"Not yet, old dear!" cried the Doctor hopping with excitement. "He
isn't safe yet. I never told you, but one Breslau gun had been made
and it is on that plane. It has deadly accuracy and is good for
fifteen miles. That's Lieutenant Dreen at the controls and Mason at
the gun."

As he spoke the plane swung around and made a half loop. For a few
yards it flew upside down and then whirled swiftly. As it turned there
came a sharp report and a puff of smoke from its rear cockpit. High
above, the helicopter had ceased climbing and hovered motionless. As
the plane fired, the helicopter shot forward like an arrow from a bow,
and thereby spelled its doom. Not for nothing did Captain Mason bear
the title of the best aerial gunner in the Air Corps. He had foreseen
what the action of his opponent would be and had allowed for just such
a move. Far up in the sky came a blinding flash and a cloud of smoke.
When the smoke cleared the sky was empty, except for a little
scattered debris falling slowly to the ground.

"And that's that!" exclaimed Dr. Bird as he finished his examination
of the underground laboratory with which the gun platform connected.
"The lamp has gone to glory with Breslau's gun model and two of the
best brains of the Young Labor party. I am sure that Stanesky was one
of those two men. I wish the whole gang had been on board."

"Don't you think that this is the end of it, Doctor?" asked Carnes.

"No, Carnes, I don't. We know that the real brains of this outfit is
Saranoff, and Saranoff is still alive. He probably won't try to use
his black lamp again, because I will have a defence against it in a
short time, now that I have seen it in action, but he'll try something
else. The whole object of life to a loyal citizen of Bolshevikia is to
reduce the whole world to the barbarous level in which they hold
Russia, and they will spare no pains or effort to accomplish it. The
greatest obstacle to their success at present is the President of the
United States. He is loved and respected by the whole world, and if he
is spared he will forge the world into a great machine for the
preservation of peace and universal good will. That would be fatal to
Bolshevikia's plans, and they will spare no effort to remove him. By
the grace of God, we have saved him from harm so far, but until we
remove Saranoff permanently from the scene, I will never feel safe for
him."

"What do you suppose they'll try next, Doctor?"

"That, Carnes, time alone will tell."

Phalanxes of Atlans

BEGINNING A TWO-PART NOVEL

_By F. V. W. Mason_

[Illustration: _Agile as grasshoppers, those fierce war dogs ripped
and worried their prey._]

[Sidenote: Only in dim legends did mankind remember Atlantis and the
Lost Tribes--until Victor Nelson's extraordinary adventure in the
unknown arctic.]

CHAPTER I

The ice suddenly gave way under his foot, hurling Victor Nelson
violently forward to lie in the deep snow at the bottom of a tiny
crevasse, down which the merciless gale moaned like an anguished
demon.

"It's no use," he muttered bitterly. "We've fought hard, but we're
done for."

He lay still, stupidly watching his breath form tiny beads of ice on
the ends of the fur which lined his parka. Until that moment he had
not realized how thoroughly exhausted he was. Every muscle of his
starved, bruised body ached unbearably. It wasn't so bad lying there
in the soft snow. He could rest, then look later for the ice hummock
behind which the plane lay sheltered. Rest! That's what he needed, a
good long rest.

But deep within him, a primal instinct stabbed his waning
consciousness. "No," he gasped, and blinked his reddened eyes behind
smoked goggles which dulled the shimmer of the aurora. "If I stop,
I'll never get up."

Shaken by the terrific velocity of the arctic gale he numbly clambered
to his feet, then stooped with a stiff awkward motion to retrieve a
Winchester rifle which lay half buried in the snow beside the blurred
imprint of his body.

"Wonder if Alden had any better luck?" The question burned dully in
his brain. "Don't suppose so; there can't be anything alive in this
God-awful wilderness." As he stumbled on he found no answer in an
unbroken vista of wind-scored ice and drifting snow that, swirling
high into the air, momentarily cut off the view of that black line of
ice-capped mountains barely visible on the horizon.

"Yes, if he hasn't found anything, we'll be dead or frozen stiff
before to-morrow."

His soul--that of a true explorer--revolted, not at the thought of
death, but that his and Alden's courageously won discovery of a
majestic mountain range towering high over a polar region marked
"unexplored" on the maps would now never be made public.

Leaning forward against the merciless icy blast he painfully picked
his way over a treacherous ice ridge, to be faintly encouraged by the
fact that the towerlike hummock of ice marking the position of the
plane now lay but a few hundred yards ahead.

Bitterly he cursed that demon of ill-fortune who had sent the blinding
snow storm which had forced down the plane ten long days ago at the
very beginning of its triumphant return flight to the base at Cape
Richards. Since that hour the storm gods had emptied the vials of
their wrath upon the luckless explorers. Day after day, cyclonic winds
made all thought of a take-off suicidal in the extreme. Three days
ago the last of their food had given out, and, he mused, starvation is
an ill companion for despair.

Slip, slide and fall! On he fought until the final barrier was reached
and he stood staring hopelessly down into a small natural amphitheater
which sheltered the great monoplane. The ship was still there, its
engine snugged in a canvas shroud and with the soft, dry snow banked
up high in the lee of its silver gray fuselage. Numbly, like a man in
the grip of a painful coma, Nelson shielded his face with a furry hand
to scan the surrounding terrain. "Hell!" The door block of the igloo
they had built was still snowed up; Alden was not there!

"He's not back," he muttered, while his body swayed beneath the gale
which smote him with fierce, unseen fists. "Poor devil, I hope he
hasn't lost the way."

All the bitterness of undeserved defeat stung his soul as he started
down the incline into the hollow.

Suddenly he paused. The rifle flew into the ready position and his
chilled thumb drew back the hammer. "What's this?" On the snow at his
feet was a bright, scarlet splash, dreadfully distinct against the
white background. While his dazed brain struggled to register what his
eyes saw, he looked to the right and left and discovered several more
of the hideous spots. Then an object that gleamed dully in the polar
twilight attracted his attention. He lumbered forward, stooped stiffly
and caught up a long, half round strip of bronze.

"What? Why? Oh--I'm crazy. I'm seeing things!" The pain in his empty
stomach was now becoming excruciating. To steady himself he shut his
eyes, shook his head as though to clear it, then looked again at that
strip of metal in his hand. Attached to it were two slender strips of
leather like straps, ending in small, bronze buckles.

"Why, it's not from the plane," he stammered aloud. "Damned if it
doesn't look like a greave the old Greek warriors used to wear to
protect their shins."

Suddenly alarmed and mystified beyond words, he shuffled forward over
the snow, the greave yet clutched in a fur gloved hand. Presently two
more objects, already half buried by the stinging, swirling drifts,
caught his attention. One was the stock of Alden's rifle, protruding
starkly brown from the unrelieved whiteness, and the other was a
broken wooden shaft that ended a graceful but wickedly sharp bronze
spear head.

"I've either gone crazy," he said, "or I'm delirious. Yes, I must be
clean nutty! There _couldn't_ be a human settlement within a thousand
miles. Let's see what's happened."

On the snow of a little wind-sheltered space behind the igloo he
discovered the unmistakable and ominous signs of a struggle. An
indefinite number of footprints, blurred but enormous in size, were
marked in the snow. Here and there deep furrows mutely testified how
Alden and the enemies against whom he struggled had reeled back and
forth in vicious combat over a considerable area. Then, shaken by a
new fear, he discovered Alden's left glove and a rag of some peculiar
thick material that seemed to have a metallic finish. But what aroused
his gravest fears were the numerous splashes of blood that here and
there streaked the snow in gruesome relief.

Only a moment Nelson stood, shaken by the merciless wind, scanning the
piece of bronzed armor between his gloved hands with a fresh interest.
It was beautifully fashioned, and decorated at the knee point with the
wonderfully wrought figure of a dolphin.

If he could only think clearly! But his brain seemed to lie in a
red-hot skull. "Whatever's happened," he muttered, "I'd better not
waste time; they couldn't have been here so long ago. Poor Alden! I
wonder what kind of devils caught him?"

Even before he had finished the sentence the aviator had taken up the
partially obliterated trail of spattered blood drops. That what he
sought appeared to be a maraudering party of giants restrained him not
at all. The one clear thought burning in his weary brain was that
Richard Alden, his best friend--the man with whom he had traveled over
half the world, by whose side he had faced many a perilous
situation--must at that moment lie in peril, the extent of which he
could only surmise.

"Must have been about a dozen of them," he said thickly. And, holding
the Winchester ready, he commenced once more to plod on through the
stinging sheets of wind-driven ice particles. More than once he had
great difficulty in not losing that crimson trail, for here and there
the restless, white crystals completely blotted out the splashes.

All at once Nelson checked his pathetically slow progress, finding
himself on the top of an eminence, looking down in what appeared to be
a vastly deep natural amphitheater of snow and ice. At the bottom, and
perhaps a hundred yards distant, was a curious black oval from which
appeared to rise a dense, wind-whipped column of whitish vapor.

"My eyes must be going back on me," muttered Nelson through stiffened
lips. How intolerably heavy his fur suit seemed! His strength was
about gone and that curious black mouthlike circle seemed infinitely
far away. But, spurred by fears for his friend, he started downward
for the precipitious trail leading directly towards it.

Once he stepped inside the crater, he became conscious of a terrific
side pressure which gripped him as a whirlpool seizes a luckless
swimmer. The wind buffetted him from all angles, dealing him powerful
blows on face and body, which, too strong for his weary body, sent him
reeling weakly, drunkenly across the hard, glare ice towards the
vortex. Twice he slipped, each time finding it harder to arise. But
at last he approached what on closer inspection proved to be a
subterranean vent of black rock.

"Steam!" he gasped. "It's steam coming out of there!"

Swayed by a dozen conflicting emotions, he paused, the Winchester
barrel wavering like a reed in his enfeebled grasp.

"The whole thing's crazy," he decided. "I must be frozen and lying
somewhere, delirious. Poor Dick! Can't help him much now."

Like a man in a nightmare who advances but feels nothing under his
feet, Nelson staggered on towards that huge, gaping aperture of black
rock. On the threshold a pool of melted snow water made him stare.

"Hell!" he said. "It's only a volcanic vent of some kind." Then dimly
came the recollection of Eskimo legends concerning thermal springs
beyond the desolate and unknown reaches of Grant Land.

His mind in an indescribable turmoil, Nelson splashed across a hundred
yards of sodden snow, then shivered on wading knee deep through a pool
of melted ice. Now he stood on the very threshold of that awful
opening, dense clouds of vapor beating warmly against his chilled
features.

His goggles fogged at once, blinding him effectively as, with reason
staggering under the accumulated stress of starvation and the
circumstances of Alden's disappearance, he groped his way a few feet
into the vent. With his left hand he pulled up the glasses from his
sunken, blood-shot eyes.

"It's warm, by God!" he cried in astonishment as the skin exposed by
lifting the goggles came in contact with the air. "Must be some kind
of earth-warmed cave."

Increasingly mystified, he caught up his rifle and strode on down the
passage, at that moment illuminated by the last unearthly rays of the
aurora borealis. A single, dazzling beam played before him like a
powerful searchlight, to light a high vaulted tunnel of basalt rocks
which were distorted by some long-gone convulsion of the earth into a
hundred weird cleavages and faults. For that brief instant he found he
could see perhaps a hundred feet down into a high roofed passage,
along the top of which poured a tremendous stream of billowing,
writhing steam.

"If this doesn't beat all," he murmured; but for all of his
apprehension he did not pause. Those bloody splashes bespeaking
Alden's pressing need urged him on. "Looks like I'm taking a one way
trip into Hell itself. Well, we'll soon see."

Slipping and sliding over an almost impassable array of black rocks
and boulders, Nelson fought his way forward, conscious that with every
stride the air grew damper and warmer. Soon trickles of sweat were
pouring down over his chest, tickling unbearably.

Then all at once the ray of light faded, leaving him immersed in a
blackness equalled only by the gloom of a subterranean vault. He
stopped and, resting his rifle against a nearby invisible rock, threw
back the parka hood and pulled off his gloves. He was amazed to feel
how warm the strong air current was on his hands.

"Beats all," he muttered heavily. "I wonder where they've taken
Alden?"

Meanwhile his hands groped through fur garments now wet with
melted-snow and ice particles, searching for the catch to open that
pocket in which lay a small but powerful electric flashlight, an
instrument without which no far-flying aviator finds himself. After a
moment's fumbling, his yet stiffened fingers encountered the
cylindrical flash and, with a low cry of satisfaction, he drew it
forth to press the button.

"Mighty useful. I--" The words stopped, frozen on his lips. Before the
parka edge his close cropped hair seemed to rise, and his breath
stopped midway in his lungs. Sharp electric shocks shook him, for
there, half revealed in the feeble flashlight's glare, was a sight
which shook his sanity to the snapping point. Not fifty feet away two
eyes, large as dinner plates, with narrow vertical red irises, were
trained on him. Rooted to the ground by the paralysis of utter horror,
Nelson saw that their color was a weird, unhealthy, greenish white,
rather like the color of a radio-light watch dial.

Strangely intense, these huge orbs wavered not at all, filling him
with an unnameable dread, while the strong odor of musk assailed his
nostrils. The flashlight slipped from between Nelson's fingers and, no
longer having his thumb on the button, flickered out.

Helpless, Nelson stood transfixed against a boulder, aware that the
strange, musky scent was becoming stronger. Then to his ears came a
dry scrabbling as of some large body stealthily advancing. Those
horrible, unearthly eyes were coming nearer! Fierce, terrible shocks
of fear gripped the exhausted aviator. Then the impulse of
self-preservation, that most elementary of all instincts, forced him
to snatch up the rifle, to sight hastily, blindly, between those two,
great greenish eyes. Choking out a strangled sob of desperation,
Nelson made his trembling finger close over the cold strip of steel
that must be the trigger.

Like a stage trick, the cavern was momentarily lit by a strong, orange
yellow glare. Then the Winchester's report thundered and roared
deafeningly; coincidentally arose a nerve-shattering scream. An
exhalation, foul as a corpse long unburied, fanned his face.
Terrified, he flattened to the rock wall as a huge, though dangerously
agile body hurtled by with the speed of a runaway horse. Presently
followed the sound of a ponderous fall, then a series of shrill,
ear-piercing gibberings and squeakings, like those of a titanic
rat--squeaks that rang like the chorus of Hell itself. Gradually they
grew fainter, while in the darkness the heavy air of the tunnel became
rank with the odor of clotting blood.

Nelson remained where he was, shaking like a frightened horse and
bathed with a cold sweat.

"Wonder what it was?" he muttered numbly.

He broke off, for in the terrible darkness sounded a low but perfectly
audible _thud! thud! thud! thud!_--and also the subtle noise of some
rough surface rasping gently over the stone. His nerves crisped and
shrieked for relief.

"It's coming again!" he told himself, and ejected the spent cartridge
from the Winchester. "No use--it'll get me, but I may as well fight as
long as I can."

Even stronger grew the musty smell of blood while that uncanny _thud!
thud!_ sound continued at regular intervals. Nelson waited, breath
halted and finger on trigger, but still the darkness yielded no
glimpse of those awful saucer-like eyes.

Emboldened, he stooped and, jerking off his left glove, commenced to
grope among the boulders. Somewhere near at his feet the flashlight
must be lying. Hoping against hope that its fall had not shattered the
bulb, he ran his fingers over the cold, damp stones, every instant
expecting to feel the clutch of the unseen monster. How tiny, how puny
he was! All at once his fingers encountered the smooth familiar shape
of the flash and he raised it cautiously through the darkness.
Patiently he shifted the Winchester to his left hand in order to set
the flashlight on the top of a flat rock, pointing it as nearly as he
could determine in the direction from whence came those ominous,
stealthy sounds.

"Guess I'll switch on the light," he decided, "and trust to drop
whatever it is before it reaches me."

Taking a fresh grip on his quivering nerves, Nelson cautiously cocked
the .38-55, cuddled the familiar stock to his shoulder. He sighted,
then with his right hand pushed down the catch lever of the
flashlight.

Instantly a dazzling white beam shot forth to shatter the gloom. The
hair on the back of Nelson's hands itched unbearably, while the cold
fingers of madness clutched at his brain, for the sight which met his
eyes all but bereft him of his wavering sanity. There, belly up,
across a low ridge of basalt, lay a hideous reptile, which in form
faintly resembled an enormous and fantastic kangaroo. Its scabby belly
was of the unhealthy yellow of a grub, a hue which gave way to a
leaden gray as the wart-covered skin reached the back. Two enormous
hind legs, each thick as a man's torso and each equipped with three
dagger-like talons, struck out in helpless fury at the air, while a
long, lizard-like tail threshed powerfully back and forth, scattering
ponderous boulders right and left as though they had been marbles. The
flashlight being trained as it was, the monster's head and
forequarters were invisible, all save two very much smaller and
shorter front legs which, like the hinder ones, clawed spasmodically.

"The D. T's!" gasped Nelson, conscious that he was trembling like an
aspen. He suppressed a wild desire to laugh. "Yes, I've gone crazy!"

He glanced downwards and leaped swiftly back, for, creeping over the
stones towards his fur outer boots, meandered a wide rivulet of bright
scarlet blood. From its surface rose small curling feathers of steam
which, drifting towards the tunnel's roof, merged with that gray,
vaporous current flowing steadily towards the sunless Arctic expanse
outside.

It took Nelson a long five minutes to sufficiently recover his
equilibrium for action. All he could do was to stare at that
grotesque, gargoyle-like creature as it writhed in leisurely and
persistent death throes.

"Guess I winged it all right! My God, what a nasty beast! Looks like
one of those allosaurs I read about in college. It couldn't be,
though--that tribe of dinosaurs died out five million years ago."

Cautiously he scrambled around among the high black stones, casting
the search light beams before him and holding the Winchester always
ready in his hand while trying to recall snatches of palaeontology
studied at college long years ago.

"Yes, it must be a survival of one of the carnivorous dinosaurs," he
decided, then paused, increasingly conscious of that steady thudding
noise. What caused it?

At last he found himself before the creature's gigantic and repulsive
head which lay limp over a blood bathed stone, huge jaws partially
open, and serrated rows of wicked, stiletto-sharp teeth gleaming
yellowly in the flashlight's rays. The head in shape was bullet-like,
ending in a blunt nose as big as a bushel basket and in two prominent
nostrils. The green, lidless eyes were still open, shining faintly,
and seemed to follow his movements, but the steaming blood poured with
the force of a small hose from between triple row of bayonetlike teeth
that curved inward like those of a shark, to splash and bubble freely
to the rock floor and to dribble horribly over the warty, gray hide.

Then Nelson discovered an amazing fact. About the great scaly neck,
thick as a boy's waist, was fastened a ponderous collar, set with
short, sharp spikes.

Nelson gasped. "What in hell!" he cried. "This damn thing's somebody's
property!" His mind, staggered at the thought of dealing with a race
that could and would domesticate such a hideous monster. "Well, it's
no use standing here," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his eyes.
"This isn't getting poor Alden away from those devils."

_Thud! thud!_ In the act of turning he paused, listened once more.
Then he discovered to his amazement that the heart of the apparently
dead reptile was still beating strongly. He could even see the yellow
skin of its belly rise and fall. The effect was grotesque, uncanny.

"Of course," muttered the shaken aviator, "I'd forgotten a reptile's
ganglions will keep on beating for hours, like that shark we killed
off Paumotu. Its heart didn't stop for five hours."

Leaving the slain allosaurus behind, the aviator limped onwards,
doggedly following a trail which wound down, ever onwards, into the
depths of the earth. Gradually the air became so filled with steam
that he stripped off his fur jumper and trousers. Clad in a khaki
flannel shirt, serge trousers and shoepacks, he paused long enough to
count his cartridges, and found there were just fourteen. Hell! Not
very many with which to venture into an unknown abyss. He distributed
them in his pockets, and, somewhat relieved of the weight of the fur
suit, took up his advance, playing the flashlight ahead of him as he
went.

"Poor Alden," he thought. "I wonder if he's still alive?"

Every moment expecting to stumble over the mangled corpse of his
friend he hurried on, making better time over the cavern floor, but
soon even the lighter clothing commenced to feel oppressive.

"Must be the earth's heat," he muttered, while the steam clouds rolled
by him like ghostly serpents. "Guess the crust is very thin
here--something like Yellowstone. Probably I'll find some thermal
springs ahead."

Just as he spoke the tunnel took a sharp turn to the right. He
scrambled around the bend to stand petrified, for with the suddenness
of lightning a flood of dazzling orange-red light sprang into being.
Momentarily it blinded him, then revealed strange, incomprehensible
scenes. It appeared that two short shafts of incandescent flame
roared through transparent columns of glass on either side of the
passage some fifty yards distant. Subconsciously Nelson realized that
these columns began and ended in stonework that was smooth and well
joined.

As his eyes became accustomed to the glare he distinguished beside
each light pillar two bronze doors, some eight feet high and
semicircular in shape. These had been evidently pulled back to expose
the lights. Then his breath stopped in his throat, for there, standing
beside them, was a gleaming group of six or eight of the strangest
creatures Nelson could ever have imagined. They were men--there was no
mistaking that--men of normal size, but they were so helmeted and
incased in a curious type of armor that for a moment he believed them
gargoyles.

Quite motionless he stood, clutching the cold barrel of the Winchester
in a spasmodic grip and staring up at those two watch-towers, built
like gigantic swallows' nests into sheer rock wall. He could see the
warriors stationed there, peering curiously down at him from the
depths of heavy, bronze helmets--helmets which in shape much resembled
those of an ancient Grecian hoplite, for the nose guards and cheek
pieces descended so low as to completely mask the features of those
strange guards. For crests these helmets bore exquisitely wrought
bronze dolphins, with brilliant blue eyes of sapphire. But what
fascinated Nelson most was the curious armor they wore. Beneath breast
plates of polished bronze, these strange warriors wore what seemed to
be a kind of chain mail--yet it was not that, for the texture had more
the appearance of some heavy but pliant leather, finished with a
metallic surfacing.

Suddenly the spell of mutual amazement was broken, for a tall warrior
in a breast plate that glittered with diamonds and seemed altogether
more ornate than the rest, clapped a short brass horn to his lips and
blew a single piercing note. At once there appeared on the tunnel's
floor, not a hundred yards from the startled aviator, a rank of
perhaps twenty soldiers, accoutred exactly like those he beheld by the
light boxes. They came scrambling over the boulders, their shadows
grotesquely preceding them. In their hands were long shafted spears,
and on their left arms rectangular shields, charged with a lively
dolphin in the act of swimming. Some of them, however, held short
hoses in their hands, hoses that sprouted from tight brass coils
strapped to their broad shoulders.

Again the commanding figure aloft raised the horn. From the tail of
his eye Nelson caught the gleam of metal in the orange glare. While a
blast, harsh as the scream of a fire siren, echoed and re-echoed
eerily through the passage, there appeared a fresh detachment. Nelson
shrank back in horror, for these bronze-armored warriors led, at the
end of a powerful chain, two more of those huge, ferocious allosaurs,
exactly like the one he had slain but a short while back.

Like well regulated automatons the hoplite rank opened to permit the
passage of those repulsive, eager monsters, then closed up again and
halted, spears levelled before them in the precise manner of an
ancient Grecian phalanx, while the men with those curious hose-like
contrivances ran out to guard the flanks.

"I'm done for now," thought Nelson as he threw off the Winchester's
safety catch. "I suppose they'll turn those nightmares loose on me."

He was right. For all the world as though they led war dogs, the
keepers in brazen armor advanced, the dull metallic clank of their
accoutrement clearly discernible above the sibilant hiss of their
hideous charges, which hopped along grotesquely like kangaroos, using
their long and powerful tails as a counterpoise.

Then the officer watching from the left hand swallow's nest shouted a
hoarse, unintelligible command, whereupon one of the keepers raised
his right hand in a sharp gesture that instantly flattened the
incredible monster to earth, exactly like an obedient bird dog.

As in a fantastic dream Nelson watched one of the armored guardians
unsnap the hook of the powerful chain by which his allosaurus was
secured. Then, whistling sharply, he clapped his hands and pointed
straight at the motionless aviator. The creature's green white eyes
flickered back and forth, and a chill, colder than the outer Arctic,
invaded Nelson's breast as those unearthly eyes came to rest upon him.

Meanwhile the other allosaurus remained crouched, whining impatiently
for its keepers to cast it loose.

Fixing burning eyes upon the American, the foremost keeper threw back
his head. "Ahre-e-e!" he shouted. Instantly the freed allosaurus
arose, balanced its enormous bulk, then commenced to leap forward at
tremendous speed, clearing fifteen or twenty feet with each jump and
uttering a curious, whistling scream as it bore down, a terrifying
vision of gleaming teeth and talons.

Shaking off the paralysis of despair, Nelson whipped up the Winchester
and, as before, sighted squarely between those blazing, gemlike eyes.
When the huge monster was but twenty feet away he fired, and the
report thundered and banged in the cavern like the crash of a summer
storm. In mid-air the ghastly carnivore teemed to stagger. Its tail
twitched sharply as in an effort to recover its balance. Then, quite
like any normal creature that is shot through the head, it lost all
sense of direction and made great convulsive leaps, around and around,
clawing madly at the air, bumping into the rock walls and uttering
soul-shaking shrieks of agony. Like a gargoyle gone mad it reeled back
towards the startled rank of spearmen. As it came, Nelson saw the
second allosaurus rear itself backwards and, balanced on its tail,
strike out with powerful hind legs as its maddened fellow drew near.

Like razors the great talons ripped through the dying allosaurus'
belly, exposing the gray-red intestines as the stricken creature raced
by, snapping crazily at the empty air.

A single mighty sweep of the monster's tail crushed five or six of the
panic-stricken keepers and guards, strewing them like broken and
abandoned marionettes among the stones. Hissing and obviously
terrified, the second dinosaur watched the dying struggles of its
mate; then, obedient to a terrified shout from its keepers, wheeled
about to join in a frantic rout of the spearmen, who, casting aside
shield, spear and brass coil, fled for dear life in the direction of
those invisible passages through which they had appeared.

CHAPTER II

No less amazed and alarmed than those vanished soldiers, Nelson
remained rooted to the ground, conscious that in the swallow's nest
overhead there remained only the officer--a tall, broad shouldered man
with golden beard showing from under the cheek pieces of his helmet.
Across the body of the still writhing monster their glances met.
Nelson could see by the light of those strange pillars of fire that
the other's eyes were blue as any Norseman's. Leaning far out over the
stone parapet the other stared down upon the aviator from the depths
of his jewelled helmet in a strange mixture of curiosity and awe.

Suddenly Nelson's nerves snapped and he shook a trembling fist at the
martial figure above.

"Go away!" he shrieked, and reeled back on the edge of collapse. "Go
away, you damn phantom! You're driving me crazy--crazy, I tell you!"

The other stiffened, then turned and, uttering a hoarse shout,
vanished, leaving the noiseless and apparently heatless pillar of fire
flaring steadily.

Recovering somewhat, Nelson set his teeth, advanced to the nearest
corpse, stooped and regarded him who lay there, with bronze helmet
fallen off.

"It's a man and not a ghost," he murmured as his finger encountered
flesh that was still warm. "Red headed too, or I'm a liar. Now what in
hell is all this?"

For all his bewilderment he began to feel better and his swaying
reason became steadier. "Bronze, bronze--nothing but bronze," the
aviator told himself as he further examined the scattered equipment.
"Evidently these fellows don't know the use of iron or steel."

With increased curiosity he bent over another splendidly built dead
man who lay with back broken and sightless eyes staring fixedly onto
the steam current meandering silently along the cavern's roof. From
the fallen man's belt were slung half a dozen curious weapons that
looked not unlike potato mashers, except that they were bronze headed
and had wooden handles.

"Hum," he commented, "kind of like the grenades the Boche used in the
late lamented. Wonder what the devil these are?"

Suddenly his ear detected the sound of a footstep and, on looking
swiftly up, he beheld that same yellow bearded officer who had
directed the attack. This strange being had taken off his ponderous
helmet to carry it in his left hand, while his right was held
vertically in the immemorial sign of peace. On he came with powerful
martial strides, a brilliant green cloak flapping gently behind him
and the jewels in his brazen armor glinting like so many tiny colored
eyes. The stranger was indeed handsome, Nelson noticed--and then he
received perhaps the greatest shock of the whole chimerical adventure.
The gold bearded man halted some twenty feet away, smiled and spoke in
a curiously inflected but perfectly recognizable voice.

"Welcome to the Empire of the Atlans. Prithee, Wanderer, what be thy
name?"

For a long moment Nelson was entirely too taken back to make a reply.
Desperately his already perplexed brain tried to comprehend. Here was
a handsome six-footer, dressed in the arms of an ancient race,
speaking English of the seventeenth century!

As at a phantom, he regarded the stalwart, faintly ominous figure,
from heavy leather sandals to bronze greaves, thence to wide belt from
which dangled more of those curious grenadelike objects. His glance
paused on the officer's beautifully wrought bronze cuirasse or breast
plate which showed in relief an emerald scaled dolphin and trident.
These, Nelson decided, must be the national emblems of this
incomprehensible nation.

Then their eyes met, held each other a long moment until the tall
officer's features, disfigured by a long red scar across the jaw,
broke into a hard smile.

"Hero Giles Hudson begs thy pardon," he said, "but methought thou
spoke in the language of Sir Henry Hudson, my ancestor?"

"Sir Henry Hudson!" stammered Nelson incredulously. "The old explorer
whose men turned him adrift? So that's why you're talking embalmed
English!" In desperation his weary brain strove to understand.

"I know naught," replied the other with a grave smile, "save that the
founder of our royal line spoke what he called English. He came from
the Ice World to rule wisely over Atlans. He was the greatest
Atlantean of history."

"Atlantean?" echoed Nelson, while his mind groped frantically in the
recess of his memory. "Atlans, Atlantis!" A great light broke upon
him. "The lost Atlantis! Great God!" Had he stumbled upon a remnant of
that powerful people whose fabled empire had been drowned ten
centuries ago in the cold waves of the Atlantic?

"Aye," the yellow haired warrior continued as though reading his
thoughts, "long centuries ago this valley was peopled by those who
escaped the great cataclysm which ended the mother country. Later came
another race, barbarian wanderers like thyself." He bowed for all the
world like a courtly English gentleman. "But methinks thou art in need
of food and sustenance?"

"You bet I'm hungry," was Nelson's emphatic reply. "I'm one short jump
of starvation and the D. T.'s. But hold on a minute," he cried. "I'm
looking for a friend of mine. He went by here, didn't he?"

"Aye." A crafty expression Nelson did not like crept into Hero Giles
Hudson's face as he solemnly inclined his head.

"For the nonce, fair sir, thy companion is hale and sound. I beg your
patience."

With a quick gesture the Atlantean raised his dolphin-shaped horn and
blew three short blasts while Nelson, in sudden alarm, cocked his
rifle and brought it in line with the other's chest. The glittering
officer saw the motion, but made no effort to move from the line of
sights.

"Thy gesture avails naught," said he with stiff courtesy. "When Hero
Giles gives his word, it stands good though Heliopolis and the Empire
of the Atlans fall."

One by one half a dozen spearmen appeared, all obviously very
frightened and only moved by an apparently Spartan discipline.
Promptly they saluted, whereupon the Hero--as his title appeared to
be--uttered a number of brief commands in some guttural language
entirely unintelligible to the dazed aviator.

Presently a strange column appeared, composed of some fifteen or
twenty disarmed men marching between a double rank of heavily equipped
hoplites. As they drew near, they clasped imploring hands and
evidently begged for mercy from the stern, tight jawed figure at
Nelson's side. Contemptuous and unhearing the prisoners' piteous
pleadings and lamentations, Hero Giles scowled upon them and
deliberately turned his back.

"What are they?" inquired Nelson, vaguely alarmed. "Enemies?"

"Yes." There was a certain bitter savagery in the speaker's voice.
"These are the dauntless defenders of Atlans who ran at the report of
thy weapon. Presently they die."

It was useless to interfere. The horrified aviator knew it and watched
with compassionate eyes while the condemned soldiers were ranged in a
single, white faced line. They remained silent now, seeming to have
found courage now that hope was dead.

Upon brief command from a subaltern, the guards wheeled about and
retreated perhaps twenty yards down the passage. There they halted,
glittering eyes peering through the slots in their helmets to fix
themselves upon the rigid prisoners who stood numbly resigned to
death.

With surprising speed each member of that weird firing squad detached
a brazen grenade from his belt, then threw back his arm in exactly the
same attitude as a bomb-throwing doughboy. Then there came a short,
sharp command and some fifteen or twenty grenades bobbed through the
air to crash on the stones at the feet of the victims.

His head swimming with repulsion at the slaughter, Nelson beheld a
curious sight. It seemed that from the broken grenades appeared a
yellowish green vapor which sprung _of its own accord_ upon the silent
upright rank! In an instant it settled like falling snow upon the
doomed soldiers. For a breathless fraction of a second they stood,
eyes wide with horror, then collapsed, kicking and struggling as men
do under the influence of gas.

"Horrible!" gasped Nelson. "What was in the bombs?"

"A vapor," explained Hero Giles shortly. "A fungus vapor which,
falling upon exposed flesh, instantly invades the blood and multiplies
by millions. See--" He pointed to the nearest dead man and Nelson,
with starting eyes, watched a yellowish growth commencing to sprout
from the dead man's nostrils. Swiftly the poisonous mould threw out
tiny branches, spreading with astounding rapidity over the skin until,
in less than a minute after the grenades had exploded, the whole
tumbled heap of dead were covered with a horrible yellow green fungus
growth.

"Thou seest?" Hero Giles demanded. "Powerful, is it not? It is against
the fungus vapor we wear this body armor made from the skin of a small
lizard which inhabits our mountains."

Shocked and appalled, Nelson watched the retreat of the solemn, silent
execution party.

Other soldiers fell to unconcernedly stripping their fallen comrades
of equipment; then, to Nelson's horrified surprise, two hideous
allosauri reappeared, shepherded by some six or eight keepers. Once
the horrible creatures were released, they pounced upon the dead and,
snarling horribly, commenced to rend and devour the corpses.

Too shaken to comment or to make the protest he knew to be futile,
Nelson followed the stalwart English-speaking officer into a bronze
door set in the cavern wall and up a short flight of stairs into what
appeared to be a guard room, where food and wine were immediately set
before the famished aviator.

"Yea," Hero Giles was saying as he set down a beautiful goblet and
wiped the last traces of wine from his beard, "we will soon o'ertake
thy friend. He was but little hurt, and thou wilt assuredly join him
in judgment before our great Emperor, Altorius XXII, at Heliopolis,
our capital."

"Heliopolis?" mumbled Nelson, his mouth full of delicious stew that
seemed to be made of veal. "Heliopolis? How far away is it?"

"A hundred leagues more or less," the other smiled. "Almost a third of
the distance up this great valley."

"One hundred leagues! Three hundred miles! Then we won't be there for
several days."

The Hero's deep, rather ominous laughter rang out in the little rock
hewn chamber. "Days?" he jeered. "Days? Art thou mad? In two hours
from the time we board the tube-road thou shalt learn thy fate from
his Serene Highness."

"What!" Nelson's sunken and blood-shot gray eyes widened, while his
jaw dropped incredulously. "One hundred leagues in two hours? As I
remember there are about three miles to a league, so a hundred leagues
in two hours means one hundred and fifty miles an hour! Why, that's
utterly impossible! The Twentieth Century Limited doesn't go half so
fast."

Several enormous emeralds set into the other's bronze cuirasse
glittered softly and the Hero's cold blue eyes hardened as his hand
sought the grenade belt.

"Impossible? Dost doubt my words, sirrah?" With an effort he
controlled himself. "Nay, thou shalt see for thyself ere long. The
tube-road runs from Heracles to Heliopolis. Thou canst trace its
course on this map here on the wall."

"The dog-born devils of Jarmuth have no such means of travel,"
continued the Atlantean, with a touch of smug pride that reminded
Nelson of a small town Middle Westerner speaking of the "rightest,
tightest little town west of the Mississippi."

Nelson found it extremely weird to be sitting there in a heavy arm
chair, drinking good red wine with a fierce armor-clad warrior who
wore sandals, sword and a war cloak such as might have graced the
limbs of Alexander of Macedon. But with the food and rich warm wine,
he felt blood, strength and self-confidence pouring back into his
weary body. "Jarmuth?" he inquired. "What is Jarmuth?"

At his question the domineering, predatory face across the table
darkened and the scar on his cheek flamed red as a scowl of hatred
gripped Hero Giles' visage.

"Jarmuth!" snarled the Hero, and his great hand closed like a vise.
"Jarmuth! A nation of treacherous, gold-adoring cannibals, whose
countless hordes, spawned in the hot lowlands, ever threaten our
frontiers. I tell thee, Friend Nelson, the dog-sired Jereboam will not
rest until mighty Heliopolis lies in a heap of smoking ashes."

"Evidently," thought Nelson, taken aback at the other's vehemence,
"this lad's English only in speech. I guess he's all Atlantean outside
of that."

Warming to a fiercer pitch, the other fixed his guest with a
smoldering gaze. "Jarmuth lies beyond Apidanus, the boiling river, and
is the home of a savage horde whose horrid rites in Jezreel, the
capital, stink as an offense to Saturn and the High Gods! Why, mark
you," the warrior prince continued, interrupting his tirade to gulp a
goblet of wine, "five years ago, by treachery, they seized the
beauteous Altara, sister of our gracious Emperor, and upon the annual
feast of Beelzebub, that vile demon they worship, the dark dogs would
have sacrificed and devoured her, according to their rites, had not
our Emperor dispatched a ransom of six fair maidens to take her place.

"Every year since then Jereboam has exacted that same tribute. Every
year their princes and priests gorge themselves on the tender white
flesh of our fairest and noblest maidens. But this tribute must end!
The augurs have told us so. Help will come from the Ice World." Hero
Giles brought crashing down on the table a brawny fist, on whose
wrist was fixed a bright, gem-studded bracelet.

Horror-stricken, Nelson nodded.

"It is for this alone," continued the Hero somberly, "that thy life
and that of thy friend have been spared."

"So? I didn't notice," broke in Nelson, "that you particularly went
out of your way to preserve my health a while back."

The heavy golden head shook slowly and a grim smile played about those
thin cruel lips. "Nay, but I could have had thee slain. Come, as we go
to the tube-road I'll show thee how much thou liest in the hollow of
this, my hand." He thrust out a broad, powerful palm. "Forget not,
fair sir. At any moment I or my Imperial Master may choose to close
that hand."

"Perhaps!" stated Nelson, feeling it imperative to keep up his pose of
independence. "But it might just happen that your hand would close on
a porcupine, and so far from hurting the porcupine it would be your
hand that would be hurt."

"Sirrah!" The Atlantean sprang to his feet and one hand shot to the
grip of his ponderous, bronze sword; but even more quickly Nelson
snatched up his rifle, a thin smile playing on his lips.

"Drop it," he snapped. "Control yourself, or I'll plug you like that
allosaur. Be reasonable, can't you? We both want something, and
perhaps can help each other gain it."

The taut, menacing figure in armor relaxed and, with a gentle clank of
accoutrement, Hero Giles resumed his seat.

"Prithee pardon me," he apologized ungraciously. "I was ever a
hot-head and there is much in what thou sayest. We wish to force an
end to this annual tribute--if not to regain our beloved Altara. And
thou"--his heavy, golden eyebrows shot up--"and thou, what dost thou
wish?"

Nelson lowered the menacing barrel. "I want the return of Richard
Alden, free passage back to that spot where he was captured and plenty
of food and help should we need it. If I aid you in one, you must
promise me in the other."

"Aye," returned the other doubtfully. "But I myself can pledge naught
save thy immediate safety. 'Tis for our Imperial Majesty to say
whether both thou and thy friend shall live, or whether ye shall feed
our war dogs. Come now, we must go to Heliopolis."

[Illustration: _Map of Jarmuth and Atlans_]

Picking up his heavy, bronze helmet the Atlantean prince set it on his
yellow head and waited impatiently for Nelson to drain the last of his
wine. Then, with a swirl of his green cloak, he vanished through the
rock wall, closely followed by a singularly distracted and alarmed
aviator.

A bright yellow glare steadily increased to mark the end of the tunnel
down which the two had progressed; then, with the sharp abruptness of
a hand-clap, there resounded a loud challenge in that unintelligible
Atlantean language, above which the hiss of steam could be loudly
heard.

Instantly the Atlantean prince strode forward, a commanding figure.
Momentarily his helmet and the dangling grenadelike bombs were sharply
outlined against that unearthly yellow light. He raised his hand and
dropped it, palm outward, to his chin in what must have been a salute.
The hissing sound of steam then faded into silence.

Followed at a respectful distance by a pair of silent, bronze-helmeted
hoplites, Nelson and his guide descended a narrow stair, which
broadened at the base. It was a very long staircase composed of
perhaps two or three hundred steps which were occasionally interrupted
by wide stone terraces. On these level spaces were fixed what appeared
to be enormous field guns of glittering brass. They were similar, yet
somehow oddly dissimilar, to the great guns Nelson had seen in
France.

"Behold, oh Wanderer," Hero Giles declaimed impressively, "the lands
of Atlans and Jarmuth!"

It was a weird landscape that met Nelson's half-unbelieving gaze, a
landscape green with that brilliance peculiar to spring meadows, lying
beneath the same deep blue sky that overarched the surrounding barren
ice fields which hemmed in this astounding valley.

A slight smile played over Hero Giles' thin lips as he watched the
amazed aviator.

"The splendor of our country must indeed astound thee," he observed,
"having come from the dreary fastness of the outer Ice World. But
come; we are now to pass the great retortii guarding the entrance into
the valley."

Nelson's eyes turned again to the weapons that so oddly resembled
field guns. He examined them closely, inspecting them narrowly for the
differences he knew must exist between them and the artillery that had
thundered during the War of the Nations.

The chief difference lay in the mounting of these starkly beautiful
weapons. They seemed to be fixed on a movable pivot set into the coal
black rock itself. Like modern artillery, these curious pieces of
ordnance bore a bronze shield to protect their crews, through which
projected the long and very narrow barrels of the guns. Grouped like
cannoneers about their piece stood various red-crested Atlantean
artillerymen. At a glance Nelson recognized the difference in their
equipment from that of the spearmen behind them. These former bore no
shields, no swords or bombs, but wore that same kind of leather
body-armor which graced the powerful limbs of Hero Giles. Their
helmets, too, were different: only the dolphin crest with a tuft of
red feathers spouting from it bore any resemblance to those of the
infantry, and, moreover, the artillerymen's eyes were shielded by
goggles with thick blue lenses.

As the Hero approached, officers among them saluted, then sank on one
knee with head humbly bent.

"Rather odd looking guns," commented Nelson. "I'm not much of an
artilleryman, but I'm wondering how you take up the recoil?"

The Atlantean's laugh, which always reminded his guest of the purr of
a tiger, rang out. "Why, marry, good sir, there is no recoil! These
guns do not use that powder which Sir Henry, founder of our line, did
speak of. Thou wouldst see one fired?"

His curiosity immeasurably piqued, Nelson nodded, whereupon the
Atlantean wheeled about and barked a brief command. With truly
Prussian precision, the artillerymen sprang to their posts, some to a
series of levers which sprouted from the rock platform without any
apparent connection, and some to wheels and gauges of varying size
that clustered in bewildering intricacy about the breech of the great
brass gun.

"Markest thou that tree yonder, on the ledge of the valley?" The
Atlantean's blunt outstretched finger indicated a towering pine
sprouting from among a mass of reddish volcanic rock at the rim of
that new world.

"Yes, I see it, but--" Nelson was astounded. A pine tree in the upper
Arctic! That alone was sufficient cause for amazement. From a stiff
red-plumed gun captain issued a brief series of commands which set the
wonderfully drilled crew to silently adjusting their training and
elevating mechanism. Click! Clack! Sis-s-s-s!

All up and down the vast staircase other gun crews stood watching.
Nelson saw their weird, bluish goggles raised to that platform where,
for all the world like a coast defense howitzer, the great cannon
swung majestically about on the ponderous, brazen column which seemed
to support it. Gradually the muzzle was elevated, then traversed a few
feet, to finally come to a halt.

"Jakul, a Hero!" shouted the gun captain, his hand raised to Hero
Giles.

"Thou art ready, Friend Nelson?" he inquired in tolerant amusement.
"Mark well yon pine tree!

"Storr!"

Nelson saw one of the armored cannoneers bend forward, firmly grasp a
short lever with both hands. In anticipation of a terrific report, the
aviator pressed finger tips to his ears. There followed not a
thundering crash, but a curious, eery, high-pitched scream, rather
like that of a fire siren. There was no smoke! Nelson's incredulous
eyes sought the muzzle of the gun and detected issuing from it what
appeared to be a thin, white rod. This shimmering stream of silver
shot straight towards the pine tree, gradually widening and giving off
feathery billows of steam. In a fraction of a moment the target was
completely veiled from sight in a furious pall of clouds which, to
Nelson's great astonishment, did not dissipate nor condense with the
speed of ordinary steam.

"Nava!"

With impressive suddenness the screaming sound faded, leaving a sort
of stunned silence on the gun platform. The gunners stalked back to
their original stations.

Slowly, reluctantly, the mist enveloping the pine tree cleared away
and Nelson felt a chill creeping up his spine. The pine was a good
three hundred yards away, yet now it sagged limp to earth, stripped of
bark, twigs and needles, only the bright yellow trunk and major
branches remaining.

"That tree was a good two feet thick," mused the astounded aviator,
"yet the steam gun bent it like a sapling. My God! What would it do to
a man?"

"What thinkest thou of our retortii?" The Atlantean's beard glinted
like metal as he shook with a grim, silent laughter. "These great
retortii can shoot half a league and will blast any living thing in
their path. I tell thee, friend Nelson, the discharge of even a small
retortii will strip the flesh from a man's bones as a peasant strips
the husk from an ear of corn!"

"Fearful, terrible!" was Nelson's awed comment. "Is there no defence
against them?"

"Of course." The Hero's green feather-crested helmet gleamed with a
nod. "Was there ever an instrument of war that had not its defence?
Yea, we have the blue vapor to shatter steam particles--it is called
the blue maxima. Thou wilt presently see some of our troops armed with
it."

"But where does this steam come from? How is it generated?" These two
were the first of a host of questions which trembled on Nelson's lips.

"The steam," replied the Atlantean, "comes from the earth. We compress
it many times, then feed it into our retortii. Without the heat of
Mother Earth and our flame suns we would all perish. Steam is our
motive power, our defence and our enemy!"

He flung his hand towards the vast valley stretched before them. It
was hemmed in on either side by colossal breath-taking mountain
ranges, whose caps shone and glittered with an eternal snow.

"Some foothills! They must rise all of 25,000 feet from the valley
floor," decided the aviator, "and I should imagine this valley is a
good mile below sea level. Yes! That must be it: this nightmare
country lies in a huge geographical fault--something like the Dead
Sea."

Mile after mile he could see fertile green land stretching away toward
some low undulating hills on the horizon. Atlans was very thickly
settled--that he recognized at once--for the terrain was divided and
sub-divided into a vast checker-board, such as he had seen in France
and Germany, while terraces, green with produce, had been laboriously
gouged out of the frowning mountain sides.

Then his eye encountered the source of that curious amber light which
pervaded the whole valley. A titanic flaming gas vent spouted like a
cyclopean torch from the peak of a nearby mountain. Its steady,
subdued roar struck Nelson's ear as he turned away his eyes, for the
glare was too intense to be long endured. Further down the valley were
two more such incandescent vents, shooting their flaming tongues
boldly into the sky, warming the air and casting that rich, amber
radiance over all.

"That is Mount Ossa nearest us," the Atlantean's voice came as though
from a long distance. Victor Nelson was too staggered, too unspeakably
amazed to register the fact of the Hero's proximity. "Below are Pelion
and Jilboa, which, with Jabor, the greatest of all the flames,
illuminate and warm the valley."

Nelson's eye, trained to be all observant, ranged far and wide, noting
the presence of many lacy, frothing geysers which spouted at varying
intervals. There were, also, many steaming ponds and waterfalls which
sprang in smoky confusion from the rock palisades to either side.

Nearer at hand he could distinguish a number of huge stone structures,
evidently forts and public buildings. Strategically placed all about
were more of those terrible brass retortii, gleaming dully under the
incandescent glare of the flame sun.

"Come," cried Hero Giles with an impatient gesture of his hand, "we
must e'en hasten to the tube-road terminal. Word has long since been
sent to Heliopolis of thy arrival."

Downwards into the valley, which grew ever warmer and more fertile,
the Atlantean led on, explaining a thousand and one details to the
astounded aviator. Presently they approached the nearest of the great
stone structures and Nelson received yet another shock. In a courtyard
was drilling what would correspond to a troop of cavalry in the outer
world. In orderly ranks the troopers wheeled, marched and
counter-marched, their brazen armor twinkling and clashing softly as
they carried out their evolutions with an amazing precision. But what
astonished Nelson was the fact that each of these strange troopers
bestrode a lithe, long-limbed variety of dinosaur, a good half smaller
than the allosauri he had encountered in the tunnel. These agile
creatures ran about on their hind legs with astonishing speed, using a
long reptilian tail as a balance.

On the back of each trooper was fastened a compact circular copper
tank, from which sprouted a flexible metal hose that ended in what
looked like a ponderous type of pistol.

In distinction to the red of the artillerymen and the blue of the
Hoplites, these curious cavalrymen wore brilliant crests of yellow
feathers, and from their lance tips fluttered tiny pennons of that
same color.

"They must travel at least as fast as a race horse," decided the
aviator after studying the swift evolutions of the scaly chargers. To
his ears came the curious dry scrape and rattle of their horny claws
on the stone pavement of the drill yard.

He would have lingered to see more, for those grotesque, lizard-like
chargers interested him immensely, but Hero Giles beckoned
imperiously. So, dropping the Winchester to the hollow of his arm,
Nelson followed him into the brilliantly gas-lit depths of the great
structure.

Everywhere were red bearded, white skinned soldiers, staring at him
with the frank curiosity of children. Powerful, magnificently built
fellows they were, all in uniforms of different designs.

The walls about him, Nelson noticed, were covered with really
beautiful friezes depicting various warlike scenes in that pure beauty
of proportion found only in ancient Grecian temples.

On and on through resounding tunnels, past busy markets and barracks,
hurried the two travelers. Then the Atlantean halted before a
gracefully arched doorway where stood two hoplites, who immediately
lowered spears to bar the passage. At a word from Hero Giles, however,
they saluted and fell back in position--immovable, grim guardians.

Inside was a short staircase, beautifully wrought of bronze. Up this
flashed the Atlantean's mail-clad body; then he came to a halt under
the direct rays of a blinding light.

Nelson, on arriving above, discovered that the chamber was lined with
jointless brass about ten feet high and circular in shape. "What's
this?" he demanded curiously.

"The terminal of the tube-road. In a moment thou shalt see the great
cylinder arrive."

The words were hardly by the Hero's lips when there appeared,
noiselessly and amid a great rush of air, a huge metal cylinder that
ran upon a sort of truck. It rumbled up to the edge of the platform
and from its end a small door was opened.

Hero Giles exchanged a few sentences with an elderly man who appeared
to act as control master, then he indicated the glowing doorway of the
cylinder.

Firmly clutching his Winchester, Nelson bowed his head and stepped
inside, there to discover a luxury he had never anticipated. The
interior of the cylinder was brilliantly lit and on both sides were
ranged wide divans, strewn with many silken cushions. In a rack nearby
were several graceful glass amphora, filled with red and tawny wine.

"The cylinder must be about thirty feet long," the marvelling American
told himself, "and about ten feet in diameter. Guess it works on the
same principle as the compressed air tubes the department stores use
to send change with."

Gingerly he tested the nearest divan and marvelled at the curious
softness of what appeared to be a gigantic tiger skin. Meanwhile Hero
Giles entered, his stern features even more serious, but with him was
a younger man who resembled him not a little.

"Fair brother," said the Atlantean to his companion, "this is he of
whom I spoke. Friend Nelson, this is Hero John, my next youngest
brother--he, too, speaks the language of the great Sir Henry Hudson."

The metallic clang of the door being shut brought a sharp qualm to
Nelson's heart. "What are they doing?" he demanded quickly.

"The menials bolt the door beyond," explained Hero Giles with amused
gravity. "In a moment our cylinder will be placed in the dispatching
chamber, where steam pressure will be exerted. We shall then be hurled
through this vacuum tube-road to Heliopolis, greatest city of Atlans.
In an hour we will be there."

Outside sounded the sudden insistent clangor of a gong, and
immediately the hiss of steam grew louder. The car shuddered as the
hissing rose to an eery scream, then all at once the cylinder leaped
forward, nearly hurling Nelson from his seat. He struggled as best he
might to gain his equilibrium, for the eyes of the others were on him.

Then, more smoothly, the great cylinder gathered speed and hurtled on
through the darkness of the tube-road towards Heliopolis, where Victor
Nelson would read the book of Fate.

CHAPTER IV

On the arrival platform at Heliopolis reigned a fierce excitement.
Nelson noted countless armed and unarmed warriors hurrying to and fro,
desperately intent on reaching their various posts, and snarling
ill-temperedly as they elbowed their fellows aside. As soon as they
appeared, Hero Giles and his brother became the center of an excited
press of gorgeously armored officers.

"Hum!" murmured the aviator under his breath. "Something's happened.
Must be a revolution, an earthquake or a Democratic convention in
town; these boys seem all steamed up."

Intently he studied the ring of fierce, red bearded faces surrounding
his late hosts and gathered that indeed some event of overwhelming
importance had taken place. Presently a splendid falcon-eyed old man
in a yellow cloak strode up, struggling to control himself. His
resemblance to the two Heroes struck Nelson immediately.

"Harken ye," he cried, in that Elizabethan English which appeared to
be the hieratic language of the New Atlantis' rulers. "Have ye heard?
The dog-conceived sons of Semites have broken the truce! But three
measures gone by, a brigade of their mounted podokesons swooped down
on this very suburb of Tricca, yea, to the very gates of Heliopolis!
The foul man-eating dogs slaughtered royal serfs and burnt two
quarters of the suburb to the ground! Moreover, they seized that
prisoner"--Nelson's heart gave a great leap at the word--"whom thou
sentest from the mountain passes."

"What!" In two swift strides Nelson was before the gray beard, his
blood-shot eyes blazing with a strange light. "What did you say about
that prisoner?"

The old man, who had obviously not noticed Nelson's presence, was
thunderstruck to hear him speak in English until Hero Giles briefly
explained his presence.

"Yea!" continued the elder, flinging lamentations furiously over his
shoulder, "these swine of the Lost Tribes captured him and slew his
escort. They have retreated towards the Apidanus, slaying, burning and
pillaging as they go."

A sickening, deadly fear gripped the weary aviator. This was too much!
Bad as it was to have Richard Alden captured by these weird
descendants of a long vanished race, it was far worse to have him
fall into the hands of their deadly enemies, the Jarmuthians, decadent
survivors of Israel's Five Lost Tribes. The possibility of a rescue
now seemed hopelessly and crushingly vague and distant. What could he
do now?

In dread despair he glanced about, amazed at the prodigious numbers of
scowling men who hurried by, obviously intent upon the commencement of
a campaign for revenge.

Then Hero Giles turned his scarred, warlike face, now set in granite
lines. "Come, Friend Nelson, my uncle Anthony bids me take thee direct
to the presence of His Serene Splendor, where he lies encamped at
Cierum, by the shores of Lake Copias. There he marshals the army of
Atlans for a march through the hot country on Jezreel. I tell thee,
thou hast come in stirring times. From Heraclea, Thebes, Ys and Mayda
will come the Phalanxes. Once and forever we will deal the dogs of
Jarmuth a final blow."

Victor Nelson never forgot the hours that followed. Issuing at a fast
trot from the tube-road terminal, the two Heroes led the way to a vast
structure, in which were stabled both the terrific allosauri and the
podokesauri, those swift dinosaurs which seemed to serve the
Atlanteans as horses. The dreadful hiss and snarl of these monsters
resounded in his ears long before the stables came in sight, and that
curious musky odor he had noted in the tunnel was sickeningly strong.

Everywhere he read signs of hurried preparations for war. Savage,
surly allosauri were led from their stables, one by one, long necks
writhing snakelike backwards and forwards. Then their keepers would,
after a moment's tussle, secure huge leather muzzles over their gaping
jaws, and the huge reptiles would be led waddling along on their hind
legs out into a vast courtyard, there to hiss and strike at their
nearest fellows.

"Thinkest thou couldst ride a podoko?" inquired Hero John, an anxious
look on his handsome, friendly features. "They are difficult to
manage--but swift in flight as the birds themselves!"

"I don't know," replied the aviator, "but I'm damn well going to try.
If your Emperor can help me rescue Alden, the sooner we get started,
the better."

For all his brave resolutions, his heart sank, as the green kilted
keeper led forth three podokesauri. Nelson stared curiously at them
as, hopping along, they drew near, to bare needle-sharp teeth at him
while, brazen stirrups on either side jangled softly against their
rough, scaly hides.

In evident high spirits the beasts snuffed the air and pawed with
their tiny front legs excitedly, making their sharp talons glisten
like polished steel. A bridle dangled from the mouth of each and a
ring set in the thick upper lip served as a further means of control.

At a sharp "_Oya_!" from an old and toothless keeper, the first podoko
sank flat to the stone floor like a kneeling camel.

"A sturdy beast," commented Hero Giles, tightening his belt and
securing the clasps to the emerald-green war cloak. "Here, Friend
Nelson, thou hadst best don a helmet; the podokos on occasion throw
back their heads and so might wound thee." So saying, he set foot in
stirrup and swung up into a saddle which was built up high in the
cantle to correct the sharp downward slope of the reptile's muscular
back.

At a signal, Hero Giles' ugly mount rose to its height and shuffled
awkwardly sidewise, as the old keeper, his eyes very wide and curious,
led forward Nelson's charger.

"Look," said Hero John with a reassuring smile. "The chin strap
buckles so--be sure it fits snug, else it will pound on thy head to
the podoko's stride. If thou wouldst turn to the left, pull the rein
so, to the right so, and if thou wouldst stop, pull strongly on the
nose ring; 'tis not so difficult." He laid a friendly hand on Nelson's
flannel clad shoulder. "How wilt thou manage thy curious weapon?" he
inquired doubtfully. "Perhaps thou hadst best leave it behind."

There was a grim smile on Nelson's weary and wind burned features.
"Not on your life, old son! This Winchester and I stick closer
together than the Siamese twins."

Nelson thrust his foot into a heavy stirrup, eased his weight into the
high peaked saddle and gripped the pommel, for though an excellent
horseman, he had no clue as to what motion would ensue. It was wise he
did so, for the podoko reared suddenly, almost flinging his rider from
the saddle.

Immediately Hero John mounted, raised his right hand and dealt his
podoko a stinging slap on the fore-shoulder. The great reptile hissed
in protest, but commenced to walk off with an awkward, hopping step.
Nelson's mount followed suit.

Faster and faster ran the podokos, their long and scale-covered necks
stretched far out ahead while their tails lifted correspondingly, much
like that of an airplane about to take off.

"Whew! He must be doing all of forty-five," gasped Nelson, while the
wind whistled about his ears and snapped madly at the yellow crest of
his brazen helmet.

The ride which ensued remained forever fixed in the aviator's memory.
Like so many shots from a gun the three podokos darted off out of the
stables, past a gate guarded by a battery of retortii, whose red
plumed cannoneers sprang to attention as the three strangely assorted
riders sped out into the amber, perpetual light of Atlans.

Nelson, on finding his balance, looked about him to receive
impressions of immensely tall structures, of pyramids which, like the
ziggurats of Sumaria, and Babylon, were surmounted with beautifully
proportioned temples.

"Must be at least a million people in this burg of Heliopolis,"
thought Nelson, easing his Winchester.

Hour after hour they sped along, frequently overtaking detachments of
troops. Twice they halted to change mounts, though the podokos seemed
quite tireless.

At the end of five hours' furious riding, Nelson beheld a dense white
cloud low on the horizon.

"What's that?" he demanded. "Fog?"

"No," Hero John informed him. "Yonder flows the Apidanus, the boiling
river. Not far away to the left lies the frontier fortress of Cierum,
where is encamped the Emperor, who will sit in judgment upon thee."

Nelson's heart sank. He had been so occupied with his fears for Alden
that he had not dwelt upon his own precarious position.

Scarcely half an hour elapsed, if Nelson's wrist watch were running
correctly, before he reached the tremendous, swarming camp of Altorius
XXII, Emperor of Atlans. Hero Giles proved to be a powerful talisman,
for everywhere officers and men alike saluted respectfully and sank on
one knee as he passed.

"Wait here," he snapped, as the podokos sank obediently to the dust.
"Brother John, do thou guard Friend Nelson while I seek permission of
His Serene Splendor to bring the Wanderer into the Presence."

Almost immediately the elder Atlantean returned, a frown on his
scarred, rather brutal visage. "Come," he muttered, "but I fear for
thee, Friend Nelson; His Splendor is in a savage mood--this raid hath
stirred his ire beyond all bounds."

"Nothing like cheering up a patient before he goes into the operating
room," thought Nelson, and quietly threw off the safety on his
Winchester. "Six shots," he reflected. "Well, if I go, I reckon I'll
take some damn good company along."

The aviator was led down a long passage, at every ten feet of which
was posted an enormous scowling guard, whose spears, retortii and
armor were painted a brilliant jade-green. Then a musical, deep-toned
gong boomed twice, and Hero Giles halted before an exquisitely wrought
door, which, without any apparent propulsion, silently slid back into
the massive stone walls, revealing a huge, brilliantly lit circular
chamber that was hung with emerald-green hangings. In the center,
surrounded by a royal guard of nobles in splendidly jeweled armor, was
reared a dais, upon which stood a throne that blazed with the most
varied collection of diamonds that Nelson could ever have imagined.

"Down on your face," rasped Hero Giles as, in common with his brother,
he knelt and then fell prostrate on the cool black marble floor.

"Damned if I will," murmured Nelson, and remained erect.

Bolt upright, he looked across the interval and found himself staring
into the furious eyes of one of the handsomest men he had ever beheld.
Gripping his Winchester in a kind of "port arms" position, he stood to
attention--by some curious kink of the brain reverting to his military
days. And so the two men, different as day and night, faced each
other. Altorius XXII clad in robes of scarlet, and a glittering
cuirasse that glowed like the evening sun. His yellow head was truly
splendid, reminiscent of that of a young Roman Emperor. The hair, like
that of the Hudsonian Heroes, was blond, curly and close cropped. Yes,
thought the awed but self-contained American, there was something
genuinely imperial about the Emperor's aquiline visage, for a high
intelligent forehead and piercing blue eyes dominated a strong mouth,
which was marred by a decidedly cruel twist at the corners. On him,
also, was set the stamp of Sir Henry Hudson's dauntless race.

"Put him is a business suit and a soft gray hat," mused Nelson, "and
you would find a dozen like him in any of London's best clubs."

"Down on thy face, sirrah!" Outraged, the Emperor's voice rang like
the peal of a brazen trumpet through the great pillared audience
chamber. The nearest guardsmen held themselves ready, hand on sword
hilt.

"No." Nelson's shaggy black head went back as he found his tongue at
last. "No, Your Majesty. In America we have our own way of showing
respect for authority. I'm an American and, with all respect, I'll
salute you as one."

So saying, his hand flicked up in a sharp military salute to the visor
of that Atlantean helmet which he still wore.

"All damn foolishness," he silently told himself. "I feel like the
lead in a ten, twenty, thirty melodrama. But I suppose it's got to be
done."

The Emperor's teeth gleamed in a half snarl as he sprang with Jovian
wrath to his feet.

"Dog! How darest thou bandy words with us?"

"Have mercy!" hoarsely pleaded Hero John as he lay on the floor. "Have
mercy, oh Splendor! He is but an ignorant wanderer from the Ice
World."

It appeared that the young Hero was something of a favorite, for the
masterful, thunder-browed Emperor checked himself and, still
glowering, settled back on the diamond throne.

"Ye have my permission to enter and approach."

Whereupon, Hero Giles arose and, with many black looks at his guest,
strode forward to briefly explain his presence.

Nelson felt Altorius' blazing blue eyes search his face.

"Then he whom the dog-born Jereboam captured was thy friend?"

"Yes," replied Nelson with dignity, "my best friend. Alden and I have
traveled and wandered all over the world together."

"Over the world? The Ice World?" Altorius seemed interested, for he
leaned forward, muscle corded arms very brown against the frosty
brilliance of the stones studding his throne. He flipped back a
scarlet cloak and bent a searching look on the straight, unafraid
figure below.

Impatient to reach a decision, Nelson forebore to amplify the
Emperor's assumption that the outside world was all ice and snow.

"Yes," he said, "from the land of America. I've spoken with Hero
Giles, Your Majesty's Captain-General."

"So, then, no doubt, he has told you of the law of our country?"
Altorius' white teeth shown again in the depths of his short, curling
beard.

"Perhaps." Nelson was vague, wishing no further amplification.

"The law of Atlans," pronounced the Emperor with a frown, "states that
a stranger must prove his worth to the State, else he must be put to
death. Thank thou thy gods that thou hast not fallen into the hands of
the Lost Tribes, for assuredly thou would perish miserably, as must
thy comrade."

"What is the law of Jarmuth?" inquired Nelson, his mind furiously at
work.

"Their law states that the stranger within their gates must perish on
the altar of Beelzebub, Jarmuth's blood-hungry demon god." A momentary
expression of sadness crept into the Emperor's blue eyes and he beat a
square, powerful hand on the arm of his throne. "Aye, blood-hungry!
Lack-a-day! But yesterday, six of our fairest maidens crossed the
boiling river, never to return."

Nelson was about to speak when from outside came the blast of a
trumpet. The assembled Atlanteans started, paused, and remained
silent, listening intently.

Hero Giles looked up, a light kindling in his deep-set eyes. "Yon was
an Israelite trumpet."

As the words left his lips there came a hurried rapping at the portal,
whereupon the guards sprang forward.

"Bid them enter." Altorius seemed strangely tense and uneasy.

Quietly the door rolled back as before, revealing an Atlantean whose
eyes rolled with alarm. He hurried forward and flung himself on the
floor at the Emperor's sandaled feet.

"Harken, oh Serene Splendor! Waiting without is an embassy from his
Majesty of Jarmuth. They bear words for thine Imperial Highness."

"Now, by Saturn! Here's insolence--at an hour such as this!" With a
furious swirl of his scarlet cloak Altorius leaped to his feet, hand
on the ivory handle of his sword, which, to Nelson's amusement was not
of bronze, but of good, blue-gray steel.

"I'll bet it's old Sir Henry's original pet sticker," he thought.

"Bring on these dogs of Israel," growled Altorius. "They shall die!"

"Gently, gently, oh Splendor," murmured Hero John. "Our full force is
not yet camped on the Plains of Poseidon."

"Nay! Have the rogues flayed alive!" was the advice of the hot-headed
elder brother. He, like the Emperor, was scowling and livid with fury.

Presently there appeared four men, stalwart warriors as totally
different in aspect from the Atlanteans as humans might be. The two
races were alike only in splendid physical proportions and human
figures. They, the Jarmuthians, were black haired and dark skinned,
whereas the Atlanteans, with the exception of Sir Henry's progeny,
were red headed. Truculently the half naked ambassadors strode over
the polished floor, which reflected their rude images. Their hairy
chests, arms and legs afforded a sharp contrast to the neat Atlantean
nobles, who drew back with expressions of disgust.

"Good God!" gasped Nelson in lively surprise. "A bunch of the boys
from Seventh Avenue!"

It was true: each Jarmuthian clearly betrayed his Hebraic origin in
huge, fleshy nose and pendulous lower lip, so characteristic of the
Semitic race. They were fierce, shaggy fellows, naked from the waist
up save for a kind of jointed body armor, reminiscent of a Roman
legionnaire's. Their long abundant blue-black hair was either plaited
or flowed uncut over splendidly muscled shoulders. Their beards on the
other hand were short and frizzed into tight curls, in the Assyrian
manner. On each man's head was set a highly polished, pointed casque
of copper, surmounted in each instance by the six-pointed star of
Solomon. Otherwise the brutal looking emissaries wore nothing but
dirty, food-spotted kilts and rough hide sandals secured by thongs.

With all the insolence and self assurance of conquerors in the
presence of slaves the four jet-eyed ambassadors swaggered up to the
diamond throne. Then the foremost briefly inclined his head towards
Altorius in a grudging salute and began to speak in deep, resonant
tones.

From that point Nelson could understand nothing of the conversation as
it was carried on in the guttural and unintelligible language of that
lost realm, but, from time to time Hero John found opportunity to
translate an occasional phrase.

Darker and darker grew the brows of the gorgeously attired Emperor and
his eagle-visaged Captain-General as they listened to the pompous
oratory of the foremost Jarmuthian, and in dark fury more than one
Atlantean noble half drew his sword when the speaker fell silent at
last.

"He said," the younger Atlantean whispered, "that Jereboam is no
longer satisfied with six maidens. Beelzebub demands a further
offering of six more damsels to be delivered before the third division
of time on the morrow. By Saturn! The insolence of these besotted
swine passes all tolerance!"

From the Atlantean Emperor's outraged negative gestures, Nelson
surmised that Altorius was making an emphatic refusal and even adding
some vicious threat. The foremost Jarmuthian slapped huge dirty hands
on armored hips and fell to laughing with an insolence that would have
provoked a rabbit.

Forgetting dignity and self-control, Altorius, in a single tigerish
leap sprang from his throne and knocked the mocker senseless with a
powerful blow to the jaw. Then, spurning the fallen Jarmuthian with a
sandaled foot, the Atlantean fixed blazing eyes upon the three other
ambassadors who, nothing daunted, closed up, muttering savagely in
their frizzed black beards, while their hands sought the spot where
swords would normally have hung.

"Nice right to the jaw," commented Nelson with a grin. "He's still
English enough to use his fists." He turned to Hero John, who stood
with an expression of horror on his comely features. "What caused the
row?"

"Verily, our plight is grave indeed. That braggart dog threatened to
march on Heliopolis in the first division of morning, and,"--Hero
John's lips compressed into a hopeless, taut expression--"our
reinforcing phalanxes can never arrive in time to defend Cierum at
that hour. Should the defense fail, as it must--since they outnumber
us three to one for the nonce--it would cost us many thousands of men
to stay the blood-hungry hordes of Jereboam once freed on the great
plain."

Like a star shell bursting on a cloudy night came the inception of an
idea.

"Here," cried Nelson, "I've an idea! Maybe I can fix a stall until the
rest of your boys do a General Phil Sheridan and get here."

Hero John's blue eyes widened uncomprehendingly. "What?" he demanded.
"What dost thou propose?"

Nelson's hand crept to his head, for the unaccustomed weight and heat
of the helmet made it itch. "You say these bright boys from over the
border want to chow six more girls? Am I right?"

"Yea, oh Friend Nelson, they demand the victims to-morrow morn, else
they advance."

"All right." Nelson was thinking fast now, a dreadful vision of
Richard Alden stretched for sacrifice on the brass altar of Beelzebub
ever floating before his aching eyes. "Tell those Semites that they
can have those six girls _if_ they can take them away from me."

A puzzled frown creased the younger Hero's brow and he tugged
thoughtfully at his scant yellow beard. "Prithee pardon me, but I do
not comprehend."

"All right, get this now! Tell the Jarmuthians that they can send six
of their biggest and best scrappers, one for each girl. If they can
take any one of those girls away from me, they take them all--taking
me as well--and we'll all get the works in Jezreel together. But, on
the other hand, if I kill their six champions, then Alden is returned
unharmed, the six girls come home and the six other girls come back
too--and there'll be no more hostages. I don't think they'll agree to
or even consider surrendering Your Princess, Altara. I'm sorry I can't
accomplish that, too. But if I can stop this annual tribute, it won't
be so bad, will it?"

Rounder and rounder grew the Atlantean's eyes, and he gaped like a
school boy in a side show.

"What sayest thou? Thou alone to overcome six of their best warriors?
Nay, but this is folly! Moonshine! What knowest thou of their
weapons?"

"Nothing," admitted Nelson, "but I do know Brother Winchester here."
He patted the smooth stock. "He's mighty persuasive, properly
handled."

"But they are armored! They have the fungus bombs, the light retortii
and the javelin!"

"Righto!" agreed Nelson a trifle carelessly, "but you don't know what
this old boy can do when he's put to it. Well?"

"By Saturn!" An uncertain ring crept into the Atlantean Prince's
voice. "A moment, while I address His Splendor."

"I'm a fool, a damn fool!" thought Nelson. "Still, it's Alden's only
chance--unless the Jarmuthians've got some trick I'm not on to, I
ought to stand a fighting chance." Meanwhile Emperor and
Captain-General drew to one side, listening to Hero John's impassioned
oratory. That the idea met with disapproval, Nelson quietly recognized
from the incredulous, even contemptuous, glances Altorius shot at him.
Leaving the four sneering Jarmuthians under guard of the nobles, the
Emperor came striding impatiently over the inlaid floor.

"What madness is this?" he demanded harshly. "Dost thou realize what
would hang upon thy skill? If thou shouldst fail, our annual hostage
for the divine Altara would be twelve instead of six of our maidens.
Further, the dog-conceived Jereboam would wax unbearably overweening
and insolent. Nay, there is too much at hazard! Though outnumbered we
will give battle in the morning."

"Yes?" demanded Nelson, in turn impatient. "A fine chance you'd stand!
Why, less than half of your army is here at Cerium and Hero John tells
me that the enemy have massed their entire forces on the salient of
Poseidon. Isn't that so?"

Altorius' handsome brow darkened. "Aye," he admitted, "but our
reinforcing corps will come up before the third hour of the third
division."

Here Hero Giles broke in and, speaking with the quick, impassioned
tones of one whose reactions are violent, pled for confidence in the
American. "Nay, fair cousin," he replied, casting a sidewise look at
the Jarmuthians standing in muttered colloquy with their leader, who
had now gotten to his feet and was angrily dabbing the blood from his
chin with the hem of his yellow kiltlike garment. "I saw with mine own
eyes what miracles Friend Nelson doth perform with his curious
noise-making retortii. If Jereboam falls upon us ere our regiments are
marshaled, then, verily, are we doomed. We have no choice but to play
for time. Harken to the counsel of Hero John! Methinks this stranger
from the Ice World is no braggart. He will fight well. If he loses he
dies horribly--that he knows. The thought will strengthen his arms,
and if he wins--!"

Then broke in Nelson firmly. "If I win I must have the word of Your
Majesty that Alden and I are to be afforded all help and free passage
to that place where your soldiers captured my friend. It that
understood?"

Altorius' blue eyes shifted and there was a slight hesitation in his
manner. Then, coming to a decision, he whirled and extended his hand.

"Good, 'tis agreed," he said. "On my head be it. Have patience while
Hero Giles confers with these outlandish dogs."

It was with intense interest that the anxious aviator watched the
ensuing conference. He could see the four Jarmuthians listening, dark
eyes restlessly flitting back and forth, and their mouths twisted into
contemptuous half snarls. Then, as Nelson's offer was made clear, a
look of cunning seemed to creep into the eyes of the leader. He asked
for clarification of several points, then, being informed of the
details, his thick lips parted in an evil, crafty grin.

Taken aback at the suspiciously ready acquiescence of the enemy, Hero
Giles turned about. "They agree," he translated, "that, should Friend
Nelson win, they will return to their own land, they will forfeit the
annual tribute forever and return the other stranger unharmed. They
speak fair, but I fear--" He bit his lips in perplexity. "These dogs,
who talk with the forked tongues of serpents, plan some snare, some
cunning trickery."

"Repeat the terms." Altorius seemed gripped with apprehension too.
"Let all be clearly understood: at the third division of morning will
the wanderer fight six warriors. No more and no less."

This was agreed and reaffirmed. Then, with an insolent, triumphant
laugh, the Jarmuthian delegation whirled about and stalked from the
room, their dark greaved legs flashing in military unison over the
polished floor.

"'Tis done," quoth Hero Giles gloomily. "The encounter will take place
on the plain of Gilboa at the third hour of the third division. And
may Saturn help us if thy might fails. Friend Nelson! For then surely
will the hordes of Jarmuth despoil us and there will come a desolation
and a darkness upon the Empire of Atlans."

CHAPTER V

It seemed incredibly soon that Victor Nelson found himself striding
out from the serrated ranks of the Atlantean army which, drawn up in a
rough diamond formation, looked discouragingly small in comparison to
that vast sea of helmets twinkling ominously across the plain of
Poseidon amid a haze of bright yellow dust which climbed lazily into
the breathless heavens. The Jarmuthian army, numbering perhaps sixty
or seventy thousand effective troops, lay encamped in a great salient
formed by a convolution of the Apidanus and formed the only Jarmuthian
tract of the great valley lying south of the boiling river.

Like low-lying snow drifts, the sheen of the enemy tents struck
Nelson's eye as he strode over the bright green turf to battle for
Richard Alden's life.

"There was something back of those nasty grins of the ambassadors," he
reflected. "I wonder what deviltry they're cooking up?"

He glanced at a stalwart Atlantean herald who, nervous in the extreme,
clutched his brazen, dolphin-shaped horn and followed in the
American's wake together with a sad little company. Weeping, moaning
and dressed in plain black robes marched six really lovely girls--they
who would perish on Beelzebub's altar if Nelson failed. Bitter were
the looks of the guards as they secured the hands of the victims and
many the hopeful look cast at the impassive American when they turned
back, leaving the helpless girls to their fate.

The ground where the one-sided duel was to take place was marked off
by means of little yellow flags on a level plain perhaps a quarter of
a mile long and wide. Arriving on the nearest border Nelson briefly
motioned the herald to halt.

"Might as well start shooting at the best range possible, and beat
their steam throwers," he decided. "Wish to the devil I'd a few more
cartridges. Only thirteen shots between me and Beelzeebub's altar in
Jezreel, so I'd better not miss. All right, son, toot your horn."

With his thumb be gestured the command, whereupon the Atlantean nodded
eagerly and, filling his chest, set horn to lips to blow a long,
strident note that rang harshly, boldly out over the great plain.

While the note of the challenge rang out, Nelson's eyes turned back to
regard the Atlantean array and detected, far in the rear, a huge
pillar of dust which must mark the progress of the Atlantean
reinforcements. Would they arrive at Cierum in time? Then his eyes
sought that spot where Altorius and his staff sat anxiously on their
podokos, watching intently the impending struggle. Very clearly the
flash of their armor came to him.

"I guess, like the girls back there, they're kind of nervous and
jumpy," thought Nelson. "Well, I don't blame them. I've had quieter
moments myself."

Having blown three blasts, the Atlantean herald saluted; then, with
disconcerting haste, made his way back to the ranks of his fellows
some two hundred yards away.

From the Jarmuthian army came an answering blast. Nelson cast a last
look on the Atlantean army, breathlessly awaiting the impending duel.
There was the allosauri corps on the far left; he could see the
chimeric monsters' long, repulsive necks writhing endlessly back and
forth through the air as they squealed and tugged strongly at their
restraining chains. On the right were stationed perhaps ten thousand
podokesons, their slender, yellow-shafted lances swaying like a
sapling forest in the distance. In the center were eleven thousand
protection infantry, green-crested and armed with compact tanks of
blue-maxima vapor, fungus bombs and swords. Behind them, and
corresponding to heavy infantry, were ranged some twenty thousand
blue-plumed hoplites, eagerly fingering the brazen hoses of their
death dealing portable retortii.

Nelson had no time to further study the array, for he whirled about as
from the Atlantean army arose a deep, horrified shout. He stood
paralyzed, his jaw slack. For there, waddling slowly forward, came the
most fantastic huge creature imaginable. Unspeakably repellent and
horrible, it stood on short legs thick as mature trees, to tower at
least thirty-five feet above the ground at the fore-shoulders! An
immense reptilian neck some twenty-five feet long weaved continuously
back and forth, while a surprisingly small, bullet-shaped head emitted
rumbling grunts.

"Great God!" gasped the horrified aviator, and felt the ground sway
under him. "It must be ninety feet long!"

Paralyzed by a dreadful fascination he watched the ungainly, hill-like
reptile shuffle ponderously forward and realized that, high on its
back, was fixed a small fort, rather like those howdahs or boxes which
are fastened to the backs of elephants. Chilled with the nearness of
death, Nelson counted six mail-clad warriors in the howdah. Then the
true import of the Jarmuthians evil jest struck him with full force.

"Six men, they said. And six men there are--but the treacherous devils
mounted them on that walking hill-side! Guess Altorius can kiss his
six girls good-by right now. Poor Alden! Well, I did my best--a rotten
trick."

At that moment he felt as an ant must feel on beholding the approach
of a human. It was terrifying, the inexorable advance of that
colossal, fantastic monster. From behind he could hear the infuriated
shouts of the Atlantean army. They knew even he could not hope to
withstand the murderous onslaught of the beast now entering the
duelling space.

On came the diplodocus, its vast warty tail trailing over the ground
and raising a heavy column of dust, while its mud smeared sides bore
out Hero Giles' statement that here was one of those semi-aquatic
titans from the steaming swamps of Jarmuth.

"Hell! Poor Alden's as good as finished now! What a fool I was to
think I could save him!"

Obedient to an overwhelming fear, Nelson whirled to flee, then
stopped, as, from the depths of his being, a stronger power forbade
him to desert his friend to certain death.

"Range two hundred and fifty yards," he estimated, and, whipping up
the Winchester, sighted full at the ponderous creature's slimy
snakelike head. When the recoil jarred his shoulder, Nelson dropped
the barrel an inch or so to watch. Nothing happened. The great beast
was advancing as before, its incredibly long neck weaving steadily
back and forth as though to sniff the air.

"Hell!"

Struck by a sudden thought, he snatched a cartridge from his pocket
and, with that strength which comes to men in their hour of mortal
peril, wrenched out the metal-jacketed bullet, to reinsert it
backwards into the brass cartridge case.

Meanwhile the vast brute had drawn nearer, crushing flat a young oak
in its path as easily as though it had been a wheat stalk.

"Maybe this dum-dum will do some good," panted Nelson. "If it doesn't,
nothing will stop it!"

Again he sighted until, finding those small, orange red eyes in line
with his sight, he fired. This time the gray-brown monster uttered a
titantic bellow of rage, halted, and began shaking its clumsy blunt
head.

"Hit it, by God!" exulted Nelson, and seized the momentary respite to
slip two fresh cartridges into the Winchester's magazine.

But, to his inexpressible dismay, the monster presently resumed its
ponderous progress while the Jarmuthians in the howdah uttered
taunting yells that reached him faintly, while the sun flares glinted
on their brandished swords and lances. One of them plucked a fungus
grenade from his belt and flung it with all his might in Nelson's
direction. The missile fell to the earth far short of its destination
and seemed to break rather than explode, at the same time expelling
that deadly, greenish-yellow vapor which, blown away by a strong wind,
fortunately came nowhere near the doomed aviator.

"Oh! You will?"

Nelson sighted swiftly at the grenade-thrower and fired, whereupon the
Jarmuthian, some hundred and fifty yards distant, spun crazily about,
flung both arms towards the amber-yellow sky and toppled from the
howdah, for all the world like a diver in quest of pearls.

From both breathless armies rose a terrific shout. Accustomed as they
were to the visible destruction of the retortii, this noisy yet
invisible death was appalling.

But Nelson's agonized attention was not on the assembled armies, for
nearer came the mountainous diplodocus, its lumbering strides making
the howdah sway like a ship in a gale and preventing use of the
portable retortii.

Nelson planted both feet, took fresh grip on his waning courage and
shot again, this time aiming at a gigantic, black bearded warrior who
seemed to be training one of those portable retortii upon him.

Again the Winchester cracked and this time the black bearded man sank
from sight back into the howdah, while his companions, uttering
vengeful shouts, tossed more fungus bombs at the lone heroic figure
barring their progress towards the six bound and shrieking maidens.

Towering thrice as high as the largest African elephant, the
diplodocus was now but seventy-five yards away. He had hit it, that
Nelson could tell, for a large shower of blood sprayed from the
monster's neck. Then, uttering a despairing curse, he sent a shot
smacking squarely into the left shoulder, at the base of that mastlike
neck with fervent hope of finding the heart. But the heavy bullet
bothered the cyclopean reptile no more than a sting of a mosquito.

On, on it came. In another minute it must stamp out Victor Nelson's
life beneath feet as large as hogsheads.

"Damn!"

Nelson snapped the ejector lever, throwing out the spent cartridge.

"No use," he whispered, "can't faze that hill of meat! But I might as
well kill all of those bloody cannibals I can."

With amazing speed and accuracy he picked off two of the remaining
Jarmuthians, whose shining, bronze armor could nowise withstand the
wicked impact of modern nickel-jacketed bullets. One of the stricken
men for a moment dangled with the last of his strength from one of the
chains securing the howdah to the enormous creature's back, then
tumbled heavily some forty feet to the earth.

Only two shots more in the magazine--! Nelson suddenly found himself
very cool. "Two shots and then--"

He was conscious of that great, snakelike head darting viciously in
his direction. A huge, slobbering mouth, studded with teeth a foot
long, yawned redly before him like a nightmare incarnate, blotting out
consciousness of all else. Then Victor Nelson, fighting to control his
strumming nerves, deliberately sighted into a great, orange colored
eye, saw the narrow black iris over the Winchester's front sight and
knew the huge warty head was not ten feet away.

He pressed the trigger and never heard the report, but felt the blast
of a furnace-hot breath in his face--a breath that stank like the foul
reek of burning rubber.

With a detached sense of surprise he saw the eye miraculously and
dreadfully disintegrate; then, as the bitter smell of burned cordite
stung his nostrils, he sprang violently sidewise to find himself
staring up at the howdah, now towering at least forty feet above.

The next few moments were indescribable. Horrible roars and bellows,
loud as those of a thousand angered bulls, shattered the air. The
diplodocus halted, stunned by pain and the partial loss of eyesight;
then, its infinitesimal brain becoming gripped with fear, it plunged
and lumbered sidewise, nearly shaking the warriors from the howdah,
where they clung for dear life. Nelson was barely able to avoid the
sweep of the powerful tail as the diplodocus wheeled about on hind
legs, reeled and started blindly back towards the Jarmuthian ranks.
Suddenly it stood stock still, shaking with super-elephantine motions.
Then, for all the world like a balky mule, it sank to the earth and
cowered there, despite the frantic efforts of the surviving
Jarmuthians to stir it to obedience.

By the strong amber light of the sun flare Nelson had a vision of the
last two warriors swinging in apelike agility to the ground. They were
giants, those two men of Jarmuth, and their conical helmets added
additional stature. One of them, shouting an unintelligible taunt,
reached for his belt to snatch out a fungus bomb, but Nelson, dropping
on one knee, sent a bullet crashing between the Jarmuthian's scowling
eyes. Even as he fell, the last of the six champions unwisely ignored
his retortii and frantically sprang forward, razor-edged sword
upraised.

Nelson frantically worked the ejector lever but only an empty click
resulted! His heart sank. "Hell! the magazine's empty!"

He had just time to swing the Winchester about and grasp its barrel as
the Jarmuthian, with a loud shout, sprang in, slashing viciously at
Nelson's unprotected neck. Using the clubbed rifle like a baseball
bat, the American struck out with the strength of despair. There came
a resonant clang as blade and barrel encountered each other. Steel is
ever stronger than bronze, so Nelson had the satisfaction of seeing
the Jarmuthian's sword blade break squarely in two near the hilt.

Horrified, the black bearded warrior glanced at the empty hilt in his
hand but, courageous to the end, sprang in like a tiger to grapple
with that small, agile man in khaki and serge.

"You would--eh?" gasped Nelson.

Putting all his strength behind a blow he whirled up the heavy
Winchester, struck out and felt the solid walnut stock smash fair and
square on the conical helmet. Like an eggshell the bronze helm broke
and the six-pointed star above went spinning off into the dust. As a
tree sways before it falls beneath a forester's ax, so the dark
Jarmuthian giant tottered, while the wide dusty plain of Poseidon
echoed with a rumbling, incredulous shout.

"There," choked Nelson, incredulous to be still alive, "I guess
that'll be about all for to-day."

But he was wrong. From the ranks of Jarmuth rose a terrible, ominous
cry and at the same time there broke out the sibilant hiss of a
thousand retortii. From the Atlantean army came an answering yell and
Nelson turned to race back to the shelter of Altorius' body-guard,
pausing but to arouse the terrified hostages. Swiftly he cast loose
their bonds and pointed to the nearest detachment of Atlanteans.
Sobbing with joy the six girls fled for dear life just as the first of
the allosauri went racing over the plains. Screaming, all-powerful and
uncanny war dogs, they bounded grotesquely high in the air, plunging
straight towards the Jarmuthian ranks which greeted them with a
searing, billowing blast of their retortii. Though dozens of the
terrible creatures fell kicking and writhing beneath the scalding
discharge of the retortii, the main body, perhaps forty or fifty in
number, sprang like rending fiends into the dense packed masses of
Jarmuthian infantry.

Of the ensuing battle, Nelson had but the most confused recollections.
The dominating impression was that the fray was awesome, horrible
beyond power of description. He recalled feeding the five remaining
cartridges into the magazine, then clapping on an Atlantean noble's
helmet. With Hero John at his side he joined in an furious headlong
charge of the podoko corps.

Like a vast glittering wedge the gallant Atlantean lancers advanced
under shelter of the blue maxima vapor which, discharged by the
protectons or light infantry, dispelled the scalding steam clouds
launched from the Jarmuthian portable retortii.

"Halor vàn!" Hero John shouted the Atlantean war cry. "Halor vàn!
Come Friend Nelson, this day shall the treacherous swine of Jarmuth
drown in their own blood! Halor vàn!"

Nelson replied nothing. He was too busy drawing a bead on a gorgeously
arrayed enemy officer who appeared to be directing the defence.

Faster and faster rushed the podokos, forty, fifty miles an hour, a
carnate thunderbolt hurled straight at the enemy center. Under a hot
fire of grenades dozens of the lancers fell and once, when a fungus
bomb broke near by, Nelson saw half a dozen Atlanteans tumble from
their saddles, the hideous yellow growths already sprouting from
nostrils, mouth and ears. The turmoil became deafening,
indescribable--like the roar of a crowded subway.

The American had a brief glimpse of a mountainous diplodocus assailed
by half a dozen hissing, shrieking allosauri who, employing jaws and
claws, ripped great, shuddering chucks of flesh from the agonized and
unwieldy monster on whose back the frantic Jarmuthians fought with
terrible ferocity.

As agile as grasshoppers, those fierce war dogs ripped and worried
their prey. One of them clung like a bulldog to the doomed diplodocus'
head, though the twenty-foot neck writhed and whirled frantically in
effort to shake it loose. Another allosaurus, whining with eagerness,
actually clambered up the back of an assailed giant only to fall back
under the blast of a retortii mounted in the howdah. Bathed in live
steam, with bones showing through its melting, quivering flesh, the
allosaurus collapsed backwards, but another instantly took its place
and, gaining its goal with a terrific leap, made a shambles of the
howdah, tearing the men in it apart as a lion does an antelope.

Nelson found himself very busy. The charging podokesos were now in the
midst of the Jarmuthian heavy infantry, slashing down at a maze of
yelling, black-bearded, Semitic faces. Once Nelson was nearly
speared, shooting his assailant just as the lance glimmered over his
heart. Again he saw the Atlantean hoplites beaten back amid a
pestilential fog of fungus gas which stretched them in kicking,
loathsome heaps on the dusty plain. The uproar became terrific,
indescribable, as the whistling screams of the allosauri and the
saurean bellows of the diplodoci rose above the shouts of the soldiery
to fill the dust-laden air with a dreadful clamor. The battle now
swayed critically; a feather's weight on either side and one army
would roll back in red, irretrievable ruin. It was the psychological
instant. Nelson sensed it unerringly.

"Look!" shouted Hero John, dashing a rivulet of blood from his eyes,
"there fights the dog-begotten Jereboam himself! Halor vàn! Smite, ye
soldiers of Atlans! Smite!"

Following the line of the outstretched hand. Nelson caught a glimpse
of an enormous, eagle nosed warrior who, clad in gleaming, diamond
studded harness, fought like a paladin of old. Powerful as a dark Ares
the sable browed Jereboam raged among the dismayed Atlantean hoplites,
beating them to earth with terrible ferocity.

It was a long shot, one he might readily have been forgiven in missing
but with the speed of thought Victor Nelson sprang from his podoko,
dropped on one knee behind a pile of corpses and, uttering a fervent
prayer, fired full at Jereboam's black head.

The nearest combatants drew back momentarily at the unfamiliar thunder
of the report and fell silent while the groans and shrieks of the
wounded rose loud. As a man looking through many thickness of glass,
so Nelson saw Jereboam reel on his splendidly caparisoned podoko,
clasp both hands to his forehead and sink to earth.

Hero Giles, somewhere far in the Atlantean van, saw what transpired
and capitalized it with the inspiration of a genius.

"Jereboam is dead!" he shouted in ringing tones, and flashed his red
stained sword. "Woe to Jarmuth this day! Smite, ye sons of Atlans. Woe
to Jarmuth--Jereboam is fallen!"

And smite hard the reinforced Atlanteans did. Filled with a new
courage they advanced so determinedly that the disconcerted and
dismayed Jarmuthians broke and fled in a disastrous, panic-stricken
rout back over the plain of Poseidon towards the boiling river.

The ground was already carpeted with dead and with abandoned
equipment, when fresh packs of allosauri were loosed on the fleeing
Jarmuthians to wreak havoc indescribable and, ere long, only the
triumphant, panting Atlanteans remained on the field.

CHAPTER VI

There was music and high revelry in the fortress of Cierum that night,
and Victor Nelson, embarrassed and flushed with the extravagant
adoration of all Atlans, sat by the Emperor Altorius' side waiting,
watching for the appearance of a humbled Jarmuthian delegation.

"Never since the world began has there been such a hero in Atlans!"
cried Altorius, his face more Roman than ever. "Prithee tarry amongst
us, Hero Nelson. Thou shalt be as my brother. A marble palace shalt
thou have and twenty wives, each fair as those damsels which thou
hast, by thy might, rescued from the profane altar of the fiend,
Beelzebub!"

"Thanks," laughed Nelson, and drained a goblet of tawny wine. "I'd be
delighted to stay, but the point is--He broke off short, for there
came a sudden tramp of feet at the door of the great hall and there,
just visible above the green crests of the royal guards, he recognized
that pale, drawn face which had haunted him ever since he had returned
to find the abandoned aeroplane.

"Dick!" he shouted. "Dick Alden!"

"Nelson!"

With that same irresistible form which had won a certain November
classic for Harvard, Richard Alden bucked and plunged through a double
rank of startled guards and came running across the marble floor, his
eyes lit with an unspeakable gladness.

"Nelson! Nelson!" he panted. "What in hell are you doing up there?"

"Oh!" replied the aviator with a joyous grin, "just visiting with my
friend, the Emperor."

Alden halted, on his handsome features a curious mixture of surprise
and delight. "The Emperor?" he stammered. "You sitting beside an
Emperor?"

"Would it not seem so?" inquired Altorius with a low laugh.

"It would," chuckled Alden. "Victor Nelson, as I remember, always was
a good politician."

"And," thought Nelson, "I'll have to be a damn sight better one to get
us out of Atlans without injuring Altorius' feelings. I don't suppose
he'll ever be able to realize that all the desirable things in the
world don't lie in this valley."

Throngs of brilliantly armored and plumed officers and courtiers, some
of them nursing wounds and bandaged heads, came up to hail the mighty
wanderer who had subdued the might of Jarmuth.

Flushed and pleased, as is any normal man under well-earned praise,
Nelson shook one wiry fist after another, while Alden chatted with the
Emperor. Nobles, officers and courtiers all pressed close to fawn upon
the new hero--but, far back in the council chamber, a group of dark
robed priests were crowded together. Haranguing the priests was a
fierce, white bearded old man who seemed to be arguing violently.

"Hum!" thought the American. "That's at least one outfit that doesn't
like the way I part my hair. Wonder what devilment the priests are
cooking up?"

He was not long in finding out, for the black robed arch-priest
suddenly left his group of underlings to boldly make his way forward,
while princes, courtiers and warriors drew respectfully aside and bent
their heads.

"Hail! All conquering Emperor!" The stern old man halted squarely
before Altorius' gem encrusted throne, while Alden checked some remark
to look curiously down upon the hawk-featured arch-priest.

Altorius flushed and the lines about his mouth tightened, from which
Nelson guessed that there was more than a little bad blood between the
spiritual and temporal heads of the empire.

"What wouldst thou, oh Heracles?"

"I would know why the all powerful Wanderer, of whom thou makest so
much, did not rescue Princess Altara?"

The Emperor stiffened. "Her rescue, being impossible of
accomplishment, was not nominated in the agreement," he said coldly.
"The Wanderer has in full carried out his share--and so shall we.
Honored and beloved of Atlans, these great warriors shall abide among
us in peace."

Here Nelson thought it wise to dispel any illusions Altorius might
entertain about their staying in Atlans. "No, oh Splendor: remember,
our agreement was that, should I conquer the Jarmuthian champions,
Alden and I were to be allowed to go free."

"Nay, oh Splendor," fiercely broke in the arch-priest, "permit them
not to go. I tell thee the Princess Altara _must_ be restored to
Atlans! Else,"--a distinct note of threat crept into the old man's
voice--"--else evil days shall fall upon this empire, and the line of
Hudson will wither and fade."

Up sprang Altorius in a towering rage. "Sirrah! Dost dare make threats
to thy liege lord?"

Fire flashed from the young Emperor's bright blue eyes, and under
their fierce glare the old man quailed and stepped back with eyes
lowered.

"Altorius keeps his word," the Emperor thundered. "The strangers shall
go, though all the black-robed kites in the realm say me nay. The word
of a Hudsonian prince is as sure as the fire of Pelion. Get thee gone,
rash priest!"

A long moment, the two strangely contrasting figures glared at each
other, the young, splendid Emperor and the malevolent, withered old
man.

"The Gods demand their daughter," cried Heracles in parting, "and woe
to him who says them nay!"

With this parting shot, the arch-priest turned and, scarlet faced,
stalked from the council room, while Altorius threw back his head and
roared with laughter.

"Come, oh ye Heroes, ye princes and captains! Come, let us make
festival before these mighty wanderers go their way!"

Roar upon roar of enthusiasm echoed through the marble throne room,
and Nelson would have felt wholly at ease had not that little knot of
priests remained gathered like ill-omened carrion crows about the
door. Muttering among themselves, they were watching him with a
curious intentness that aroused deep misgivings in the American's
mind, and it was with something like a sigh that he joined the
procession forming to proceed to the triumphal feast on which the
wealth and luxury of the whole empire of Atlans had been lavished.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration: Advertisement.]

The Pirate Planet

_By Charles W. Diffin_

CONCLUSION

CHAPTER XVII

[Illustration: _He shot feet first into the waiting heads._]

[Sidenote: From Earth and sub-Venus converge a titanic offensive of
justice on the unspeakable man-things of Torg.]

The little ship that Captain Blake had thrown with reckless speed
through the skies over Washington, D. C., made history that day in the
records of the earth. None, now, could doubt that here, at last, was
the answer that the world had hoped for until hope had died.
Unbelievable in its field of action, incredible in its wild speed, but
real, nevertheless!--the countries of the earth were frantic in their
acclaim. Only the men who formed the International Board of Defense
failed to join in the enthusiasm. They sat by day and night in earnest
conference on ways and means.

This little ship--so wonderful, and so inadequate! It was only a
promise of what might come. There must be new designs made; men must
learn to dream in new terms and set down their dreams in cold lines
and figures on drafting boards. A cruiser of space must be designed,
to mount heavy guns, carry great loads, absorb the stresses that must
come to such a structure in flight and in battle. And above all, it
must take the thrust of this driving force--new and tremendous--of
which men knew so little as yet. And then many like it must be built.

The fuel must be prepared, and this, alone, meant new and different
machinery, which itself must be designed before the manufacturing
process could begin.

There was work to be done--a world of work!--and so few months in
which to do it. The attack from the distant gun had long since ceased
and the instruments of the astronomers showed the enemy planet
shrinking far off in space. But it would return; there was only a year
for preparation.

Captain Blake was assigned to the direction of design. An entire
office building in Washington was vacated for his use, and in a few
hours he rallied a staff of assistants who demanded the entire use of
a telephone system that spread countrywide. And the call went out that
would bring the best brains of the land to the task before them.

The windows of the building shone brightly throughout the nights when
the call was answered, and engineers and draftsmen worked at fever
heat on thrusts and stresses and involved mathematical calculations.
And, while owners of great manufacturing plants waited with
unaccustomed patience for a moment's talk with Blake, the white sheets
on the drafting boards showed growing pictures of braces and struts
and curved plates, of castings for gun mounts, and ammunition hoists.
And the manufacturers were told in no uncertain terms exactly what
part of this experimental ship they would produce, and when it must be
delivered.

"If only we dared go into production," said Blake; "but it is out of
the question. This first ship must demonstrate its efficiency; we must
get the 'bugs' out of our design; correct our errors and be ready with
a production schedule that will work with precision."

Only one phase of this proposed production troubled him; the
manufacture must be handled all over the world. He talked with men
from England and France, from Germany and Italy and a host of other
lands, and he raged inwardly while he tried to drive home to them the
necessity for handling the work in just one way--his way--if results
were to be achieved.

The men of business he could convince, but his chief disquiet came
from those whose thoughts were of what they termed "statesmanship,"
and who seemed more apprehensive of the power that this new weapon
would give the United States of America than they were of the threat
from distant worlds.

From his friends in high quarters came hints of the same friction, but
he knew that the one demand Winslow had laid down was being observed:
the secret of the mysterious fuel would remain with us. Winslow had
shown little confidence in the countries of the old world, and he had
sworn Blake to an agreement that his strange liquids--that new form of
matter and substance--should remain with this country.

And swiftly the paper ship grew. The parts were in manufacture, and
arriving at the assembly plant in Ohio. Blake's time was spent there
now, and he caught only snatches of sleep on a cot in his office,
while he worked with the forces of men who succeeded each other to
keep the assembly room going night and day.

There was an enormous hangar that was designed for the assembling of a
giant dirigible; it housed another ship now. Hardly a ship, yet it
began to take form where great girders held the keel that was laid,
and duralumin plates and strong castings were bolted home.

A thousand new problems, and innumerable vexing errors--the "bugs"
that inhere with a new, mechanical job--yet the day came when the ship
was a thing of sleek beauty, and her thousand feet of length enclosed
a maze of latticed struts where ammunition rooms and sleeping
quarters, a chart room and control stations were cleverly interspaced.
And above, where the great shape towered high in the big hangar, were
the lean snouts of cannon, and recesses that held rapid-fire guns and
whole batteries of machine guns for close range.

Rows of great storage batteries were installed, to furnish the first
current for the starting of the ship, till her dynamos that were
driven by the exhaust blast itself could go into action and carry on.
And then--

An armored truck that ground slowly up under heavy guard to deliver
two small flasks of liquid whose tremendous weight must be held in
containers of thick steel, and be hoisted with cranes to their resting
place within the ship. And Captain Blake, with his heart in his throat
through fear of some failure, some slip in their plans--Captain Blake,
of the gaunt, worn frame, and face haggard from sleepless
nights--stood quietly at a control board while the great doors of the
hangar swung open.

At the closing of a switch the current from the batteries flowed
through the two liquids, to go on in conductors of heavy copper to a
generator that was heavy and squat and devoid of moving parts. Within
it were electrodes that were castings of copper, and between them the
miracle of regenerated matter was taking place.

What came to them as energy from the cables was transformed to a
tangible thing--a vast bulk of gas, of hydrogen and oxygen that had
once been water, and the pressure of the gas made a roaring inferno of
the exhausts. A spark plug ignited it, and the heat of combustion
added pressure to pressure, while the quivering, invisible live steam
poured forth to change to vaporous clouds that filled the hangar.

The man at the control board stood trembling with knowledge of the
power he had unleashed. He moved a lever to crack open a valve, and
the clouds poured now from beneath the ship, that raised slowly and
smoothly in the air. It hung quietly poised, while the hands that
directed it sent a roaring blast from the great stern exhaust, and the
creation of many minds became a thing of life that moved slowly,
gliding out into the sunlight of the world.

The cheers of crowding men, insane with hysterical emotion at sight of
their work's fulfillment, were lost in the thunder of the ship. The
blunt bow lifted where the sun made dazzling brilliance of her
sweeping curves, and with a blast that thundered from her stern the
first unit of the space forces of the Earth swept upward in an arc of
speed that ended in invisibility. No enveloping air could hold her
now; she was launched in the ocean of space that would be her home.

Captain Blake, the following day, sat in Washington before a desk
piled high with telegrams of congratulation. His tired face was
smiling as he replaced a telephone receiver that had spoken words of
confidence and commendation from the President of the United States.
But he pushed the mass of yellow papers aside to resume his
examination of a well-thumbed folder marked: "Production Schedule."
The real work was yet to be done.

It was only two short months later that he sat before the same desk,
with a face that showed no mark of smiles in its haggard lines.

His ship was a success, and was flying continuously, while men of the
air service were trained in its manipulation and gunners received
practice in three-dimensioned range finding and cruiser practice in
the air. Above, in the airless space, they learned to operate the guns
that were controlled from within the air-tight rooms. They were
learning, and the ship performed the miracles that were now taken as
matters of fact.

But production!

Captain Blake rose wearily to attend a conference at the War
Department. He had asked that it be called, and the entire service was
represented when he reached there. He went without preamble or
explanation to the point.

"Mr. Secretary," he said, and faced the Secretary of War, "I have to
report, sir, that we have failed. It is utterly impossible, under
present conditions, to produce a fleet of completed ships.

"You know the reason; I have conferred with you often. It was a
mistake to depend on foreign aid; they have failed us. I do not
criticize them: their ways are their own, and their own problems loom
large to them. The English production of parts has come through, or is
proceeding satisfactorily, but the rest is in hopeless confusion. The
Red menace from Russia is the prime reason, of course. With the Reds
mobilizing their forces, we cannot blame her neighbors for preparing
to defend themselves. But our program!--and the sure invasion that
will come in six short months!--to be fighting among ourselves--it is
damnable!"

He paused to stare in wordless misery at the silent gathering before
him. Then--

"I have failed," he blurted out. "I have fallen down on the job. It
was my responsibility to get the cooperation that insured success.
Let me step aside. Is there anyone now who can take up the work and
bring order and results from this chaos of futility?"

He waited long for a reply. It was the Secretary of War who answered
in a quiet voice.

"We must not be too harsh," he said, "in our criticism of our foreign
friends, but neither should we be unfair to Captain Blake. You do
yourself an injustice; there is no one who could have done more than
you. The reason is here." He struck at a paper that he held in his
hand. "Europe is at war. Russia has struck without warning; her troops
are moving and her air force is engaged this minute in an attack upon
Paris. It is a traitor country at home that has defeated us in our war
with another world."

"I think," he added slowly, "there is nothing more that could have
been done: you have made a brave effort. Let us thank you, Captain
Blake, while we can. We will fight, when the time comes, as best we
can; that goes without saying."

A blue and gold figure arose slowly to speak a word for the navy. "It
is evident by Captain Blake's own admission, that the proposed venture
must fail. It has been evident to some of us from the start." It was a
fighter of the old school who was speaking; his voice was that of one
whose vision has dimmed, who sees but the dreams of impractical
visionaries in the newer inventions, and whose reliance for safety is
placed only in the weapons he knows.

"The naval forces of the United States will be ready," he told them,
"and I would ask you to remember that we can still place dependence
upon the ships that float in the water, and the forces who have manned
them since the history of this country began."

Captain Blake had sprung to his feet. Again he addressed the Secretary
for War.

"Mr. Secretary," he said, and there was a fighting glint in his eyes,
"I make no reply to this gentleman. His arm of the service will speak
for itself as it has always done. But your own words have given me new
hope and new energy. I ask you, Mr. Secretary, for another chance. The
industrial forces of the United States are behind us to the last man
and the last machine. I have talked with them. I know!

"We have only six months left for a prodigious effort. Shall we make
it? For the safety of our country and the whole world let us attempt
the impossible: go ahead on our own; turn the energy and the mind of
this whole country to the problem.

"The great fleet of the world can never be. Shall we build and launch
the Great Fleet of the United States, and take upon our own shoulders
the burden and responsibility of defense?

"It cannot be done by reasonable standards, but the time is past for
reason. Possible or otherwise, we must do it. We will--if you will
back me in the effort!"

There was a rising discord of excited voices in the room. Men were
leaping to their feet to shake vehement fists in the faces of those
who wagged their heads in protest. The Secretary of War arose to still
the storm. He turned to walk toward the waiting figure of Captain
Blake.

"You can't do it," he said, and gripped the Captain by the hand; "you
can't do it--but you may. This country has seen others who have done
the impossible when the impossible had to be done. It's your job; the
President will confirm my orders. Go to it, Blake!"

CHAPTER XVIII

The wires that bound the two men were removed, and McGuire and Sykes
worked in agony to bring life back to the hands and feet that were
swollen and blue. Then--red guards who forced them to stumble on their
numbed legs, where darting pains made them set their lips tight--a
car that went swiftly through the darkness of a tube to stop finally
in another building--a room with metal walls, one window with a
balcony beyond, high above the ground--a door that clanged behind
them; and the two men, looking one at the other with dismayed and
swollen eyes, knew in their hearts that here, beyond a doubt, was
their last earthly habitation.

They said nothing--there was nothing of hope or comfort to be
said--and they dropped soddenly upon the hard floor, where finally the
heavy breathing and nervous starts of Professor Sykes showed that to
him at least had come the blessed oblivion of exhausted sleep. But
there was no sleep for Lieutenant McGuire.

There was a face that shone too clearly in the dark, and his thoughts
revolved endlessly in words of reproach for his folly in allowing
Althora's love to lead her to share his risk. From the night outside
their window came a ceaseless clatter and hubbub, but to this he was
oblivious.

Only with the coming of morning's soft golden light did McGuire know
the reason for the din and activity that echoed from outside--and the
reason, too, for their being placed in this room.

Their lives should end with the sailing of the fleet, and there,
outside their window, were the ships themselves. Ships everywhere, as
far as he could see across the broad level expanse, and an army of men