he was aware only that he
was being taken low into the darkness. Presently
he saw a dim shine, and felt himself brought into a
room. Hands passed over his clothing as his mind
cleared. Movements again flowed around him. He
felt himself lying on cold ground, and when he
looked around he saw that he was alone.
The room was earth-walled, newly
excavated; an opening led from it into darkness.
Jimmy Christopher rose, and became aware of
sweetness in the air-a heavy vapor that grew
stronger by the moment. It was wafting in to him,
bringing with it numbness, detachment. Bhang!
Quickly he sought the little silver case which
contained the impregnated nose-filters. His
fingers probed into his pocket and he found it-
empty! The devices had been taken from him!
The discovery chilled his blood. He thrust his
cold hands into one pocket after another and
found them an empty. His automatic too was
gone; even the contents of several secret pockets
had been removed. He stood motionless,
breathing the intoxicating air, and felt its hypnotic
effect stealing more strongly into his mind.
He turned all his will-power upon the control
of his senses, striving to preserve the clarity of his
brain; but the insidious effects crept along his
nerves. He breathed shortly, shallowly; staggering
back from the door through which the fumes were
floating. A glance around showed him there was
no other opening; he was in an underground cell
beyond which lay darkness-and the stupor of the
invisible drug.
He sensed a movement in the gloom beyond
the door, a rustling of the air that told of an
approach. In the dim shine glittering light
appeared-dim sparks that grew brighter,
gathering together into the form of a man clad in a
golden robe. The figure materialized slowly as
Jimmy Christopher watched in fascination, and
became a turbaned man whose eyes shone
widely full into his.
The man in the golden robe glided into the
room. His was a face composed of darkness. The
mouth was black, the eyes white-rimmed under
the shadow of a high, protruding brow. It was
expressionless, yet shining with a strange light as
though the mind masked by it was filled with an
exaltation of triumph....
Then, from the passageway beyond, another
movement sounded; another man appeared. He
brought a startling contrast to the mystic figure in
gold. He was garbed in a dark business suit; he
might have just stepped from a broker's office; yet
his face was suffused with an ineffable peace, his
eyes were dreamily vacant.
This man, he knew, was the one whom J-8
had trailed into the hills-the expounder of the
age-old mysticism of Zaava-Senator Cottron.
The senator paused, gazing at Operator 5,
his lips curved in a quiet smile. His voice seemed
far-away, dream-like. He said, slowly: "You gaze
upon the son of Zaava."
The words seemed to float in the air, to melt
into nothingness, as he paused. "You gaze upon
the Nameless One."
THERE was silence again, while Jimmy
Christopher was held by the weird optic power of
the man robed in gold. Slow realization came to
him that he was facing the chief priest of the cult
of Zaava. This gold-robed figure standing before
him was the embodied power of Zaava himself,
the living ruler of the sect which had risen out of
the darkness of the ages. Here, in this earthen
cell, Operator 5 beheld the son of Zaava!
Instinctively he tightened his will against the
power of the eyes of the Nameless One. The
straining effort regained for him some of the
clarity of his mind that was vanishing under the
influence of the sweet heaviness in the air. He
strove to tear his eyes away; he jerked them from
the ancient face to that of Senator Cottron.
The droning words of the senator came
again. "The Nameless One has chosen to look
upon the disbeliever who has defied his power.
He knows of you as he knows of all things. He
has brought you into the Great Black Temple so
that you may witness the wonders of Zaava's
power, so that you will embrace the belief and
become one with the Peace of Timelessness."
Jimmy Christopher forced himself to answer;
and his voice seemed only a faraway echo.
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"You may inform the Nameless One, Senator
Cottron, that his efforts are useless. I will never
embrace your belief. Zaava is not strong
enough-"
"Zaava is the strength of the world," the
droning voice said. "You shall see!"
A powerful effort kept Operator 5's eyes from
those of the Nameless One as the gold-robed
figure moved. It drifted away through the opening
in the wall of earth, into the darkness that lay
beyond. Senator Cottron remained, breathing
deeply of the fume-filled air. He clapped his hands
smartly, and from the passage two black-robed
figures appeared.
They advanced to Operator 5 and took
positions beside him. Their black hands closed on
his arms. The power of the vapors of bhang were
creeping upon him steadily; he felt no inclination
to resist their grasp. When Senator Cottron
turned, when the two black-robed men pressed
him toward the opening of the cell, he yielded.
He stepped into the passage. Darkness lay
along its length, save for cloudy light radiating
from other doors which opened from it. The dark
figure of Senator Cottron led the way between the
glistening walls. At the first of the doors he
paused, and the robed men brought Jimmy
Christopher to a stop in front of it. He peered
through.
Beyond lay a space lighted with torches
affixed to the earth walls. Its floor was black, and
from it rose dark moods. Arranged in a regular
pattern they lay, some old, some fresh.
"These are graves."
The voice of Senator Cottron sounded faraway
in Jimmy Christopher's ears.
"These are the graves of those who refused
to believe in the Power of Zaava. They came
living into the Great Black Temple. They came
living before the idol and denied him. They lie now
in death, hidden from the sight of the world.
Disbelievers who enter the temple of Zaava never
return to the living world. Among them lies the
Rev. John Murdock, who vanished after denying
the Power.... "
Jimmy Christopher gazed upon the rows of
mounds and felt no astonishment, no horror.
Through his blood and through his mind the spell
of the floating bhang was creeping steadily. Still
he willed against its power; yet that power was
closing steadily upon him....
Again the dark figure of the senator turned
and again the two black-robed men led Operator
5 along the corridor. In the next glow of light they
paused again. Through the opening Jimmy
Christopher looked upon a smaller space, in
which men and women were moving about-
figures of living horror.
From the room exuded a stench discernible
even through the sweetness of the all-enveloping
bhang, an odor creeping from the vile bodies of
those imprisoned behind the mesh of iron that
closed the door. Some of the captives were darkskinned;
some were white. Each was a revulsive
spectacle; yet Jimmy Christopher felt no
revulsion....
They moved about slowly, those creatures
within the room. On their skins shone coppery
patches and lumpy brown excrescences. Their
ears and their noses were grotesquely enlarged;
their hands and feet disclosed fingers and toes
that were missing, as though eaten away.
The voice of Senator Cottron droned in the
silence of the passage. "These creatures have
avowed their love of Zaava, have taken upon
themselves this venomous existence as proof of
their belief in his power. They suffer mortal pain of
the flesh to proclaim that belief in Zaava
transcends the flesh. They die with the joyful
name of Zaava on their lips-lepers!"
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER took a slow step
backward, bringing all the power of his will to
move out of the nauseating air. Deep within him
he felt a stirring of horror and revulsion as he
resisted the pervading effects of the bhang in the
air. He felt relief when he was led away; deeper
into the passage, toward another shine of light
that lay ahead.
Through another opening he peered, into the
flaring light of torches. Within the dark spots, on
the bare earthen floor, sat coffins. Fully twenty of
them were arranged in rows, their lids raised, the
light gleaming upon the white, still faces of those
who lay within them.
"Gaze upon those whom the outer world
would declare have departed this earth," the voice
of Senator Cottron came vaguely. "They do not
breathe. Their hearts are still. The hand of death
is upon them, yet it has not taken them. They
sleep in the Peace of Zaava. The Nameless One
has only to speak their names, and they will rise
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and live. They will rise and embrace the Power of
Zaava, having known his strength to raise them
from death itself. Come."
Jimmy Christopher was led slowly along a
length of black passage which reached deep into
the earth. Darkness closed all around him as he
took slow, steady steps. At last, in the distance, a
dim light appeared, a glow shining through a
narrow opening in the wall. It brightened as
Operator 5 approached, and he was brought to a
stop outside it.
It was an orifice no larger than a man's head,
cut through the earth. Beyond it lay a space in
which there was no other opening, a globular
room lighted by a single flaring torch. In the
gleaming light a robed figure stood-a figure real
yet seeming a creature materialized out of a
fantastic dream.
He stood tall, erect, incredibly lean. His face
was bearded in white, and the beard hung low to
the floor. Deep-sunken cheeks formed dark
hollows under night dark eyes that glittered with
unfathomable lights. Within this rough-hewn
space he stood peering through the opening.
There was no manner in which he might
have gained entrance to the hollow, no manner in
which he might leave it; yet he existed inside it, a
living mystery.
The voice of Senator Cottron droned: "It is
the Power of Zaava to bestow everlasting life, to
grant existence throughout eternity. You gaze
upon one who has lived long in the grace of
Zaava. His are powers unknown to the outside
world; he is a spiritual entity clothed in flesh. You
gaze upon one who is old beyond the conception
of man, the Venerable Oracle who knows no
death...
"Long before the memory of any living man
he was born, high on the plateau of Tibet. More
than a hundred years before the Crusades he
began to live. He was dwelling upon this earth
when the Vikings roamed the seas. The eternal
Power of Zaava still gave him life when this
continent was discovered. He has seen centuries
pass like hours to an ordinary man. In his span of
life the settlement of America has been only a
brief incident. More than a thousand years he has
lived in the Peace of Timelessness."
Jimmy Christopher gazed spellbound. He
sensed again a presence near him. Out of the
gloom came golden lights that foretold the
appearance of the Nameless One. He was a
presence in the darkness near Jimmy
Christopher.
The voice of the Nameless One was a
whisper. "Venerable Oracle, knower of all things,
you gaze upon one who has defied Zaava. You
have already witnessed his movements in the
speculum of your breath. He has not come alone;
there are others waiting in the night. We do not
fear them, Venerable Oracle; we wish to know
only of their movements."
The timeless man heard, and moved slowly.
He drew lean, long hands from the sleeves of his
robe. He brought from its folds a black jar that
glittered in the light of the torch, and removed its
cover. He lifted in bony fingers a pinch of black
powder, and placed it between his lips.
Breath soughed into his body; and when he
expelled it, a mist came into the air. It was a thick,
opalescent fog which writhed within itself as if a
thing alive. It poured from his lips and remained
suspended, while a new rainbowed fog came to
surround it. Again and again the Venerable Oracle
breathed the mist into the air; and it hung, drawing
together, coalescing, a small, hovering cloud in
which strange lights played.
There was silence in the black passage.
Jimmy Christopher peered as if in a dream at the
shining glow within the suspended ball of vapor.
It drew together taking form; and at the same time
the fog grew thinner. It melted into a crystal
brightness, like a filmless bubble suspended; and
still lights played within it.
SLOWLY, slowly, there formed within that
floating bubble lines and darkness to form an
image. It shone clearly, while the old eyes of the
Oracle gazed into it. It became a stooped
figure-a small figure bent on knees, hands
extended before it. From the hands came a
flashing light, a beam that blinked again and
again.
It was the image of Tim Donovan he saw,
surrounded by the blackness of the night,
kneeling on the ground, the heliograph in his
hands! He saw the winking of the signal as the
lens shot long and short beams into the sky. He
could even read the words that flashed....
Follow light... Shack west of lake...Follow
light.
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Then, slowly, the image faded; the lines of
Tim Donovan's figure faded into a blackness that
spread within the bubble of light. Movements
shone again. Outlines formed-the outlines of an
airplane moving across the sky. The moon was
visible beyond it, and a wreathing mist. Over the
cowling heads were bent; and in one extended
hand a man was gripping a flashlight, which
gleamed an answer to the signals shot upward by
the boy.
Again the image dissolved away, and its
place was taken by a quick succession of flashes,
like figures flitting in a dream.
In the darkness the voice of the Nameless
One spoke. Immediately, from the far reaches of
the passage, men appeared, bearing torches.
Their glare lighted the glistening walls, and
disclosed a dark room opposite the cavity in which
the Venerable Oracle stood peering into the
images in the shining, filmless bubble...
In the air the images still flashed before the
widened eyes of Jimmy Christopher. He saw
earthen walls, darkness, the men following the
slope in the gloom; he saw them working their
way past the rocky formations of the floor and the
ceiling that had formed through the years; he saw
them advancing with guns drawn.
The lights brought at the signal of the
Nameless One were shining now in the room on
the opposite side of the tunnel. From it the
Nameless One was peering through the opening
into the cavern of the Venerable Oracle. Jimmy
Christopher was aware of his movements, but his
eyes stayed fast to the images in the air.
Suddenly a flash of blue-white flame cut
through the darkness. At the same instant, turmoil
came to the images formed in the crystal mist.
Flame flashed around the moving figures of the
Intelligence men. In front of them a sheet of fire
sprang into being. From the roof of the tunnel
blackness tumbled. It spilled before them,
mounting high.
Operator 5 saw the men recoiling, soundless
cries coming from their lips. They retreated, the
torches in their hands shining into clouding dust.
They stood motionless, peering at the wall which
had appeared before them. There they crowded
forward, spreading to find an opening that led
past; and they drew back baffled. Spilling earth
had dropped to block the passage completely; it
was shut off.
A flash of clarity came to Jimmy
Christopher's mind, brought by the danger which
had threatened his men. He whirled, and peered
into the cavity on the other side of the passage,
the room lighted by flaring torches held in the
hands of black-clad men. In the light the
Nameless One stood, facing a shining black
board to which electrical switches were attached.
One of them had closed under the pressure of his
black, wrinkled hand.
Jimmy Christopher realized that the closing
switch had made contact between wires leading
along the tunnel. Blasting explosive had torn out
the walls and the roof of the old passage, blocking
the way. The images floating in the filmless
bubble had warned the son of Zaava of the men's
approach; and a touch of his hand had shut them
out of the temple.
Operator 5 twisted back in alarm. Within the
cavity the Venerable Oracle was still standing: but
the images had vanished; the brightness hovering
in the air had gone. Operator 5 stood appalled.
Still he fought the numbness of the bhang as he
stared into the room which the Nameless One had
left.
He heard again the dreamy voice of Senator
Cottron: "Your men are stopped in the passage.
They cannot reach the temple now. Zaava has
seen them and rendered them helpless."
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER forced himself to
reason. Thoughts came struggling through the
numbness of his mind. He remembered the
trapdoor in the cellar of the old mansion on the
island-the opening through which he had
glimpsed the evil idol of Zaava. Tim Donovan
alone of those outside, knew of it. Would he lead
the men out of the tunnel, and to it? Would he...?
Again blackish hands gripping Jimmy
Christopher's arms forced him along the passage
while footfalls sounded around him. Each step of
the way he fought to clear his mind of the
insidious effects of the fumes. And he saw, again,
light shining ahead.
When he was again brought to a stop in the
glow, he stared transfixed through the bars of an
iron door. He saw, in the gloom, the figure of a girl
standing. Her face white, her eyes wide and
pleading, her lips parted in anguish.
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"Diane!" The name cried through Jimmy
Christopher's mind; yet no sound came from his
lips. Still he stood motionless, looking at her
slender figure outlined against the gloom
beyond-looking at her as she looked at him.
"Diane!" It was merely a whisper.
Her lips moved, and formed his name. She
took a step toward the barred door and paused.
He raised a hand, to reach through the bars
toward her....
The firm hand of the black-robed man at his
right forbade the movement. The other reached
quickly to the torch affixed to the passage wall.
The flame flared brightly as it swung. It crashed
to the floor; the flames flickered out. Into the
passage came utter blackness-blackness that
blinded Jimmy Christopher's eyes and shut from
him the sight of the girl he loved....
He felt himself borne away. He struggled
against the spell that poisoned him as he was
forced through the darkness. The name of Diane
came soundlessly to his lips again and again. She
was gone now-lost in the depths of the tunnel,
snatched away by the all-pervading darkness...
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"Zaava Destroys!"
IN a bright shine of light Jimmy Christopher
was brought to a stop. He gazed at a spellbinding
sight.
Before him the vast space of a sanctuary lay,
a spacious cavern hewn hollow in the earth. Its
black walls rose high; its ceiling was but tressed
by stout, glistening beams; and from floor to
ceiling rose stately columns. Torches flared in the
vastness of the weird cathedral and the naked
flames blended into the darkness of the far
reaches. Spiraling columns of sooty smoke
writhed up from many torches along the walls,
gathering in a black cloud that mantled a gigantic
image sitting in evil majesty in the flickering glow
of the fire. An image of blood-red, its eyes peering
with uncanny power across the cavern.
The Great Black Temple of Zaava!
Beside Jimmy Christopher the dreamy voice
of Senator Cottron whispered:
"Before Zaava you see gathered his devoted
disciples, the wielders of his power. From all over
the world they have come here to bow before
Zaava and do his will. From many hidden temples
in this country they have gathered to hear the
voice of the Nameless One.
"The Nameless One has called them here to
bid them war upon all disbelievers. He has
gathered them to proclaim that the hour of Zaava
has come. From this Great Black Temple they will
go prepared to spread the worship of Zaava over
the whole nation. These disciples are Zaava's
living power, come to hear the Nameless One bid
them strike!"
Jimmy Christopher gazed upon them-
hundreds who had come secretly to worship, who
knelt under the uncanny fascination of the idol's
eyes. Above them the colossal features of the idol
shone, twisted into a semblance of savage
triumph, as though it gloated in the hypnotic
power it wielded.
The flickering light of the torches played
ripples of shadows over the voiceless
congregation. From golden urns a mist of vapor
rose, a thick, sweet pungency that grew stronger
as quiet minutes passed. It weaved out over the
turbaned heads, it wafted to blend with the sooty
cloud hovering above the idol, it surrounded with
flowing fog a frail wooden stairway which twined
up the height of the earthen walls and ended in a
suspended platform high overhead.
The hush that held in the hidden hollow grew
even deeper as the eyes of the hideous idol
seemed to light with a living glow. It assumed the
aspect of a breathing thing to those who beheld it,
a colossus who stirred and vibrated with the
power exuding from its widened eyes. Slowly, as
the multitude watched, wreathing vapor floated
from the nostrils of the living idol. The mist settled
into the space before it, clouding the golden
platform.
Out of its coalescence came a glitter of light,
a slow, stately movement. Gradually there
became visible the robed form of a man, clothed
in a golden cloth. He advanced with a drifting
movement while the mist melted away around
him, and stood before the multitude, commanding,
regal, awesome-the Nameless One.
Slowly he turned and slowly he prostrated
himself before the shining image. As he moved,
so moved the multitude at his back. Their heads
bent in silent subjection to the spell of the idol.
Their hands raised as the hands of the golden
leader lifted.
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Into the silence of the earthen temple came
the sonorous sound of an age-old voice. "Hail
Zaava."
The gold-robed man turned to face them,
hands still up-lifted, voice droning again. "Hail the
Exalted, the Master. Hail the Bringer of the Dark
Light. Hail the Black Power of All Creation. Hail
the Son of Zaava."
The gold-robed Son of Zaava stood
motionless beneath the image that was Zaava
himself. Silence came into the misted gloom of
the temple. The Nameless One turned as
movements wended through the fog enshrouding
the image. There appeared from the darkness
behind the idol a black clad group.
They came forward slowly, their faces
shining white in the glare of the torches. Among
them were men whose features glowed with an
unholy exaltation, women whose eyes gazed
enraptured at the red-faced idol, young girls who
moved as though enfolded in a powerful mystic
spell from which they could not remove
themselves... And with them came guards, clad
only in black loincloths and black turbans, their
magnificent bodies shining bronze in the flickering
light.
THE Nameless One stood before the idol of
Zaava, and gazed at them. "You have come," his
voice whispered, "to offer yourselves to Zaava.
You have come to bestow your lives upon him.
You have come to fill his lungs with your breath,
to fill his veins with your blood. To Zaava you
surrender your lives so that you may live with
Zaava's Power forever!"
The Nameless One brought his aged hands
together sharply, and the sound brought silence.
Then, as if from nothingness, new light came into
the temple. At first it was only a flickering gleam at
the base of the idol which lighted the crimson
features; it grew into tongues of flame that leaped
high; it brought a roaring sound and radiating heat
as it became a mass of fire that rolled and
writhed.
The fire shot high near the black-clad group
and they turned to peer into its white-hot heart.
And suddenly, from the depths of the temple,
came a burst of music, a twanging, rippling
melody that swelled to great volume, pulsing with
a steady beat, until the whole temple throbbed in
unison. And as the melody rose to a hysterical
barbaric pitch, its power seized the black-clad
group, they began to sway into the heat of the
flames, to reach toward the leaping fires....
The Nameless One, standing in the glare of
light, arms upraised, chanted above the music
and the singing and the crackling of the flames.
"This gift Zaava accepts. Zaava receives you!"
Jimmy Christopher stood spellbound as the
black-clad group moved closer to the withering
heat. There was a quicker movement among
them, and suddenly a woman rushed forward. Her
eyes blazed with fanatic fever as she flung herself
forward, plunging into the flames! The great red
tongues licked around her; she vanished in the
blinding furnace as a shriek came echoing from
her lips-a shriek that disappeared in the savage
rhythm of the music!
Her movement was a signal to the others.
Still closer they approached. Suddenly a second
ran forward-a man who hurled himself into the
murderous heat. Scarcely had the eye-stinging
glare swallowed him up than a third sprang
forward. The third was a girl, young, her beautiful
face lighted by the shine of the sacrificial flames.
She ran with arms outstretched-to embrace the
death which the spell of Zaava forced upon her!
The temple rocked with the high-pitched
twanging of the music, with the singing of the
doomed ones, with the moaning of the blackrobed
congregation. They sprang, one after
another, into the blasting heat of the flames. One
after another they leaped into roaring oblivion-
until the light of the fire played upon the base of
the idol and the Nameless One standing alone
with raised arms.
The eyes of the black-robed multitude were
raised to the red face of the idol. The living eyes
of the colossal image were blindingly bright in the
shine of the flickering fire. The Nameless One
brought his hands together again and, as if at the
signal, the flames began to draw within
themselves. Slowly they diminished, disclosing a
black pit in the floor into which the sacrificial
worshippers had hurled themselves...
The fire had vanished, and from the lips of
the multitude rose a fierce, swelling chant. "Hail
Zaava, the Black Power. Hail Zaava!"
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER closed his eyes
convulsively. Up from the depths of his being rose
a wave of revolt that brushed away the numbness
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of the bhang permeating his mind. Through his
brain a single word echoed mockingly:
"Destroys... destroys... destroys...!"
Desperately anxious to seize upon this
moment of clarity, to free himself from the
destroying spell, he glanced right and left, and
saw that Senator Cottron had vanished. Beside
him now stood the two black-garbed figures;
behind him lay the darkness of the tunnels
through which he had emerged into the Great
Black Temple of Zaava. Somewhere in the hidden
recesses was Diane!
He felt the dread effects of the bhang
returning to him already; felt the sinister power of
the idol's eyes enveloping him. Desperately, still
grasping at his vanishing clarity, he whirled. One
long leap carried him backward toward the
entrance of the tunnels. As he moved he heard
the two black-robed figures whirl after him.
He plunged into darkness; he spun to see
the ghostly men closing upon him. He dropped to
a swift crouch, dove, and closed his arms around
the firm body of the first black man. The power of
his attack threw them sprawling to the floor. The
second robed man leaped upon him as he writhed
to curl his arm about the neck of the first. He
struck hard, bringing stiff fingertips against a
nerve-center at the base of the blackish jaw. He
felt the figure grow limp beneath him as the
paralyzing jiu-jutsu blow took effect. Over his
back, arms tightened around his throat.
He squirmed breathlessly turning himself
face up, and kicked out with all his strength. The
black man leaped back, and Jimmy Christopher
bounded to his feet. A straight-arm drive brought
his knuckles clicking to the black man's chin. The
whited eyes rolled; the robe collapsed to the floor
as if empty.
The struggle had occurred in the depths of
the temple where the light of the torches flickered
dimly, and beyond led the black lengths of the
tunnels. Jimmy Christopher ran into the nearest
opening. Ahead of him lay midnight black,
unfathomable. He paused, backing against one
damp wall, peering about and listening. No one
had followed him into the tunnel; there was no
sound.
Quickly he stooped, and pried at the heel of
his left shoe. It twisted aside, and from a cavity
within it a gleam of light appeared. He removed a
small disc, thickly covered with luminescent salts
to which a spark of radium had been added; it
shot out a cold, dim glow. By the feeble gleam of
it Jimmy Christopher's gaze penetrated to the
opposite wall of the tunnel. It brought him faint,
ghostly light, but enough to show him his way.
He ran deeper into the passage, holding the
shining disc above his head. Near an aperture in
one wall he brought up short, staring. The
crisscrossing of bars appeared, and behind them
a white, strained face. Diane Elliot peered into
the eerie green glow of the disc. Her lips moved
feebly; her voice came in a whisper.
"Jimmy!"
He blurted: "Diane! Diane-oh, God! There's
no other way!"
He tore himself from the door, and followed
the curving passage deeper into the earth. Soon
there appeared in the distance a shaft of light
issuing from the rock-hewn hollow in which the
Venerable Oracle existed. Jimmy Christopher ran
toward it.
He twisted past and stepped into the cavity
on the opposite side of the passage, holding the
shining disc aloft. He came into the space wherein
stood the black pane studded with electric
switches.
Jimmy Christopher hesitated, peering about.
Had the followers of Zaava arranged for the
destruction of this temple, as they had in the
others? In the far wall was another opening and
he stepped toward it alertly. The shine of his disc
disclosed to him tools standing in bins-picks,
long-handled shovels, hoes and wheelbarrows,
crow-bars and sledge-hammers. He gave them a
glance and turned back. Again in front of the black
panels he stopped.
Jimmy Christopher's trembling hand
raised... His fingers poised above the switches.
Through his mind the haunting word was still
ringing: "Destroy... destroy... " One touch might
destroy the Great Black Temple... destroy those
within it. Diane... himself.
ONE moment Operator 5 paused, peering at
the switches gleaming in the glowing disc. His
fingers moved toward them slowly, slowly...
Suddenly, summoning a desperate resolution, he
thrust-brought all the switches into contact-
closed them!...
Instantly a thunderous rumble shook the
earth. The passage racked. From faraway echoed
startled cries and screams. In the distance of the
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labyrinth sounded a roaring, crashing sound. It
burst along the tunnels with the violence of an
earthquake. Chunks of black earth fell; the walls
shook; great sections dropped. New flame-light
flickered through floating dust from the broken
shells of the dungeons along the passages.
Jimmy Christopher whirled out of the cavity.
The passage was a tumbled, black mass. He ran
along it, his body tingling, his heart pounding.
Ahead gleamed the light of torches, a flickering
glow shining from broken rooms and from the
vastness of the Great Black Temple. Operator 5
hurried toward it-and stopped, chilled with
horror.
Through a broken wall in the passage figures
moved suddenly. They appeared like ghosts,
moving with arms outstretched, peering with
blinded eyes. Their bodies glistened evilly in the
glow-bodies that exuded putrescence. The
lepers!
The walls of the lepers' cell had broken and
they were freed!
They grouped in the passage; their ghastly
eyes turned to Jimmy Christopher. With festered
hands raised, their frightful faces twisted into
expressions of vicious triumphs they came toward
him, to close about him!
"Get back!" he shouted at them. "Stay away!"
They crowded, rushing on, ringing him with
outstretched arms and ghastly bodies. Jimmy
Christopher's hand slipped to the buckle of his
belt. He whipped it away. The narrow leather
sheath flew off the supple steel blade of his rapier.
It flickered in the torch-light as he weaved it level.
"Let me past!" he demanded. "Open the
way-or I'll open it!"
Ghastly eyes leveled, their hands still
groping, they crept closer...
Jimmy Christopher's face twisted with horror
as he whisked the blade. Its keen edges hissed.
Diseased flesh parted beneath it. Strangling cries
of pain came into the gloomy passage as he
sprang forward. The obscene bodies retreated.
He slashed once again, in revulsive horror-and
sprang past.
The way ahead was unbarred now by the
terror of leprosy. He whirled, rapier flashing
again. In the passage the vile bodies moved
swiftly. Cries sounded as the lepers whirled and
began a frantic dash into the depths. Jimmy
Christopher straightened; shuddering, gripping his
rapier tightly, he hurried on, until he could gaze
into the vastness of the Black Temple of Zaava.
From the dome of the great temple water
was pouring in thundering streams! A score of
breaks had appeared and whitened, foaming
cascades were tumbling through them, welling
about the base of the red-faced idol. Out of the
smoky air rang the screams and shouts of the
black-robed multitude. Under the face of Zaava
stood the glittering gold figure of the Nameless
One, hands raised, peering into the darkness of
the ceiling from which the streams of water were
tearing!
THROUGH openings broken by charges of
dynamite exploded by the closed switches, the
blackness of the reservoir was spilling into the
vast cavity. Swiftly the water was rising, sweeping
across the earthen floor, flooding into the passage
where Jimmy Christopher stood.
A name rang from his lips that of Diane...
Diane, imprisoned in the black cell, fast behind
an iron-barred door!
He whirled, and raced back along the
passage, his disc dimly lighting the way. Along its
length echoed the rumble of the flooding waters.
From the temple came the screams of the trapped
Zaavanists. Jimmy Christopher scarcely heard he
plunged into the glow of light shining from the
orifice that entered the hollow of the Venerable
Oracle. He dashed into the opposite room.
Guided by the glow of his disc, he snatched
up a heavy pick. With it slung over his shoulder he
ran out again, and sped along the passage that
curved ahead. He came quickly to the barred door
behind which Diane Elliot stood.
In the green glow she stood white-faced, her
eyes widened with terror. Jimmy Christopher
tossed the glowing disc to the floor. He grasped
the pick handle firmly, and drove its point into the
earth beside the door. It sank deep; he pried out
a section of earth.
Along the tunnel the screams from the
temple still echoed; and in the shine of the light
beyond, the rising waters shone, rippling waves
washing into the passage. Cold water gathered
around the ankles of Operator 5 as he swiftly
drove the pick into the dirt wall. Chunks of earth
splashed into the water and crumbled as he
forced through the wall a small opening.
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He chipped it wider with swift, sure blows of
the pick. He heard Diane cry his name, but it was
scarcely audible above the roaring that echoed
along the tunnel. Another powerful blow of the tool
broke out a fragment of earth that widened the
opening. He called through; he reached in, and
grasped Diane's trembling hand.
She crept out quickly, and as she clung to
Jimmy Christopher in wordless terror the water
brought a rising chill. His arm circled her as he
turned toward the entrance of the tunnel; her hand
closed tightly upon his as they hurried ahead.
Sudden movements came from the
darkness. Into the passageway, from unseen
crypts, appeared dim, mottled bodies.
Crowded together, eyes leveled, hands
groping, they moved to bar the way-the lepers!
Before Jimmy Christopher and Diane they
spread...
A cry of horror came from Diane's lips. She
retreated; Jimmy Christopher's grasp on her hand
tightened. He brought level the shining blade of
his rapier. His eyes glittered as brightly as the
steel.
"I'll kill any of you that tries to touch her!"
"She is Zaava's!"
The throaty words came like a whisper of
doom. The filth encrusted bodies were advancing.
Jimmy Christopher moved quickly, placing Diane
behind him. He bent forward, his rapier a twirling
streak.
They rushed. Jimmy Christopher threw up
his arm to protect Diane from them. His rapier
slashed right and left. Screams tore into the
darkness; blood dripped into the black flowing
water. Jimmy Christopher grew cold as ice as he
advanced, forcing the lepers before him.
Each rush met the point of his steel, each
movement met the sting of the blade. The very
horror of the blockade in the tunnel forced a clarity
into Operator 5's mind which the bhang-filled air
could not dispel. He stepped quickly, bringing
Diane with him. His rapier glittered red, and
yellow bodies fell into the water....
He leaped through a gap, pulling Diane with
him. He sped back, Diane's hand gripped in his,
toward the Great Black Temple....
JIMMY CHRISTOPHER shouted, "Diane!
The idol! Swim to it!"
The girl hesitated in terror. The water was a
black, churning mass. Beating arms lashed it;
above its glittering surface heads floated, eyes
peered about. The flood was continuing to pour
with a roar that shook the earth.
Jimmy Christopher forced Diane Elliot
forward. She stumbled into the water, glancing
back once in speechless fright; then swiftly, she
began to swim. Operator 5 plunged after her,
stroking across the pool toward the leering face of
Zaava.
Black-turbaned heads moved around them;
black hands snatched at them, attempting to drag
them down. Jimmy Christopher fought them off;
plunging ahead, clearing the water in front of
Diane with swift, sharp blows.
The water was rising swiftly. Jimmy
Christopher glimpsed again the gold-turbaned
head of the Nameless One near the idol. Hands
still upraised, eyes lifted to the blood-red face of
the image, the Nameless One still stood
motionless. The water was surging above his
shoulders, washing above his head. One long
moment, as he stroked through the mist clinging
to the water, Operator 5 watched and saw the
turban of the Nameless One vanish beneath the
flood, while the hands remained upraised to
Zaava!
Around the idol scores were struggling to
keep afloat. Jimmy Christopher fought his way to
the red image, bringing Diane Elliot with him. He
found a foothold on the base of the idol, lifted her.
Black arms clawed at Diane as she strove to
raise herself, and Jimmy Christopher struck them
away. The leering face of the idol was now
dipped into the water; the eyes were staring out
across the churning blackness. Onto the gigantic
shoulder of the idol Diane Elliot struggled, and
brought herself exhausted to the huge head as
Jimmy Christopher climbed beside her.
Above, in the dome of the flooding temple,
the outlines of the trapdoor were visible the door
which opened into the cellar of the ancient
mansion sitting on the isolated island in the
reservoir.
The trapdoor moved-It swung up!
Darkness shone above it. Into the flaring light of
the torches a face came-a face that peered
down with frantic eyes and a voice called:
"Jimmy!"
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Operator 5 shouted: "Tim! Tim, help Diane!"
Through the black square of the trapdoor, the Irish
youngster reached a dripping arm. He seized
Diane's hands, and Jimmy Christopher helped raise
her into the opening. Above, other hands
g
ripped her, and lifted her. She was hoisted through
it, and vanished in the darkness.
A sharp hissing came into the turmoil of the
hidden temple. The rising waters had reached the
flames of the torches. One after another they
winked out, bringing thick smoke into the air and
thicker darkness. As the last gleam flickered
Jimmy Christopher saw below the hands of the
Nameless One still raised-hands that vanished
beneath the rising surface.
From above a frantic cry: "Jimmy!"
Operator 5 reached up. Cold hands gripped
his. He swung in midair; he heaved against the
side of the trap, bracing himself. He dragged
himself through.
Tim Donovan crowded to him, throwing wet
arms around him. The boy was drenched; the
Intelligence operators who crowded close were
half clothed, soaked to the skin by their swim to
the island at the urging of the boy.
'"
Watch!" Operator 5 warned. "If anyone reaches
the trap-door, help them up-take them prisoner."
Diane Elliot was peering at him in the light of
the gleaming handlamps. She came to him
quickly; she tightened her arms around his neck
and clung. Her wet cheek pressed hotly to his,
and broken sobs came from her lips.
Beneath, the waters churned, but the roaring
of the cataracts had diminished. In the darkness
of the cavern the cries of the doomed were
growing faint... A torch shot down into the depths,
and its light shone upon the surging surface. In
the blackness of the flood the great red idol of
Zaava had vanished...
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* * *
THE swift, black roadster drew to a stop in
front of the brownstone house in the East Forties
in Manhattan. From it Jimmy Christopher climbed
wearily. Diane Elliot followed him to the door with
Tim Donovan and John Christopher. They entered
quietly, and Operator 5 led the way into the livingroom.
He went at once to the door of Nan's room.
When he thrust it open, she rose quickly from the
bed. Her eyes were tear-blurred; the palms of her
hands were bitten by her nails. She faced Jimmy
Christopher and forced a smile. "I didn't go,
Jimmy," she said. "I didn't go..."
"Good girl!"
"I promised you I wouldn't... and I couldn't
break my promise to you, Jimmy!"
Operator 5 stepped back, his throat tight.
Diane Elliot hurried into the room; she flung her
arms around Nan. Their excited voices carried
into the living-room as Jimmy Christopher smiled
at Tim Donovan. The Irish lad grinned.
"Gee, Jimmy! It's all over!"
"All over, Tim," Operator 5 answered quietly,
"except for one thing..."
He went quietly into his room. He said
nothing as he stripped off his wrinkled clothing
and donned a fresh suit. His face was tired and
strained when he returned to the living-room, his
eyes shining with bright determination. He drew
on top-coat and hat; and went out.
IN Secret Intelligence Headquarters R2, Z-7
sat motionless behind his desk. Communications
were piled in front of him, but he had pushed them
aside unread. He sat peering unseeingly into
space; until he heard a soft step outside the door.
It opened. He came electrically to his feet.
He blurted out: "Operator 5!"
Jimmy Christopher came slowly to the desk.
He said quietly: "Operator 5, Chief-reporting."
Z-7 made no motion. Jimmy Christopher's
voice rang as he went on: "I succeeded in
discovering the Great Black Temple of Zaava. In
it were gathered all the leaders of the cult who
had come from other temples all over the country.
The great temple is destroyed. I saw the one who
calls himself the son of Zaava-the Nameless
One-vanish beneath the flood of water that
destroyed it.
"There are many hidden temples still
existing, yet the head of them all has been wiped
out. The leaders are dead. The organization will
die because its head has been severed. We may
consider the case closed, Chief. Closed."
Z-7 said strainedly: "My boy-" And his
voice broke.
"I came here to report," Operator 5 declared
in a low tone, "and to surrender myself."
Z-7 straightened. "Operator 5, I was mad. I
was under the influence of a drug. I was driven by
commands given me when I was too dazed to
resist. I was gripped in Zaava's power, and did
not know it. I've fought it-fought it with all my
strength-and now I realize the truth.
"My boy, you alone had the courage to lead
the fight against Zaava. You alone destroyed his
power. You did that in spite of me. I've done you
a grave injustice, Operator 5. I beg your
forgiveness."
Slowly, then, a smile formed on Jimmy
Christopher's lips.
"Forget it, Chief."
He offered his hand. Z-7 gripped it warmly.
They gazed at each other across the desk-
smiling....
THE END