The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones
no light. Was it empty?
From somewhere far below drifted up chanting voices and the brazen reverberant clash of gongs. Hand over hand; it was beside him now, he could get his boots against the glass! Arms straining, he let himself dangle out, then came in, kicking with both feet. His boots shattered the glass. He heard a faint frightened cry, and never had a human voice seemed so sweet. Another swing, and his feet and legs were in through the opening.
Exhausted, cut in a dozen places, but still intact, he fell to the floor of the room. A match was scratched and sprang alight; in the yellow flame he saw the face of Agnes Lawton and she saw him. He was too spent to find words, but lay gasping. Another match, and flame rose from a candle.
Duane roused, to find her swiftly bandaging a ragged cut in his arm.
“It was a long job, but I got here,” he said. “Words are silly things, aren’t they?”
“Sometimes. I was never so glad to see anyone!”
“You didn’t know I had tried to reach you with a message? No, of course. Never mind. Are you all right? Unhurt?”
“Quite,” she said. “But a prisoner. They let me out each day for an airing.”
“No such luck here.” Duane rose stiffly. “We’ve got a lot of time to make up for; let’s talk as we go. I suppose your door is locked.”
* * * *
It was. He went to work on it with the iron bar, which made an excellent jimmy, but the door did not yield readily. As he worked, they both talked. Her brother was in a hospital at Irkutsk. She had been decoyed, under pretense that Duane wanted her, to a helicopter that had brought her here; Tuyok Nokhoi himself had piloted it.
“From what he said,” she concluded, “he knew nothing about Mr. Parks being in Korla. He thought I was in full charge of making the Buddha, and evidently intended to halt that work.”
“So? And he didn’t know about Parks, eh?” said Duane thoughtfully. “What about the air-base construction?”
“I think that has stopped entirely,” she replied. “You’re supposed to be away on a hunting trip—”
The lock of the door smashed out under Duane’s weight.
“All right; forget everything else. Our job is to get out of here,” he said, and turned to her, looking into her cool, level eyes. “No use asking if you’re game for it; I see you are. Take the candle and follow me. This old rabbit-warren is probably deserted and dark. Down at ground level we’ll find risk enough. Ready?”
She brushed the hair out of her eyes and seized the candle. “Let’s go!”
Iron bar in hand, Duane stepped out into the dark passage, and they were off.
Some twenty minutes later, an unfortunate Mogul in red robe and hat, who guarded a passage on the ground floor, heard footsteps. He paid little attention, beyond a growled command for silence. He was intent upon the scene at the far end of the passage, dimly visible from his post.
The entire community was gathered there, in the huge communal chamber dominated by a gigantic bronze statue of Buddha. Through thick incense, studded by the occasional clangor of gongs and drums, pierced chanting voices; at intervals they dropped, and the cracked tones of an old woman rose shrilly, or the deeply vibrant accents of the holy man from Tibet. He who had been Tuyok Nokhoi. Ceremonies were going on that would last far into the night.
The Mongol guard in the passage was aware of two dim figures where no figures should be. A shout broke from him—unluckily, just as the chanting voices were at their loudest, drowning his alarm—and plucking a long knife from under his robe, he hurled himself straight at the two figures. He had no chance to shout again; for the iron bar in Duane’s hand smashed hat and head.
Now there was fast work in the dim passage. Through the open doorway of a reception room was rolled the Mongol’s body; the hat and red robe were clapped on by Duane. He caught the hand of Agnes Lawton and led her down a transverse corridor, away from the chanting and the incense. A light appeared ahead; a thunder of gongs from the ceremonies filled the air. “I know where we are!” said Duane, at his companion’s ear: “That’s the side entrance from the courtyard—good! Now, wait here. Looks like a guard near the light. Stay put!”
Too bad that Mongol had carried no pistol! But the iron bar would serve. He strode forward. A lamp burned in a wall-nook. Duane came to abrupt halt, flattening himself against the wall, immobile in the shadows.
Not one guard, but two! They stood together, yelping at one another through the deafening din of gongs; one was pointing excitedly. Now Duane perceived that the door stood wide open, and a sudden blaze of light caught his eye from outside—it looked like a falling star-shell, illumining the courtyard. But he dared not pay any attention to it now—one of those two guards had turned, had picked up his skirted robe, and was coming slap for him at a run.
The other stood in the open doorway, back turned, watching something outside—the strange brilliant light, no doubt.
Duane had not an instant to think. The Mongol running at him was upon him; if the man got past, he must discover Agnes Lawton. On the thought, Duane stuck out his foot. The lama tripped over it, a yell burst from him, and he pitched forward, only to roll over like a cat and come erect. His arm moved. Duane, leaping for him, was aware of a stunning crash—the monk had flung a heavy bronze knife, whose hilt struck him between the eyes.
Blinded, stunned as he was, Duane kept going and hurled himself into the man. His iron bar lashed out and elicited a howl of pain. Duane struck again. The redrobe relaxed and lay motionless. Duane fell against the wall, recovered, wiped the blood from his eyes and peered at the second guard. That man stood in the doorway, unmoving; he had heard nothing. His whole attention was fastened upon something outside.
Feeling himself on the point of collapse, dizzy from that cruel crack on the forehead, Duane staggered forward. The sound of the gongs died away; he heard the voice of Agnes Lawton, from behind. The guard heard it also, and whipped around. A cry broke from him. His hand whipped up a pistol.…
Before he could use it, the iron bar crushed his skull and knocked him out through the doorway into the night.
Duane stooped, groped for the fallen pistol, and his fingers found it. He came erect, swaying; the door-frame supported him. Agnes Lawton was at his side, catching his arm. With her, he staggered out upon the darkness, and the open air revived him, steadied him. He looked about for the strange brilliant light, but there was none. All was pitch black.
“What happened? Are you hurt?” sounded her anxious voice.
Bareheaded now, Duane impatiently threw off the hindering red robe. He toppled, and she barely saved him from going over. With a low groan, he sank down on the stones.
“Got a nasty crack over the eyes,” he made reply. “Easy, now. Let me rest a minute. Something’s going on out here. See anything?”
“Not a thing,” she said. “There’s a glow of light over at one side—where they’ve been erecting those walls—”
“Yes, for the Buddha. Wait, now.” Duane felt his hurt forehead. No inner damage, apparently, but there was a long cut and the blood filled his eyes. He wiped it away, and looked. Light, sure enough; a faint light. He tried to move, and could not. “Give me a hand up—that’s the girl. Thanks.” Unsteadily, he gained his feet, with her help, and jammed the pistol into his pocket. Together they started across the courtyard. He was intent upon getting entirely out of the place.
But, it seemed from nowhere, a finger-ray of light struck them. A glad cry sounded. To his amazement, he heard the voice of Parks. Figures approached. Here was Wang, babbling at him in delighted greeting—and Parks, steady old Parks, wringing his hands and giving Agnes Lawton an excited hug.
“What is it—what is it? Am I out of my head?” demanded Duane.
“Not quite, old chap!” said Parks, laughing. “We’ve