The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Read online

  Duane still did not see how a woman could hold such a position, nor did he care a hang. The fact was sufficient. But now arose something composed not of facts but of foggy superstition. Ming Shui was willing to play ball provided her ends were served. She declared—and the Turkestan government took its orders from her—that air traffic over the Celestial Mountains must cease because it frightened the spirits away.

  Stratolines was working under an expired franchise from the Turkestan government, and was seeking a new twenty-year franchise. Ming Shui was willing that it be granted, provided Stratolines placed in the Eternal Peace Monastery—within ninety days—the famous Buddha of Miracles. Otherwise, not. Stratolines, and its airfields under construction at a cost of a hundred millions, could clear out and stay out.

  The catch lay in this Buddha of Miracles; there was no such thing. It was, supposedly, a miraculous image of Buddha that talked and performed miracles. It was a legend, and nothing else. And yet, on this perfectly fantastic basis, Stratolines stood to lose not only fat profits but huge construction works. For the government calmly backed up Ming Shui. Duane realized what it all meant, and cursed savagely. No wonder.

  “Either this dame is sincere, and a superstitious fool, or else she wants a fat slice of graft,” said he. Studying the report, he concluded that she was sincere, and a staggering conclusion it was. However, his first job was to get into contact with her and decide for himself; then he could go to work.

  The Planetoid settled down at Irkutsk, and an hour later Duane was heading south in one of the ships on the Korla run. He landed in Korla at dawn; no one met him, he was entirely on his own, and he went straight to the Yakub Beg Hotel, an enormous modern structure run by the government.

  He bathed, shaved, left his room—and came slap upon two figures struggling in the corridor by an open room door. The man was cursing and fighting wildly, the woman was trying to control him. White-faced, she looked at Duane and cried out.

  “Help me—help me! He has fever—” Duane pitched in, got the delirious man back into the room, threw him on the bed and held him there—then recognized him. It was Lawton, vice-president of Stratolines in charge of construction, an engineering genius.

  “What the devil’s all this?” he cried out, amazed. “Bob Lawton, here?”

  “Shut up. Hold him till I get this medicine into him,” said the woman. Duane obeyed. Lawton swallowed the dose, coughed, and weakly subsided on the bed.

  “Thanks,” said the woman. “Who are you? Do you know my brother?”

  Duane identified himself. Agnes Lawton slid into a chair and stared at him.

  “I’m Bob’s assistant,” she said. “He’s in charge of the Stratolines development here—millions poured into it for nothing. He has a touch of fever and tried to kill himself. Everything’s gone to pot here. It means his reputation and everything else.”

  * * * *

  Duane liked her cool, level eyes, her capable air. Blueprints on the wall showed the enormous construction under way for Stratolines; they ran for miles along the flat desert surface. Any freight terminus large enough to handle the giant Planetoid transports, with sheds, shops, hangars and connecting rail terminals, formed a city in itself. And this work, employing men by thousands, was checked by the superstitious whim of a barbaric old woman in a monastery.

  A nurse showed up, taking charge of the patient, who was conscious now. Duane sat beside him, talking to Lawton like a Dutch uncle, and after talking sense into him, took Agnes Lawton into the next room.

  “I’m here to clean up this mess,” he said. “I want your help. Turn over the job to one of your assistants and get ready to buckle down to work. I need a helicopter and a guide to fly it. I’ll be back for lunch and you be ready to talk with me then.”

  Miss Lawton put him in touch with a brisk young Chinese named Wang, who had a helicopter and who knew the Celestial Mountains. Wang showed up, and with him Duane went over to the government buildings. The city was a welter of Chinese, Turkoman, Russian and American business men, oil men, merchants, with a smattering of Anglo-Indians. But, by nine o’clock, formalities were completed and Duane was on his way to the new passenger field at the edge of Korla.

  Here in Turkestan the air was policed as rigidly as in New York. Not a plane could take off without permission of the Air Control; but Duane’s savage energy brushed aside all obstacles. By ten o’clock, Wang’s little helicopter was in the air and on its way.

  Until yesterday this journey to the Eternal Peace Monastery would have required weeks, with the help of camels and motor cars and guards. Now it was a matter of forty minutes. The jagged, snow-tipped crags of the Celestial Mountains opened out. Those recesses hidden for uncounted ages were laid bare, and the golden roof of the monastery appeared on its sheer hillside of naked granite.

  Wang, who had no reverence for monasteries, set down his helicopter in the courtyard. The monks did not like this, but little cared Duane. He had Wang to interpret, and after some parley the two visitors were taken into a room where Ming Shui sat behind a lacquer screen and talked with them.

  Inside of five minutes Duane knew the worst. This invisible speaker who was revered as a living god and had the cracked voice of an old woman, was on the level. She scorned bribes. She wanted the Buddha of Miracles. She demanded that the fabulous image be brought from the Mountains of the Moon and placed in this monastery. Mind you, there was no sense to it. There was no such Buddha; it was a figment of superstition. But she demanded it.

  “All right,” said Duane. “Tell her it’ll take a bit of time. Tell her she must prepare a place here to receive the image. A room thirty feet square, with no roof, so when the Buddha comes from the moon he can be landed safely.”

  Wang chattered away and the cracked voice chattered back. Ming Shui agreed to make the place ready and asked if Duane could guarantee delivery.

  “Tell her yes,” said Duane. “Tell her any damned thing you like, Wang. But I want some guarantee from her that if she gets the Buddha, Stratolines gets the franchise.”

  This was ironed out. Tea swimming with rancid butter was served, and the visitors took their leave. Duane wanted to get back for lunch and damned ceremony.

  “It’s a complete mess,” he told Agnes Lawton over the luncheon table. “This old hag wants a miracle-working image that doesn’t exist. She’s important enough so this blasted Turkestan government backs her up and stops all progress. If she gets what she wants—will she play ball? I’ve decided she will. I think she’s on the level. No one could be that big a fool and not be on the level.”

  The cool eyes of Agnes Lawton twinkled at him.

  “Are you going to supply what she wants, Mr. Duane?”

  “I am,” he snapped.

  “Then perhaps she’s not so big a fool as appears.”

  He grunted. “Huh! Hadn’t thought of that.” It was a startling thought. A waiter brought a radiophone and connected it; there was a call from New York.

  “Well?” demanded Duane, when the answer came.

  “Parks at headquarters laboratories, Mr. Duane. Did you put in a call for me?”

  “Yes,” snapped Duane. “I need you here quick. Drop everything else.”

  “Okay,” said Parks. “I’ll be there tomorrow night.”

  “Bring your best technician and all the electronics gadgets you can pack.”

  He hung up and looked at Miss Lawton. She was good to look at.

  “You’re actually attempting this impossible rubbish?” she said.

  He nodded. “Nothing’s impossible. Your brother is famous for his work with plastics; now, you go to bat for him. Make me a plastic bronze Buddha ten feet high.”

  “Make it?” she repeated, startled.

  “Make it. Regardless of expense. Commandeer anything you need in the way of help, materials, money, brains. Get whatever you want, here at Korla, but do it.”

  “Very well,” she said slowly. “But I’d like to point out one thing to you. This, Ming Shui
is, as you say, on the level. That doesn’t mean everyone else is—say, in the government. I’m thinking of General Li Hung, the governor himself.”

  “Thanks,” said Duane, “I was thinking of that myself; glad you put the finger on him. Guess I’ll have a talk with your brother, Miss Lawton, while you get to work.”

  Agnes Lawton disappeared that afternoon. Duane sat beside the bed of her brother and talked with him at length, regardless of weakness and fever. If delirium had brought this man to the verge of suicide, there must be a reason more vital than mere defeat and discouraged effort.

  The sick man, bitterly ashamed of his own weakness, spoke freely. Things had gone from bad to worse, with the construction here at Korla. The first estimates of cost had been doubled and trebled. Stratolines had poured out money like water, to no avail. The new base promised to be the finest in Asia; but it would be worthless without the new franchise. Behind Ming Shui was the governor, General Li Hung.

  “Can’t make him out,” said Lawton. “He’s no grafter. He’s shrewd, cultured, one of the best men in today’s China; but he’s against us. Why? No reason.”

  Duane went away thoughtfully. At five that afternoon, he secured a private interview with General Li Hung; he talked with the brilliant, able governor for an hour and came away baffled. General Li would say only that he backed Ming Shui’s wisdom, blandly waving aside any hint of bribes or personal ambitions.

  * * * *

  Next afternoon Agnes Lawton came to him with a report.

  “I can do what you want,” she said calmly.

  “Oh, the Buddha?”

  “Yes. It will require every resource I can command. This plastic figure can be supplied in a little over two weeks. The total cost will run close to two hundred thousand dollars; but the value of the finished article will be scarcely fifty dollars. Is this madness worth while?”

  “Certainly. Go to it,” said Duane. “Parks is en route from New York and will get in tonight. I’ll turn him over to you tomorrow; he’ll work with you. Well, I saw General Li last night and had a talk with him.”

  “What did you discover?”

  “That he’s on the level. I can’t savvy it at all.”

  “Perhaps the fault is yours,” she said quietly. “Often we go looking for some deep, dark secret, when all the time it’s in plain sight.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I’m not sure. But in spite of all his culture, education, ability, he’s still a Chinese. And at heart every Chinese is superstitious. A quality so simple that it may be the reason why he stands with Ming Shui.”

  Duane’s eyes widened a trifle.

  “Upon my word, you’re an angel of light!” he exclaimed. She laughed and went her way, leaving him thoughtful.

  Parks got in late that night, and Duane spent four hours with him. Parks was a wizard with electronics. He had an absolute mastery of the radionic marvels that had resulted from the war. High frequencies, ultrasonic vibrations, the thousand and one applications of these wonders to everyday life, all were just so much hamburger to Parks. He listened to Duane and nodded.

  “I can do what you want,” he said. “Mind, it’s not easy; it’ll cost like hell. But it can be done. If the image of Buddha is ready in two weeks, I’ll guarantee to have it in shape in another week. I’ll have to work on it with Miss Lawton, of course.”

  “Go to it,” said Duane.

  During the next few days he was very busy arranging for that Buddha to get from the moon to the earth. The ordinary bronze Buddha could never make it because of his weight; but one of light plastic would be very different, though looking the same. With the help of Wang, Duane got his plans laid, ordered the necessary helicopter, and made an eventful second trip with Wang to the Heavenly Peace Monastery.

  And just here, destiny lammed him under the jaw.

  * * * *

  Winging out above the mountains, they picked up the golden roof of the monastery and hovered. Work was going on at one side of the courtyard; the chamber for the reception of the Buddha was building—roofless walls of thirty feet on each side, as Duane had prescribed. To Wang, who was a highly intelligent young man, he pointed it out.

  “It’ll be your job to land the Buddha there,” he said, “when it’s ready. The larger helicopter can just make it, eh?”

  “Easily,” said Wang, his slant eyes sparkling. “Oh, we can keep the helicopter a foot from the ground and land the Buddha. I heard one was being made.”

  “What else did you hear?” demanded Duane sourly, as they settled.

  Wang grinned: “Much. There are strong rumors of miracles. It will be great fun to see these dirty monks when it happens!”

  “How do you know so much?” snapped Duane.

  “I am a student of electronics,” said Wang, chuckling. “In fact, Mr. Parks is employing me on his work.”

  Duane grunted in surprise, but made no comment. He opened the cab door as it came down to the ground, and stepped out. Half a dozen red-robed monks appeared and closed around him. One, to his astonishment, addressed him in English.

  “Come. Ming Shui is awaiting you. I will interpret.”

  Duane stared at the man; his yellow features were impassive, but he had pale angry eyes that held a strange light. The monks hustled Duane across the courtyard and in at the monastery entrance. He spoke to the self-appointed interpreter but had no answer; and, perplexed, found himself taken to the same room where he had previously spoken with Ming Shui.

  The same screen was in place; the same cracked woman’s voice came from behind it. The group of monks seated themselves in a line, rosaries in hand. The interpreter spoke, and Ming Shui made reply; the monk turned to Duane, his pale eyes flashing.

  “She says you will remain here as an earnest that the Buddha will arrive.”

  “Remain here?” Duane was startled. “I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

  “You have no choice,” said the other impassively. “A room is prepared for you; accept the situation, I advise you—”

  With an angry oath, Duane leaped up and strode out of the room. No one else moved. He was not hindered, though he saw plenty of monks and workmen as he came into the courtyard. He halted, incredulous, and furious—Wang and the helicopter were gone. As he stood staring, the interpreter, with the pale eyes appeared and came to him, smiling thinly.

  “Well, Mr. Duane, you see how it is,” he said in suave tones. “Shall I show you to your room? We might reach an understanding.”

  Swiftly, instantly, Duane took acute warning and mastered himself. For some reason unknown, he was trapped—and here was the secret of this entire mystifying Turkestan imbroglio, here in this man. He felt it, and reacted promptly upon it.

  “Very well,” he rejoined, choking down his anger. “Since there’s no help for it, go ahead. And just who are you?”

  “My name is, or was, Tuyok Nokhoi. It may be familiar to you. This way, please.

  Duane followed Tuyok without reply; but now alarm seized him. The mask was off, with a vengeance! Little as he knew this country, that name was indeed familiar; all Asia had rung with it in the last days of the war, and since.

  Tuyok Nokhoi, Tuyok the Hound, had been the puppet Mongolian ruler under Japanese dominion, renowned for his cruelties and his abilities. When the little brown barbarians were smashed out of Asia, Tuyok had vanished from sight. No search, no vengeance, no justice had reached him; his disappearance was complete. He was supposed to have been killed in the savage fighting that swept Mongolia.

  Well, here he was; and his open avowal of his name boded Duane no good.

  * * * *

  They came into a room, after climbing many stairs, high on the south face of the building; half a dozen floors above the rocks, thought Duane. It was a sunny, large room, comfortably furnished. The window was heavily barred, the massive door fastened on the outside; it was a prison.

  Tuyok sat cross-legged on the floor; he had not taken his hands from beneath his red lama’s robe, signifi
cantly. Duane, who carried no arms, dropped on a big stuffed leather seat and looked at the lean, impassive yellow face.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “You are not to be harmed, if you accept the situation,” said Tuyok. “I am taking certain measures. You have interfered with my plans.”

  “Too bad,” said Duane.

  “For you, yes. Ming Shui is a superstitious old fool, like the others here. I do not propose to see you step in, work the miracle that she wants, and spoil my work. I am aware of what you and Miss Lawton are about, you see.”

  “Let’s get it straight,” said Duane calmly. “Are you behind all the trouble we’ve had here in Turkestan?”

  “I,” said Tuyok, “am out to make some money, Mr. Duane. I do not want Stratolines in this country of Sinkiang. I control the government and the monasteries.”

  “You? How?”

  “By superstition.” A sardonic grin crossed the yellow face. “I am a holy man from Tibet, a reincarnation of Buddha; I have lived seven hundred years. I have great powers. I make these Chinese and Tungans and Mongolians obey me; if they disobey me, they go mad.”

  “Oh!” said Duane. He felt his senses swimming; he summoned up all his will-power to meet those strange eyes. “Hypnotic force, eh? Well, you can’t hypnotize me.”

  “I’m aware of that. You want to live, Mr. Duane? Very well. Do my bidding, and I shall spare your life. Refuse, and you shall die in this room.”

  Duane fought for self-control; he needed all his wits now. Everything had opened up with a vengeance! He discounted entirely the promise to spare him. Tuyok the Hound would never let him reach the world again to tell what he knew.

  “Naturally, I want to live,” he said quietly.

  “Then write out a letter in your own hand to the president of Stratolines, saying that you find it impossible to arrange matters here, and advising that, since a new franchise will not be granted by the government, Stratolines accept any settlement that may be proposed.”