The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones
“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;