TEXT:  DUST OF DEATH
  DUST OF DEATH
  
  Table of Contents
  A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson...............................................................................................1
  A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson......................................................................................1
  Chapter 1. THE COMING OF TROUBLE.............................................................................................2
  Chapter 2. THE GRAY DEAD................................................................................................................6
  Chapter 3. SUBSTITUTED MESSAGE...............................................................................................11
  Chapter 4. THE PERIL IN NEW YORK..............................................................................................16
  Chapter 5. FIRING SQUAD..................................................................................................................23
  Chapter 6. ATTACK IN THE AIR........................................................................................................30
  Chapter 7. AN OFFER TO SURRENDER...........................................................................................37
  Chapter 8. SABOTAGE.........................................................................................................................44
  Chapter 9. CRACK−UP.........................................................................................................................49
  Chapter 10. THE KILLER LAUGHS....................................................................................................57
  Chapter 11. DISASTER.........................................................................................................................64
  Chapter 12. THE HUMORIST..............................................................................................................71
  Chapter 13. CHEMISTRY.....................................................................................................................81
  Chapter 14. MORE TO DIE..................................................................................................................88
  Chapter 15. POLITICS..........................................................................................................................95
  Chapter 16. FLIGHT AND PURSUIT................................................................................................100
  Chapter 17. THE GRAY DUST..........................................................................................................104
  Chapter 18. JUNGLE...........................................................................................................................106
  Chapter 19. THE INCA IN GRAY......................................................................................................109
   DUST OF DEATH
  i
  
  A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
  A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
  This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
  http://www.blackmask.com
  Chapter 1. THE COMING OF TROUBLE
  • 
  Chapter 2. THE GRAY DEAD
  • 
  Chapter 3. SUBSTITUTED MESSAGE
  • 
  Chapter 4. THE PERIL IN NEW YORK
  • 
  Chapter 5. FIRING SQUAD
  • 
  Chapter 6. ATTACK IN THE AIR
  • 
  Chapter 7. AN OFFER TO SURRENDER
  • 
  Chapter 8. SABOTAGE
  • 
  Chapter 9. CRACK−UP
  • 
  Chapter 10. THE KILLER LAUGHS
  • 
  Chapter 11. DISASTER
  • 
  Chapter 12. THE HUMORIST
  • 
  Chapter 13. CHEMISTRY
  • 
  Chapter 14. MORE TO DIE
  • 
  Chapter 15. POLITICS
  • 
  Chapter 16. FLIGHT AND PURSUIT
  • 
  Chapter 17. THE GRAY DUST
  • 
  Chapter 18. JUNGLE
  • 
  Chapter 19. THE INCA IN GRAY
  • 
  Scanned and Proofed by Tom Stephens
  A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
  1
  
  Chapter 1. THE COMING OF TROUBLE
  THE PLANE slammed down for a landing in a way that  stood the hair on end, and conveyed the thought that
  the pilot did not  care much for his life. The ship sank out of the South American sky in  a power dive that
  made a moan which could be heard for miles. It hauled  out, went into a side−slip that seemed more than a
  ship could stand.  Then it landed.
  The landing told things. The pilot was neither  reckless nor a fool. He was a wizard.
  The man who got out of the plane looked as if he  were about ready to die. Not that he was wounded, not that
  he had any  affliction. He was just a pale bag of bones, and not a very large bag.  His complexion was about as
  inviting as green bananas.
  The man peered about. Then, quite suddenly, he  shoved a hand inside his greasy flying suit.
  The flying field was jittery with heat waves. The  fighting planes—very modern military planes they
  were—over by the army  hangars were like baked insects that had just crawled out of hangars  that were ovens.
  Trouble was coming from the hangars in the shape of  a squad of uniformed brown soldiers. There was trained
  precision in  their advance, even if they were in a hurry. Their faces were grim and  their rifles clean—cocked.
  The officer in charge of the squad, was dapper,  efficient, and, coming up to the flyer who had the look of an
  invalid,  he presented a blue automatic, muzzle first. He spoke brisk and grim  Spanish.
  "This is a military airport, señor," he said. "No  landings are permitted here. You are under arrest."
  "Si, si, amigo,"
  said the puny−looking flyer. 
  He took his hand out of his flying suit and it held  papers, official looking. He passed them over.
  The officer took them and read them, and his  eyebrows went up, then down, and his shoulders did the same.
  He spoke  English this time and it was not especially good.
  "Our consul, he ees not have right for you thees  military field to use," he said. "Eet ees not what you
  call—call—"
  "Not regular, I know," said the flyer. "But suppose  you call your chief, contact some one high up in the war
  department. I  did a little telephoning before I started."
   DUST OF DEATH
  Chapter 1. THE COMING OF TROUBLE
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  The officer did tricks with his eyebrows while he  thought that over.
  "I will see," he said. "You wait."
  He took the papers, which the flyer had given him,  and walked away briskly, going past the hangars and
  along the walk  which led to the operations office.
  THE OFFICER took quick strides, eyeing from time to  time the documents which obviously held great
  interest for him. He  shook his head, sucked his tongue, and spoke to himself.
  "If this flyer's identity is as these papers say,"  he murmured, "it means great and amazing things are to come."
  He turned a corner briskly. The path, virtually an  alley, ran between thick walls of shrubbery on either side.
  "If this man is who these say he is," the officer  waved papers at himself, "the mystery of the Inca in Gray may
  be solved  after all."
  A man came out of the bushes into the path behind  the officer. He came swiftly without much noise.
  The man was bent over and his hands were across his  middle as if he had a permanent pain there. A beggar,
  to judge by his  looks. His hair was long. His poncho ragged, his fiber sandals  frayed. Unless the matter was
  given thought, it might not occur that  the fellow was excellently disguised.
  "
  Señor soldado," the ragamuffin, hissed, "I have something to  tell, important." 
  The officer stopped, turned and, surprised, let the  tall, stooped bundle of rags come up to him. He was
  unsuspicious. In  the South American republic of Santa Amoza civilians treated army  officers with respect.
  Not being suspicious was the officer's mistake.
  The ragamuffin had a knife concealed in his hand.  But the officer did not see that until he looked down at his
  chest and  saw the hilt sticking out over his heart. Queerly, the army man kept  his mouth closed tightly. But,
  after a moment, strings of crimson  leaked from the corners of his mouth, a string from each corner at  almost
  the same time. Then the army officer, in a slow, horrible way,  got down on his hands and knees and lay on
  the knife hilt so that the  point was shoved on through, and the point came out of the back of his  neat khaki
  uniform.
  He kicked as he died.
  THE KILLER was a thrifty soul. He got his knife.  Then he got the papers. After which he scampered away
  through the  brush, making as little noise as he could.
  Beyond the flying field was jungle, where there was  rainfall down here on the coast where sat Alcala, capital
  city of Santa  Amoza. Once in the jungle, the slayer ran as if his shadow were a  devil. After a time, he came to
  a house, a very miserable looking hovel  and apparently untenanted, but which held a modern telephone.
   DUST OF DEATH
  Chapter 1. THE COMING OF TROUBLE
  3
  
  The telephone set−up was remarkable. Not the  instrument itself, which was ordinary, but the box of apparatus
  through  which its circuit ran. The device was what is known as a "scrambler"  and it was ordinarily employed
  by telephone companies on government  lines where eavesdroppers were not wanted. Only the proper
  unscrambler  at the other end would make intelligible what went over the wire.
  "Word must be got to the Inca in Gray," said the  killer. "The thing we feared has happened."
  "What do you mean?" demanded a coarse voice.
  They were speaking Spanish.
  "Major Thomas J. Roberts just arrived at military  field," snapped the slayer. "I thought I recognized him. I
  used my  knife on a fool officer, and got diplomatic passes which prove the man  is indeed Major Thomas J.
  Roberts."
  "And who might Major Thomas J. Roberts be?" the  voice over the wire demanded.
  "Who was your father, my friend?" asked the killer.
  "He was a man of Inca blood, of which I am proud,"  rapped the other. "And what has that to do—"
  "I thought he must have been an ox," sneered the  slayer, "for naught but an ox could sire a son so dumb. This
  man  Roberts is more commonly known as Long Tom."
  "And so what, insulting dog?" demanded the other.  "Is this Long Tom Señor Diablo himself?"
  "He is worse," declared the ragamuffin. "He is the  assistant, one of the five assistants rather, of the one man
  our  master, the Inca in Gray, fears."
  "Continue, man of many words and little  information," directed the voice on the wire.
  "Doc Savage!" said the killer. "Long Tom is the  assistant of Doc Savage."
  There was silence. It was a long silence, as if the  man on the other end of the wire had been hit a hard blow
  and was  recovering. Then he began to swear, and his profanity was like the  explosions of bundles of
  fire−crackers. He started in a loud scared  voice and swore until he ran out of breath.
  "Wait," he said.
  The killer waited. It was all of five minutes. Then  the other was back on the line.
  "The Inca in Gray will direct this personally," he  said. "This Long Tom will be disposed of."
  "Good−by, son of an ox," the killer chuckled and  hung up.
  BACK AT the military flying field there was  excitement. For the body of the knifed officer had been found.
  It was  orderly excitement, grim. For these soldiers of Santa Amoza were well  trained—and long trained, for
  the war had been going on for four years  already.
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  "Long Tom" Roberts was in the office of the field  commander, standing stark naked, for he had been stripped
  as they  searched him. He looked more than ever like a man who was waiting for a  coffin. But there was
  nothing moribund about the Spanish he spoke. It  was good Spanish. He used plenty of it, pointedly, loudly.
  "Call Señor Junio Serrato, war minister of Santa  Amoza," Long Tom bellowed. "He'll okay me. He knows
  I'm coming."
  They finally did call Señor Junio Serrato, war  minister, and what he said must have been emphatic and
  plenty. For the  flying field officials turned suddenly apologetic.
  "My treatment of you is to be regretted greatly. But  you must understand our country is at war," the field
  commander himself  said. "And the mysterious murder of the officer—"
  There was much shrugging, in the middle of which  Long Tom Roberts left. He took a horse−drawn hack
  driven by an old  woman who looked like the Yankee conception of a witch. All gasoline  was commandeered
  for military use in Santa Amoza and all ablebodied men  were in the army. Long Tom eventually got into
  town.
  Alcala, after the fashion of South American cities,  was a bright−colored town, made brighter by the flags
  which hung in  profusion. Bright sunshine made the white houses whiter and filled the  streets with heat
  waves. Tourists would have ecstasized over the place.
  But there were no tourists. There was war!
  It showed in something besides the numbers of  uniformed men. There was a grimness, chill in the faces, a
  thing as  distinct as the snow−capped Andes, which could be distinctly seen  inland.
  Long Tom surrendered his conveyance, because  marching squads of soldiers frequently held him up and he
  could make  better time walking.
  The walking, Long Tom concluded in short order, was  a mistake. There were beggars; war makes beggars.
  Tattered and filthy  and pleading, they tagged at his heels. He tossed them coins, knowing  that was a mistake,
  for it drew more of them like sugar in the midst of  flies. He tossed more coins, but they grew bolder, more
  insistent. They  scuttled alongside him, tugged his clothing.
  The presence of the beggars was not strange, for  tropical cities are commonly infested with mendicants.
  But suddenly it was strange. It was sinister. It had  a purpose.
  One whining rogue, ragged and dirty as the rest,  shuffled up, arms held loosely at his sides, bare feet scuffing
  the  dust of the unpaved street. Then, unexpectedly, his long arms were  wrapped around Long Tom's slight
  figure.
  "Spy!" screamed the beggar. "He is a spy!"
  The mob burst out in a roar. The suddenness with  which it happened showed this all had been arranged.
  Unclean hands  closed upon Long Tom. There seemed to be dozens of them.
  "Spy!" they shrieked. "Kill him!"
  "Kill him!" a score echoed.
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  Chapter 1. THE COMING OF TROUBLE
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  Then Long Tom—he who resembled an invalid—picked up  the first beggar who had seized him. Using the
  victim as a club, Long  Tom bowled over fully half a dozen others. It was a feat the burliest  wrestler would
  not have blushed to recount.
  In the next few seconds, Long Tom demonstrated some  of the qualities which qualified him as an assistant to
  that man whose  name was legend to the far corners of the earth—Doc Savage. Long Tom  used his fists at
  first, and they landed with noises only slightly less  than pistol shots.
  A ring opened around Long Tom, in it the bodies of  those who had become senseless. The mob roared,
  circled the man whose  mild appearance was so deceptive.
  "Kill him!" it bawled. "A spy!"
  Then they closed in, and many knives appeared. They  tore a stoop from in front of a house, and hurled these
  sizable rock  fragments. Long Tom got one in the chest and it put him down.
  Lying there, gasping, he drove hands into his  pockets. They came out with small glass bulbs. He broke these
  in the  street, and they made wet splashes which vaporized away almost  instantly. It was gas, odorless,
  producing quick unconsciousness if  breathed—a product of Doc Savage's inventive genius. Long Tom held
  his  breath so as not to get any of it. He got up and ran.
  Into a door, Long Tom dived, not knowing where it  led. He was lucky. It admitted into a patio, and he
  climbed a palm tree  to a roof, crossed that, got into another street, after which it was  doubtful if a man in the
  mob could have kept up with him. He could hear  them yelling.
  "Spy!" they screamed. "Kill him!"
  "Whoever hatched that murder scheme," Long Tom  grumbled as he ran, "was clever."
  Chapter 2. THE GRAY DEAD
  ALCALA, CAPITAL of Santa Amoza, had the outward  aspects of a backward city and a poor one. It was
  neither. Santa Amoza  was a country rich in natural resources—nitrates and oil among  others—and before the
  war a flood of exports had poured out of Alcala,  the seaport, and a flood of gold had poured in. Alcala had
  been a rich  field for American salesmen.
  The government hospital was a typical example of  just how modern Alcala was. The building was huge,
  white and of fine  stone. The interior was also white and sanitary, modern to the extreme.
  Long Tom Roberts was following a stern−faced male  nurse down a hall and into a big room, where a man lay
  on a white cot.
  The man on the cot was a mummy in bandages, except  for his hands and his face. He had an interesting face.
  At some time or  other his nose had made forcible contact with an object harder than its  tissue and bone. The
  nose gave the man a face remindful of the  countenance of an English bulldog. Inside the bandages the man's
  frame  was probably angular and capable.
  The bandaged man did not see Long Tom at first.
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  Long Tom grinned and said: "All wrapped up for  shipping."
  The bandaged man turned over. His blue eyes all but  came out of his head. He tried to bound out of the cot
  and fell on the  floor.
  "Long Tom!" he howled. "You old corpse, you old  rascal, you sonuvagun!"
  "Ace Jackson," Long Tom chuckled.
  Long Tom helped him back on the cot, and they  grinned and mauled each other a little, shouting things which
  did not  make much sense.
  "Ace Jackson," Long Tom chuckled. "Same old Kiwi.  Haven't seen you since you were flying a Spad, back in
  the Great War."
  "Same here," chortled "Ace" Jackson. "Swell of you  to drop in to see me, you pint of dynamite."
  "I was down in Argentina on a hydro−electric  project," Long Tom explained. "Buzzed up here as soon I
  heard that you  had tried to do a bit of flying without wings. What's the idea? Been  flying so long you thought
  you had sprouted wings?"
  Ace Jackson looked suddenly grim and did not answer.
  Long Tom stepped back and eyed the bandaged aviator  seriously.
  "It must have taken some sky battler to bring  you down," he said dryly. "Did they gang you? I'll swear no one
  man  could outfly you."
  "The Inca in Gray may not be a man—I think  sometimes," Ace Jackson said slowly and distinctly.
  FOR THE first time, Long Tom became aware there was  a girl in the room. She was tall, dark haired. And
  her complexion had  the utter fairness of the pure Castilian. She came forward when she saw  that Long Tom
  had perceived her.
  Long Tom had the sudden feeling that he was looking  upon the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life.
  Ace Jackson made introductions.
  "This is Señorita Anita Carcetas, daughter of the  president of this republic," he said. "Anita, I want you to
  meet Major  Thomas J. Roberts, better known as Long Tom, electrical wizard  extraordinary. And a lug who
  would rather fight than eat. And he loves  his food. Where there's trouble you'll find Long Tom, and he's a pal
  of  mine."
  "I have not been so dazzled since I saw my first  sunrise," Long Tom said gallantly.
  His eyes told him things. These two were violently  in love. 
  The girl was patting pillows, adjusting coverlets  and bandages and otherwise making Ace Jackson
  comfortable. She was  getting such a big kick out of it that Long Tom let her continue for a  while. Then he
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  spoke.
  "You said something a moment ago," he reminded Ace  Jackson.
  The wounded flyer looked around the girl at him.  "Eh?" he queried.
  "The Inca in Gray," Long Tom explained.
  Over Ace Jackson's face came an expression as if he  had just met, face to face, a bitter and detested enemy.
  "I guess it's a man," he muttered. "Sometimes,  though, that don't seem so sure." 
  "Riddle me again," Long Tom suggested. "I like  guessing games."
  A thought struck Ace Jackson with all the visible  effect of a physical blow. He reared up on the hospital cot,
  heedless  of the girl's admonishing gasp.
  "Gimme straight dope on something," he requested.
  "Sure," Long Tom said.
  "Did Doc Savage send you to Santa Amoza?" Ace  Jackson asked pointedly.
  Long Tom's answer was prompt.
  "I came here solely to see an old pal, who had  cracked up. And for no other reason," he said. "Now what is
  this  ranting about an Inca in Gray? Is it a secret?"
  Ace Jackson sat up rigidly on the cot.
  "You won't believe this," he clipped. "But I'll give  it to you, anyway."
  "Go ahead," Long Tom invited. "I'm rather gullible."
  "The Inca in Gray is responsible for this war!" Ace  Jackson leaned back as if he had gotten something heavy
  off his chest.
  Long Tom squinted at the bandaged aviator.
  "I suppose this Inca in Gray is the nickname of some  general of Delezon, the country Santa Amoza is
  fighting," Long Tom  suggested.
  "You don't get me right," Ace Jackson corrected.  "The Inca in Gray is something—something horrible. No
  one knows whether  he is from Delezon, or what."
  Ace Jackson sat up on the cot again. He leveled a  gauze−wrapped arm at Long Tom.
  "I'll give you one example," he said. "At one time  the Santa Amoza army apparently had Delezon licked. We
  had broken  through their lines in a big drive, and were marching across the desert  toward their capital. Then,
  one night, every officer of consequence in  the expeditionary force died, mysteriously. It was the work of the
  Inca  in Gray."
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  Chapter 2. THE GRAY DEAD
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  "Sounds to me like the work of an espionage agent,"  Long Tom corrected.
  Ace Jackson shook his head. "This Inca in Gray has  done horrible things; murder, butcherings, things
  deliberately  calculated to stir our nation into a frenzy. Our enemy, Delezon, would  hardly do that. General
  Fernanez Vigo, commanding the enemy force, is a  straight shooter, even if he is hell on wheels in a fight."
  Long Tom grunted. "I still say espionage."
  "I'll give you another example," Ace Jackson said.  "There was—"
  Entrancing Señorita Anita Carcetas interrupted.
  "Let me give you the example of Señor Ace Jackson,"  she said.
  Ace Jackson scowled at his bandages. "I look like a  swell example."
  THE GIRL went on as if she had not been interrupted.
  "Ace Jackson is commander of our Santa Amoza air  force," she explained. "He learned that a fever was
  sweeping a certain  mountain tribe of natives. Serum was needed to save them. Ace Jackson  volunteered to fly
  this serum to the spot to save these people."
  "Am I blushing," Ace Jackson muttered.
  "The Inca in Gray tried to kill Ace Jackson," the  girl finished. "Our enemy, General Vigo, would not have
  tried that. The  fever epidemic is as much in his country as in ours."
  Long Tom shook his head. "This doesn't sound  reasonable."
  "I know it," Ace Jackson growled.
  "Just who is this Inca in Gray?" Long Tom demanded.
  "Mystery," Ace Jackson retorted. "Nobody knows. He  is just a name that you hear whispered."
  Señorita Anita Carcetas looked at Long Tom, but  spoke to Ace Jackson, saying, "Ace, you might tell Long
  Tom what we  were talking about this morning."
  Long Tom interposed: "How did this Inca in Gray get  you, Ace?"
  "You know I never go up without going over my  plane," Ace Jackson said. "I did this time not ten minutes
  before  taking off. But a wing came off just the same. My parachute had been  tampered with. It split, but
  evidently not as much as they had hoped. I  got broke up some."
  Long Tom nodded. "Now, what is this thing you were  talking about?"
  Ace Jackson opened his mouth to speak, then closed  it. A door of the room had opened. A male nurse, the
  same one who had  guided Long Tom, entered, carrying a glass of milk and some food on a  tray. The nurse
  seemed very weary, as if he had worked long and hard  hours. Perhaps, that explained the small accident
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  which now befell him.  An accident innocent of itself, but one which was to have grisly  consequences.
  He stumbled. Milk and viands landed on Long Tom's  coat.
  "Thousand pardons, señor," the nurse gasped  contritely, seizing a towel and mopping at the mess he had
  made. The  towel did not help much.
  "Forget it," Long Tom said.
  "No, no, senor, I will clean it," the male nurse  gasped. "Only a few moments will be required." 
  Long Tom grinned and removed his coat. 
  "Sure, sure," he smiled, "if it'll make you happy."
  The nurse took the coat, still bubbling over with  apologies—possibly the presence of the president's daughter
  had helped  unnerve him—and, backing to the door, used one hand behind him to open  it. He stood there
  bowing again and again, half in the room and half  out.
  No one noticed that the arm over which he had draped  Long Tom's coat was extended into the corridor while
  the rest of his  person was in the hospital room.
  "I am so sorry, señor," he told Long Tom again. 
  "Forget it," Long Tom repeated. "Accidents happen." 
  The nurse backed into the corridor and shut the  door. 
  Señorita Anita Carcetas said: "Poor fellow, he is  doubtless overworked."
  Long Tom asked Ace Jackson: "Now, what were you  about to tell—"
  A sound came from the corridor outside the door, an  unpleasant sound, obviously a body falling. And there
  was one shriek,  brief but hideous, in a man's voice.
  Long Tom swung to the door and wrenched it open.  Señorita Anita Carcetas made a shrill sound, expressive
  of utter  horror. Ace Jackson got out of his cot, could not stand, and slumped to  the floor.
  Long Tom looked up and down the corridor. No one was  in sight. Then the electrical wizard bent over the
  body of the man on  the hallway floor.
  The man on the floor was on his back, dead, with his  eyes open and a terrible agony reflected in their still
  depths. It was  the nurse. Long Tom's soiled coat was still draped over his arm.
  But it was the dead man's face that held Long Tom's  gaze. The face was gray, almost white. Long Tom
  looked more closely to  ascertain what made the dead man's face gray.
  What looked like gray dust coated the fellow's  features. 
  Long Tom fanned with his hand close to the visage of  the corpse and the gray stuff was stirred like dust in a
  little cloud.
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  "Get away from it!" Ace Jackson screamed.
  Chapter 3. SUBSTITUTED MESSAGE
  WITHOUT TURNING, Long Tom rapped: "Why not touch it?"
  "That man was killed by the Inca in Gray!" Ace  Jackson shouted.
  Long Tom spun around. "What?"
  "The gray dust," Ace Jackson snapped, "is always on  his victims."
  Señorita Anita Carcetas said: "The death was meant  for you, Señor Long Tom."
  "I know it," Long Tom growled. "Only the coat on his  arm was visible when he stood in the door. The killer
  thought it was me  with my coat over my arm."
  The word exchange had taken but a moment. Long Tom  whipped glances up and down the corridor. He
  decided the fleeing killer  would have gone to the right toward the exit. Long Tom ran in that  direction.
  He reached the entrance and saw a uniformed military  guard there, rifle alert. The fellow must have heard the
  death sound.
  "Did any one pass?" Long Tom demanded in Spanish.  The sentry said no one had passed and Long Tom
  turned back, trying  doors to the right and to the left. There were cries, running footsteps  from other parts of
  the hospital, these no doubt made by persons coming  to see what the excitement was about.
  It was in a big white operating room, banked with  instruments, that Long Tom came upon an object of
  interest.
  The object was a man; a rather small man who was  attired in immaculate blue serge. He had Latin
  handsomeness and a  mustache that was a dark neat line on his upper lip.
  There was a distinct smear of gray dust on the right  sleeve of his blue serge suit.
  Long Tom rushed to the small man's side. The fellow  was struggling to get up, his writhing lips bending and
  unbending his  black line of a mustache.
  "A fiend—cloaked, masked," he gulped. "He struck me  down and fled."
  He pointed to an open window.
  Long Tom whipped to the window. There was no one in  sight. The ground below was sun baked enough not
  to hold footprints,  and there was shrubbery enough about to have concealed a small army.
  Long Tom shouted an alarm and a soldier appeared,  began searching the grounds.
  Going back to the neat little man with the mustache,  Long Tom studied the fellow narrowly. Abruptly, Long
   DUST OF DEATH
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  11
  
  Tom seized the  man's arm.
  "Free me!" the other sputtered. "What is the  meaning?"
  "You were attacked," Long Tom told him dryly. "But  that's you story. You haven't got a mark on you."
  The man tried to speak. But Long Tom shook him, then  marched him, angrily incoherent, back to the room
  where Ace Jackson had  gotten back on his cot.
  Ace Jackson's eyes flew wide and he said: "Don't  mind who you manhandle, do you?"
  "What do you mean?" Long Tom growled.
  Ace Jackson pointed at the mustached prisoner. "No  idea who this is?"
  "I don't get you," Long Tom said.
  "He is Señor Junio Serrato," Ace Jackson advised.
  "For the love of mud," said Long Tom.
  "Exactly," Ace Jackson agreed. "Señor Serrato is war  minister of this nation!"
  LONG TOM hurriedly released his captive. One did not  drag war ministers around as if they were common
  culprits. For, in  these South American countries, war ministers usually had more actual  power than the
  president.
  "I deeply regret my tremendous error, Señor  Serrato," Long Tom murmured.
  That was diplomacy. Regardless of what one thought,  one did not accuse war ministers of crimes which there
  might be  difficulty in proving they had committed.
  Long Tom was somewhat surprised when Señor Junio  Serrato took it graciously.
  "It is no indignity to be handled roughly by a man  who belongs to one of the most famous little groups in the
  world," he  murmured, "I have heard much of Doc Savage and his five aides."
  Long Tom was trying to think of something equally  polite when there was an uproar out on the hospital
  grounds. They  hurried to the windows and saw the squad of soldiers who had been  searching the ground had
  made two seizures. They were bringing the  prisoners in.
  The captives were a Jett and Mutt pair in stature.  Both were well dressed.
  "The soldados have made a mistake," war  minister Serrato murmured at Long Tom's elbow.
  "You know the prisoners?" Long Tom queried.
  "Oh, yes," minister Serrato nodded.
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  12
  
  "Count Hoffe is the tall one," minister Serrato  explained. "He is the representative of the European munitions
  concern  which supplies our needs in arms and ammunitions."
  "The short one?" Long Tom suggested.
  "Don Kurrell is his name," advised minister Serrato.
  "Another munitions salesman?"
  "Oh, no." The war minister smiled again. "Don  Kurrell represents the company which holds the Santa Amoza
  oil  concessions. He is interested in seeing the war ended. His oil wells, I  regret to say, are in the battle zone.
  Unless our nation wins, his  concern stands to lose its investment."
  The prisoners were ushered in shortly. The soldiers  explained they had been acting suspiciously when caught.
  Tall Count Hoffe removed his hat, displaying a  close−cropped bullet head, and explained: "We were seeking
  shelter. We  heard the excitement and feared there might be shooting."
  "Just why were you here?" Long Tom asked them.
  The two looked at each other, then eyed minister  Serrato, and they all glanced at Ace Jackson.
  Ace Jackson said: "I think everybody has the same  idea."
  "What is it?" Long Tom demanded.
  "The thing I started to tell you," Ace Jackson  grunted.
  "Shoot," Long Tom invited.
  "We want Doc Savage down here," Ace Jackson said.  "We want him to smash this devil, the Inca in Gray."
  THERE WAS talk after that, explanations of what was  known of the Inca in Gray. But all of it added up to
  little more than  Long Tom had already heard. The Inca in Gray was some mysterious power  who was
  managing to keep the slaughter going for some unknown reason of  his own.
  "I'll see about it," Long Tom told them finally.  "I'll cable Doc," and left.
  Hardly more than one minute after Long Tom had taken  his departure, Count Hoffe clicked his heels, doubled
  his long body in  a smart bow and said: "Believe me, I am truly glad that Doc may come to  Santa Amoza. This
  unending slaughter is a terrible thing."
  Then he took his departure.
  Ace Jackson stared at the door after Count Hoffe had  gone, and closed it. He muttered, "Sometimes I wonder
  about that guy.  He's the only one I can think of who stands to profit by having this  war go on and on."
  "You mean that he might be the Inca in Gray?"  murmured war minister Serrato. "That thought has occurred
  to me."
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  13
  
  "And to me, too," broke in Don Kurrell. "That is why  I have been palling up with the blighter. I am checking
  up on him."
  "Learn anything?" asked Ace Jackson.
  "No," said Don Kurrell.
  Every one left.
  Those in the room would have been greatly interested  in the actions of a strange figure in a nearby park some
  moments later.  Even a close inspection would not show whether this form was that of  man or woman.
  An all−enveloping cloak of gray material, with a  hood which completely concealed the features, furnished an
  excellent  disguise. This form glided through the shrubbery, keeping out of sight,  and stopped under a tree
  which grew out of the shrubbery. This tree was  very large and ancient.
  The actions of the mysterious skulker became rather  unusual. The figure sank beside the tree, took out a
  notebook from  beneath the cloak, and wrote something in it. The notebook had pages of  thin, onionskin paper.
  The note was rolled, and one hand, gloved, carried  it into a hollow in the bottom of the tree. If the strange
  individual  had made any sound thus far, it was lost in the cooing of pigeons,  numbers of which swarmed the
  ancient park at all hours of the day,  picking up scraps, perching in the branches of the trees.
  The individual in gray removed his hand from the  tree, and slunk away, vanishing from view.
  Only a few moments later, a pigeon arose from the  top of the tree. It was only one pigeon among many, and
  there was  nothing to indicate to any onlooker that it was a carrier pigeon, which  had come up from the hollow
  trunk of the old tree from a cote concealed  in the base. Nor was there anything to show an observer on the
  ground  that the bird carried a note sealed in a quill.
  LONG TOM ROBERTS was also encountering pigeons, but  they were only of the ordinary mongrel variety
  which hopped about in  the streets and he paid no attention to them. Long Tom was thinking,  mulling over in
  his mind what he was convinced was a fact, two facts  rather.
  The two facts were the two attempts on his life—the  attempt of the beggar horde, and the strange incident at
  the hospital.  Presumably, both attempts had been made by the Inca in Gray; and the  motive was not hard to
  guess. Doc Savage was not wanted on the Santa  Amoza scene.
  This talk of the Inca in Gray was entirely new to  Long Tom. But that was not strange. This war between
  Santa Amoza and  Delezon had been going its bloody way for almost four years, yet it was  quite possible that
  any number of people in New York had never heard of  it. The newspapers, of course, had carried stories of
  the bigger  battles, but almost nothing of the day−by−day fight. American  editorials usually dismissed the
  affairs as sporadic squabbles over the  jungle and desert tract that separated the two republics. Washington
  had, however, placed an embargo on the export of arms to the  belligerents, hoping to stop the conflict.
  "I'll bet Count Hoffe liked that," Long Tom muttered.
  The electrical wizard turned into a cable office. He  took a blank and wrote:
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  Chapter 3. SUBSTITUTED MESSAGE
  14
  
  DOC SAVAGE
  NEW YORK
  EVENT VERY MYSTERIOUS STOP LEARN WAR BEING KEPT  GOING BY MYSTERY
  INDIVIDUAL KNOWN AS INCA IN GRAY STOP MIGHT BE GOOD  IDEA IF YOU CAME DOWN
  AND CLEANED UP
  LONG TOM
  Long Tom left the cable office and blissfully went  his way, searching for a suitable hotel.
  Some moments after Long Tom had left, when there had  been approximately time for him to get out of
  earshot, a strange thing  happened. A man came running wildly down the street with several others  pursuing
  him. He turned into the cable office as if he thought it  offered escape. There he picked up a chair and turned,
  at bay. The  pursuers charged in. Promptly there was a mêlée. Furniture flew about.  Desks were upset. The
  cable office attendants screamed for the police.
  The police arrived eventually. But, by that time,  the mysterious fighters had taken their departure. They had,
  in fact,  joined the sinister figure which had dispatched the pigeon from the  park tree.
  "How did it come out?" the cloaked individual asked.
  "Perfectly, master," came the answer.
  One of the gang who had staged the fight turned over  a telegraph blank. It was the one which bore the
  message Long Tom had  written.
  The hooded one chuckled when he saw this.
  "You left in its place the one I gave you?" he asked.
  "We did," said the other.
  "It is well," the cloaked one said. "Had we merely  stolen the message the cable attendants might have missed
  it."
  "We did excellent work," bragged one of the fighters.
  "True," said the cloaked one. "Your work is not  done." 
  The other seemed surprised, and made a question with  his eyebrows.
  "Long Tom Roberts is now to be gotten out of the  way," the cloaked one clipped shortly.
  LONG TOM had finally found himself a hotel
  "My luggage get here, señor?" he demanded of the  clerk.
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  Chapter 3. SUBSTITUTED MESSAGE
  15
  
  The clerk smiled, all but bumped his forehead on the  desk in a bow, and passed over Long Tom's room key.
  Long Tom located the stairway and climbed to a hall  which was dark after the brilliance of the sunlight
  outside. It took  him a moment or two to locate the room that his key called for. He  unlocked it and, his eyes
  still somewhat blinded, he swung the door  open.
  Two men had been busy over Long Tom's open suitcase.  They leaped to their feet. Knives came into their
  hands with grim  suddenness.
  Long Tom was afraid of no man with a knife. Anyway,  there was a chair between himself and the pair. He
  could grab it, use  it for a weapon.
  But he did not reach the chair. The two over the  suitcase had been there as bait to hold his attention. There
  was  another man standing just inside the door. That fellow went forward,  swinging an arm club fashion. His
  hand held a gun, held it by the butt.  For nobody but a fool clubs with the butt of a gun.
  The two, who had been over the suitcase, caught the  electrical wizard's unconscious form so that it would not
  make noise in  falling.
  A strange figure in a cloak now appeared, coming  from somewhere outside. This individual examined Long
  Tom closely,  making sure that he was senseless.
  "Bring a trunk," the cloaked one ordered. "We are  going to take him away."
  "Is it safe, O Inca in Gray?" one asked.
  "Keep your suggestions to yourselves," uttered their  fantastic looking chief. "Get this Long Tom Roberts to
  the place at the  edge of the city where I shall meet you."
  Chapter 4. THE PERIL IN NEW YORK
  IN THE QUIET pre−evening activity of New York,  rather peculiar sounds could be heard. They were on the
  eighty−sixth  floor of a building which was probably the most pretentious skyscraper  in the city.
  "Oink!"
  The sound came with distinct regularity. "Oink! Oink!"
  Two men sat in the eighty−sixth floor office from  which the sounds came. One of them looked angry. He was
  a rather  slender man, especially thin at the waist. But the thing about him that  stood out was his garments.
  They were sartorial perfection. A typical  sample of what was gaining for the wearer a reputation as perhaps
  the  nation's best dresser.
  "Oink!"
  came the sound. "Oink!"
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  Chapter 4. THE PERIL IN NEW YORK
  16
  
  The second man in the room kept his face straight  with some difficulty. This man looked rather pleasantly
  like an ape in  unkempt civilized clothing. He would undoubtedly weigh in excess of two  hundred and fifty
  pounds.
  The apish man was making the sound, doing it  systematically and with painstaking care.
  "Oink!"
  he tried again. "Oink! Oink!"
  The dapper man blew up. He gesticulated with a  slender black cane which he had been holding across his
  knee.
  "Monk," he gritted, "just one more of those noises  and I'm going to trim your toenails off right next to your
  ears."
  "Now, Ham," the apish Monk murmured, "you should  control that temper."
  Ham got up and did something with his cane so that  it became evident that harbored therein was a blade of
  fine steel which  looked razor sharp.
  "You've been making those hog noises to devil me  he," said grimly. "You are hunting trouble and you are
  certainly going  to get accommodated."
  Neither of these men looked quite what he was. The  man with sartorially perfect raiment, "Ham," was
  Brigadier General  Theodore Marley Brooks, pride of the Harvard Law School alumni. The  simian one,
  "Monk," was Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair,  admittedly one of the greatest industrial chemists.
  These two—like Long Tom of the South American  happenings—were members of Doc Savage's group of
  five aides. The spot  where they conducted their quarrel was the anteroom of Doc Savage's  headquarters.
  Monk squared off belligerently and picked up a chair  as a defense against the sword cane, but before anything
  happened, a  voice spoke from the doorway.
  "Something seems to have happened to Long Tom in  South America," the voice said.
  THAT VOICE was remarkable, not that it was loud or  that it seemed to strive to be particularly emphatic. But
  it had a  suppressed quality that induced thoughts of a mighty machine, murmuring  under low throttle.
  Monk and Ham both whirled to stare at Doc Savage as  he came into the room.
  Doc Savage held a cablegram in one hand. The hand  was distinctive for two things. The tendons on the back
  were amazing.  The hand had an unusual bronze color. The size of the hand was  mentionable also, but was not
  especially striking because the rest of  the man's size was in proportion.
  An individual whose appearance was in keeping with  his fabulous reputation was this man, Doc Savage. He
  would stand out in  a multitude. There was more to it than his appearance. His eyes for  instance—they were
  like pools of flake gold, stirred always by tiny  winds. And there was also his hair, the hue a slightly darker
  bronze  than his skin and straight, rather remarkably like a metallic skullcap.
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  Chapter 4. THE PERIL IN NEW YORK
  17
  
  Doc Savage offered the cablegram. Monk and Ham read  it.
  DOC SAVAGE
  NEW YORK
  IN ALCALA SANTA AMOZA VISITING FRIEND ACE JACKSON  STOP MAY SPEND SOME TIME
  HERE STOP EVERYTHING QUIET
  LONG TOM
  The cablegram had come from Alcala, Santa Amoza.
  Monk, the homely chemist, squinted and scratched his  bullet head.
  "I don't see anything in that to make anybody think  Long Tom is in trouble," he said.
  "For once I agree with the ape here," Ham murmured.  "I don't either."
  Doc Savage's metallic features did not change  expression. This was one of his characteristics. He rarely
  showed  emotion.
  "Have you overlooked the five−letter code?" he asked.
  Monk started, and a ludicrous expression crossed his  homely face.
  "Sure," he grunted, "every sentence should start  with a five−letter word. That's the touch to make sure
  members of our  gang really send the messages."
  Dapper Ham seized the cablegram which Doc had  brought and examined it again.
  "Every sentence doesn't start with a five−letter  word in this," he snapped. "That means Long Tom did not
  send it."
  Monk scratched in the bristles along his nape. "What  do you reckon's behind this?"
  "We will see what we can learn by cabling," Doc told  him
  ON THE STREET there was not much traffic and not  many parked cars. Hence, there was plenty of room
  along the curbing. A  small sedan wheeled into one of these open spaces.
  Four men alighted. The fifth, who was behind the  wheel, drove the car away. Those who had gotten out
  strolled over and  ostensibly looked into a show−window. Above them towered the stone and  steel monolith
  that housed Doc Savage's eighty−sixth floor aërie.
  "Your instructions are clearly understood?" asked  one of the men.
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  Chapter 4. THE PERIL IN NEW YORK
  18
  
  The others nodded.
  The leader paced the way into the skyscraper. He was  a rather striking fellow, principally because of his size
  arid shape.  His lines were somewhat remindful of a box on stiff legs. He looked as  hard as railroad ties.
  Under one arm this man carried a bulky object,  carefully wrapped in thick brown paper.
  Once in the building lobby, the men separated. Two  turned toward the elevator that would lead them to an
  observation tower  above Doc Savage's headquarters, almost a hundred stories above the  street level.
  The other two members of the group strolled  carelessly down the spacious lobby, stopping close to the
  entrance that  led to the express elevator which carried passengers to floors eighty  to ninety. They lighted
  cigarettes and leaned idly against the wall,  conversing softly as if awaiting the appearance of friends.
  Over in the observation tower elevator, the box of a  man—he had the unmistakable look of a professional
  wrestler—and his  companion were silent. The operator glanced at them with only slight  curiosity, for
  dwellers in Manhattan become accustomed to strange types  of humanity.
  When the elevator stopped at the observation floor,  the two passengers acquired admission tickets, walked
  out on the railed  platform and gawked about. A few other persons were there, these  obviously being tourists.
  The burly wrestler still carried his package  as he mingled with the crowd. There was system in the mingling,
  however, for the pair worked around the tower and soon stood before a  small door. They tried this and found
  it locked.
  They waited until they were alone on that side of  the tower. Then the wrestler brought out a bunch of
  keys—an assortment  of skeleton keys. There was a faint click and the door opened.
  The pair slipped through and closed the door behind  them. Without hesitation they raced down a small set of
  steps into a  room where the whirr and the click of machinery sounded continuously.
  It was the room which held the mechanism that  operated the elevators.
  A mechanic rose quickly from his chair just inside  the room with the machinery. But he was too slow. He did
  not even see  the newcomers. The wrestler swung a great block of a fist, and the  mechanic was senseless.
  "You know what we do next?" the big box of a man  asked.
  He was looking about, plainly more than a little  bewildered by the maze of wheels and cables that confronted
  him.
  His companion nodded, a confident grin on his  wizened face.
  "I can handle the rest of it," he said. "I used to  install these things."
  With sure steps he threaded his way through the  cables, pointed to one drum which appeared full of slender
  steel thread.
  "This is the cable that holds up Doc savage's  private elevator," he said. "Unlimber that thing you're carryin'."
  The big man grunted and unwrapped the parcel which  had been under his arm. The other took it, stripped off
  the wrapping  and revealed a compact metal−cutting torch of a type popular with safe  robbers.
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  Chapter 4. THE PERIL IN NEW YORK
  19
  
  Eye−hurting flame from the torch began to play  against the cable drum.
  DOWN IN THE street level lobby, the two men who were  leaning against the wall near the express elevator
  were beginning to  consult their watches nervously.
  "We got another minute," one said.
  They were silent throughout the minute.
  "Now," the first said. And the other nodded.
  They walked to the endmost of the bank of express  elevators and entered the cage.
  The operator spoke to them quietly, saying, "This  elevator goes only to Doc Savage's floor."
  "That's where we're headed," one of the passengers  responded.
  Then the operator jumped suddenly and looked down. A  gun had been jammed into his ribs.
  "Get going," the hard−faced holder of the gun  ordered.
  The operator closed the door and started up. For an  instant, the two passengers were speechless, their eyes
  intent on the  operator. The latter moved his lever to the stop position. The button  of the apparatus that would
  automatically level the cage at the  eighty−sixth floor door was already pushed in.
  A fist struck the elevator man callously under the  jaw. He sagged, and one of the two passengers caught him
  under the  arms. Holding him helpless, they hit him again and again, until his  senses were thoroughly beaten
  out.
  They lowered him to the floor as the cage stopped on  the eighty−sixth floor.
  The two passengers opened the door, made sure the  corridor was empty, then propped the elevator door open
  with the use of  small wooden wedges, which they had previously prepared. They moved  silently down the
  corridor to the stairway. One of them turned and  cupped his hands to his mouth.
  "Help!" he screamed. "Help!"
  Then the pair scuttled silently down the stairway.
  The door of Doc Savage's quarters burst open. The  giant bronze man was first through, Monk and Ham close
  on his heels.
  "Somebody yelled!" Monk exploded. "Where was it?"
  The open elevator door caught their attention. They  ripped toward it, glanced inside.
  Unexpectedly a small weird sound filled the corridor  and the elevator cage wherein the beaten unconscious
  operator lay. The  sound was tiny, exotic, a thing difficult of description. It was a  trilling, in a sense, a minute,
  fantastic note that might have been the  product of the wind through the spires of an arctic ice field.
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  Chapter 4. THE PERIL IN NEW YORK
  20
  
  Monk and Ham looked at Doc Savage, knowing the  bronze man was making the sound. They had heard it
  often. It was a  small thing which the bronze man did unconsciously in moments of stress.
  Doc Savage stepped into the elevator. Monk and Ham  followed.
  HIGH ABOVE, in the room which housed the lifting  machinery, the two sinister men had been staring
  downward. The elevator  cage had a grilled top and the interior was brightly lighted so that  they saw Doc
  Savage and his two aides enter.
  "Quick!" gulped the wrestler.
  The other manipulated the cutting torch. He already  used it sufficiently to nearly sever the cables. The finish
  of the job  required only a moment. With the sound of a snapping fiddle string, the  cable parted.
  The cage fell away from the open door before Doc  Savage and his aides could possibly get out. It gathered
  momentum. Doc  worked the elevator control lever rapidly. It had no effect. Their  speed increased.
  Homely Monk jammed a thumb violently against the  button which was labeled emergency stop. Nothing
  happened. His apish  visage began to look as if whitewash were being pumped under the skin.
  Floors went past in a grisly blur.
  "Cable cut," Doc Savage said briefly. "Automatic  stopping device jammed."
  Ham, the dapper lawyer, said nothing, but brushed an  imaginary speck of dust from his immaculate clothing
  as if he wanted to  look his best when his crushed body was found after the elevator  crashed to the bottom of
  the shaft, eighty−six floors below.
  Doc Savage's bronze features had not lightened. The  paleness of fear, which might have been expected, was
  entirely absent.  His features were almost weirdly composed. Nor did he speak.
  Air was roaring about the cage as they plummeted.  The senseless operator stirred a little on the floor, but he
  would  never revive in time to realize what was happening.
  The wild cage flashed past the ground floor. And a  startled yell came from the starter outside as he realized
  what was  occurring.
  Things happened. A giant hand seemed to reach out  and grab the elevator, gently at first, then with more
  violence. Air,  passing the sides of the cage, made an ear−splitting scream. The  occupants of the elevator went
  down as if mashed by a giant invisible  hand.
  And the cage was unexpectedly still, although it  seemed, due to the freakishness of the human organism, that
  it was now  flying upward.
  Monk lay very still. Ham had fallen half across him.
  They both eyed Doc Savage. Their expressions showed  what they wanted—explanations.
   DUST OF DEATH
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  21
  
  "The bottoms of these shafts are of special  construction," Doc Savage said. "They are completely enclosed
  and fit  tightly to the sides of the cage. The compression of the air formed a  natural shock absorber."
  Monk started to say something, then looked down at  his clothing, surprised. He had become soaking wet with
  nervous  perspiration.
  ESCAPE FROM the cage did not prove to be a simple  matter. First, the top grille was bolted in place solidly
  and, being  stout, it yielded but slowly. Springing upward, Doc Savage managed to  seize an ornamental
  projection in the cage top. An observer would have  sworn it offered no hand grip whatever. Yet, the bronze
  giant clung  there and struck and wrenched repeatedly at the grating until it came  loose. The metal was a stout
  alloy. He bent it back amid a squeaking  and rending.
  By this time, they had the shaft door open and faces  were shoved through, shouting excitedly that an
  emergency truck had  been summoned.
  The sides of the shaft were of brick, and rough. Doc  Savage mounted, the strength in his amazing hands
  making ample security  out of microscopic handholds.
  Even with his efforts, however, several minutes had  elapsed before he reached the lobby. A crowd milled.
  More persons came  in from the street, excitement drawn.
  Doc Savage lost no time in getting the doors closed  so that no one might enter or leave. There was a bare
  chance the  culprits might be inside.
  They were not. They had lost no time in leaving the  skyscraper, had entered their little sedan and were
  driving fast when  they got a glimpse of the bronze man.
  The big wrestler and his consorts were not bad  actors. They managed not to show enough excitement to
  attract attention.
  "We've laid an egg," one muttered.
  The wrestler began to curse, calling his own father  and mother and immediate ancestors numerous unpleasant
  names.
  "Count Hoffe in South America ain't gonna like  this," another of them groaned.
  The wrestler stopped abusing his ancestors.
  "We sure gave the job a botching," he agreed. "Now  Doc Savage will steam straight for South America."
  "And the Inca in Gray will begin to lay eggs of his  own," another man agreed.
  "Don't worry," snorted the wrestler. "Any eggs the  Inca in Gray lays will hatch out plenty of hell."
  The little sedan took them out of sight.
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  22
  
  AN HOUR later, Doc Savage knew that those who  attempted to murder them had escaped. The bronze man
  went to his  laboratory. He began assembling mechanical devices—the gadgets which he  employed and
  which, on more than one occasion, had saved his life.
  Monk, the homely chemist, stopped in the reception  room to read a newspaper. Doc Savage interrupted
  Monk's perusal of the  newspaper.
  "You might get your portable laboratory together,  Monk," he suggested.
  The homely chemist squinted at the bronze giant.  "Then we're going places?"
  "We are," Doc agreed.
  Monk frowned. "Do you think that fake cable with  Long Tom's name signed to it, and that attempt to kill us
  had a  connection?"
  Whatever reply Doc Savage intended to make was  interrupted by the appearance of a messenger, wearing the
  uniform of a  cable company. He presented a blue envelope, which Doc opened, read,  then passed to Monk
  and Ham. The missive was cryptic, expressive.
  DOC SAVAGE
  NEW YORK
  LONG TOM ROBERT'S HAS DISAPPEARED
  ACE JACKSON
  The message was from Alcala, Santa Amoza.
  Monk looked up from the missive and demanded: "This  means we charge right down there, don't it?"
  "It does," Doc agreed.
  Ham asked, "Do we go by plane?"
  "We will try the new statrosphere dirigible," Doc  told him. "On a flight as long as this, it will probably be
  faster than  our big plane."
  Chapter 5. FIRING SQUAD
  AT ABOUT that moment, Long Tom Roberts, some  thousands of miles south of New York, lay on his back
  and wished that  Doc Savage were not quite so far distant. He also wondered where he  was, what had been
  done to him.
   DUST OF DEATH
  Chapter 5. FIRING SQUAD
  23
  
  He got around to trying to move and found his arms  and legs tied. A bit later, it dawned on him that he was
  jammed in a  cramped compartment, small for his scrawny frame. He tried to shift his  position a little.
  Instantly, ripping swear words in Español crackled above him. He was kicked twice, very hard, in the side.
  Then  a pair of heavy, booted feet pressed down on his middle and remained  there, effectually discouraging
  further movement on his part.
  Long Tom lay still and organized his thoughts. He  was in a plane, an open cockpit type ship.
  A riveting machine seemed to open up, almost over  his head. The terrific din of it made such a pain in Long
  Tom's head  that he gasped and shut his eyes tightly. The plane in which he was  riding must be engaged in a
  fight.
  There was a sound not unlike two cats having a  violent fight in the rear of the fuselage somewhere. The
  plane's  framework trembled perceptibly. Long Tom had been through enough aërial  fighting to know what
  the sound meant. Machine gun bullets hitting  their ship.
  Long Tom's ears began to distinguish other sounds,  which resembled firecrackers letting go in a well. That
  would be  artillery. There was an occasional much closer woof! some of  which cause the plane to sway, pitch.
  Archies.
  Long Tom lay back and shut his eyes. He was not  scared, not by the war anyway. He had been through too
  many of those.  He did some reflecting.
  Let's see. He had been knocked out in the Alcala  hotel. Now he had awakened over the front lines of a war
  which, judging  from the sounds, was no opera.
  Long Tom, who frequently went out of his way to hunt  trouble, seemed to have done very well in the present
  case.
  The war front sounds were dropping behind. There was  no more machine gunning, no more anti−aircraft. The
  plane flew quietly  for some time.
  Then arms caught Long Tom under the shoulder, yanked  him up. Sunlight hit him in the eyes so blindingly
  that he was hardly  able to see. He felt the ropes being ripped from his feet. A knife  slashed the cords that
  bound his arms.
  Instantly, Long Tom turned, tried to get a grip on  his captor; but the confinement had made the pallid
  electrical expert  very clumsy. He fared very badly in the fight which he started.
  Powerful arms caught him about the middle, lifted  him up. He was held over the side of the cockpit, the
  whole thing  happening so quickly that he was distinctly astonished to find himself  plunging like a rock
  toward a mass of very green jungle some thousands  of feet below!
  LONG TOM'S next actions were pure instinct. He  reached for a parachute rip cord ring. When he did that,
  truth was, he  did not even know whether he wore a chute. The head blows had left him  very hazy. But the
  chute rip cord ring was there. He yanked it.
  With a suddenness that wrenched his aching muscles,  his downward plunge was halted by a billowing spread
  of silk that  snapped out over his head. The parachute had opened, checking his fall.
   DUST OF DEATH
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  24
  
  Long Tom, however, failed to experience the feeling  of relief which this happening should have induced. The
  shock of  parachute opening had been too much for his shaky condition. It had  knocked him out. He hung,
  quite senseless, in the parachute harness.
  Long Tom, being unconscious, missed the excitement  which his descent caused. The jungle land below was
  not far behind the  front lines, and, it was infested correspondingly by soldiers.
  Naturally, no one shot at the figure in the  parachute; but there was a wild rush for the spot where the silk lobe
  was going to drop.
  Long Tom hit hard, but did not know it. He was also  dragged a few yards until the silken bulb of the
  parachute caught  itself on a small tree and spilled its air.
  When Long Tom revived a few seconds later, he was  out of the parachute harness and being held erect by
  several men. There  were other men standing about, holding rifles. All of the men wore  uniforms.
  Suddenly Long Tom peered at the uniforms more  closely. They were not like the uniforms he had seen in
  Alcala. They  were entirely different, in fact. He realized what the difference meant.
  "Blazes!" Long Tom gulped feebly
  He must be across the line in Santa Amoza's enemy  country, Delezon
  The soldiers who had seized him were looking him  over. The officer in charge wore a design on his sleeve
  which meant, if 
  Long Tom guessed correctly, that he was a corporal.
  "Norte Americano," said the corporal.
  "Si, si," Long Tom said in Spanish. "I'm an  American. Where am I?"
  The corporal laughed; it was not a nice laugh.
  "Search him," directed the corporal.
  The soldiers plunged hands into his pockets, turning  them inside out, bringing to light everything in his
  possession. The  possessions were a distinct surprise to Long Tom. He was, he  discovered, carrying things he
  had never seen before.
  There was, for instance, a small bottle with a  poison label. There was a tiny camera with a very fast lens.
  There was  a fountain pen which held, as the corporal in charge of the soldiers  demonstrated, invisible ink.
  "Boy, oh boy," Long Tom mumbled thickly. "Somebody  has sure done carpenter work on me."
  "What you ees mean, señor?" asked the corporal, who  seemed to understand a little English.
  "I've been framed," Long Tom said.
  The corporal emitted another loud laugh even more  ugly, if that were possible, than the first one.
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  25
  
  "Eet ees plain you are spy, señor," he said.
  "I've been framed," Long Tom repeated.
  "You need more better story than that," said the  corporal. "Mebbe yo ees t'ink of better one as we take yo to
  thees  Señor General Fernanez Vigo."
  "General Vigo, dictator general of Delezon?" Long  Tom grunted.
  "Si, si, señor," agreed the corporal.  "General Vigo, he ees like talk to spy."
  GENERAL FERNANEZ Vigo proved to be in a dugout  rather close to the thundery, crashing front line
  trenches than a  general might be expected to keep himself.
  General Vigo was the biggest and ugliest man Long  Tom could recall having seen in a long time. General
  Vigo's  inconspicuous khaki garb only accentuated his gargantuan aspect. No  chevrons or insignia showed on
  his uniform. As a matter of fact, Long  Tom reflected, such marks of rank would not be needed. For any one
  who  had ever heard of General Vigo would recognize him on sight.
  General Vigo's laugh was also interesting. It  sounded as if a turkey gobbler were gobbling.
  The gobble was very loud and very amused as General  Vigo listened to Long Tom's attempt to explain that
  the spy  paraphernalia found in his pockets had been planted there without his  knowledge, and that he had not
  jumped from the plane but had been  thrown.
  Long Tom gave it up, not having expected the story  to be believed anyway, and fell to eyeing General Vigo.
  He had heard of  dictators, political iron men, and had seen some. This was the first  one who had looked the
  part.
  General Vigo stopped his gobble and rumbled in  surprisingly good English, "You are a spy. You are wasting
  your time to  deny it."
  Long Tom frowned at the world's ugliest man. "What  happens to spies over here?"
  "They are shot," General Vigo boomed promptly.
  "Do they get a chance to defend themselves?" the  electrical wizard countered.
  "That depends on me," General Vigo laughed.  "Sometimes, yes, if I get up on what you call the right side of
  the  bed. Otherwise, no. We just go ahead and shoot them."
  "How soon do you shoot them?" Long Tom asked.
  General Vigo shrugged. "In your case, ten minutes."
  Long Tom batted both eyes rapidly. He was quite  positive General Vigo was not kidding him. The General
  looked very  serious at the moment. Long Tom moistened his lips.
  "Can you get a cablegram to New York?" he asked.
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  26
  
  "Si si," said General Vigo in answer, and  added, "Sure."
  "Take a tip," Long Tom suggested. "Cable Doc Savage  before you cut loose on me."
  General Vigo looked like a man who has just  discovered himself standing over a quicksand bed.
  "Doc Savage?" he growled. "What do you mean, señor?"
  "Ask Doc Savage to describe his aide Long Tom  Roberts to you," Long Tom suggested. "Take a good look at
  me when you  get the description."
  General Vigo thought that over. That he had heard of  Doc Savage, it was plain.
  "You are one of Doc Savage's men?" General Vigo  demanded.
  "Right," Long Tom told him.
  "What do you do down here, señor?"
  Long Tom told him, making the recital as complete as  he possibly could. He began with the moment when
  news of Ace Jackson's  being in an Alcala hospital had come to him on the hydro−electric  project far to the
  south.
  Long Tom finished his recital, "And I have a hunch  this mysterious power they call the Inca in Gray is behind
  my troubles."
  General Vigo's face froze. For perhaps a score of  seconds, he gave an excellent imitation of a man who had
  turned  suddenly to stone. Then he turned slowly to Long Tom.
  "Inca in Gray?" he said slowly and distinctly.
  "Yes," said Long Tom. "Inca in Gray—"
  "What do you know of the Inca in Gray?" General Vigo  roared unexpectedly.
  "Nothing," gulped Long Tom, startled. "You see I—" 
  General Vigo leaped to the mouth of the dugout,  shouted, waved his arms. Soldiers came running. He
  bellowed orders at  them in Spanish.
  "This man has been found to be a spy!" he roared,  "Take him to headquarters! He will be shot at once!"
  LONG TOM had often boasted that he had a poker face,  but it did not function very well now. He was
  already very low  physically. His feelings showed on his face. The result was rather  hideous.
  Long Tom was taken well behind the lines, and was  loaded into a motor van. This bumped and jarred and
  rumbled over a bad  road, and probably no road at all, for a long time.
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  27
  
  Because bouncing about on the van bottom was  extremely uncomfortable, Long Tom managed to get to his
  feet, and this  gave him a vantage point from which he could look out of the rear of  the van. His impression
  that the truck was traversing what amounted to  no road at all was correct. Scrawny jungle was reeling past.
  The van  stirred up a great deal of evil looking gray dust. Long Tom almost  shivered. The dust looked exactly
  like the dust of death which had been  on the murdered man in the Alcala hospital.
  Thatched huts began to appear on either side of the  van. They were entering a village. The thatched huts gave
  way to mud or  adobe structures. Then there was a scattering of stone buildings.
  The van stopped. Long Tom was booted out. The  soldiers were not handling him any too gently.
  A figure appeared before them—the ugliest man in the  world, again. To arrive so soon, General Vigo must
  have come ahead of  them in a fast car. 
  Rage stiffened Long Tom's frail−looking frame. He  made a jaw at General Vigo.
  "You're putting your neck out, you old bull−head,"  Long Tom advised him.
  "What does that mean—putting my neck out?" General  Vigo demanded.
  "It means likely a head chopping," Long Tom assured  him. "In other words you're asking for it."
  "Hah!" General Vigo struck an attitude, his idea of  the one which Napoleon is generally supposed to have
  originated. He  gobbled a laugh.
  "Me, you would threaten?" he rumbled. "Me, General  Vigo, you would scare? Hah! I am not afraid. Me, I can
  whip the world!"
  "You been trying to whip Santa Amoza for four  years," Long Tom said dryly.
  Long Tom fully expected that to throw General Vigo  into a rage. It did nothing of the sort, made General
  Vigo grin from  ear to ear.
  "A wise señor, eh," chuckled the dictator of  Delezon. "I could like you. It is too bad I must shoot you."
  Long Tom growled, "If you will get in touch with Doc  Savage—"
  General Vigo roared at his soldiers and waved an  arm. The uniformed men picked Long Tom up, stalked with
  him toward a  high adobe wall.
  THE PROSPECTIVE shooting of a spy is a spectacle  calculated to grip the attention of every one in the
  vicinity. This  probably accounted for the fact of no one noticing the peculiar actions  of one man observing
  the tableau.
  This observer was not much to look at. He had a  pocked face, was undersized, but, somehow, there was an air
  of evil  about him. He was careful to get in no one's way and attract no  attention, but this man kept a very
  close watch on what was happening  to Long Tom.
  General Vigo led the execution squad with the victim  directly to the adobe stockade. This was very high and
  the walls seemed  to be thick. There were embrasures to permit the mounting of machine  guns along the top. It
  was obviously a fort.
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  The entrance through the wall was narrow, to make  defense easier, and the aperture was closed by a door of
  heavy timbers.  This opened. Long Tom was shoved through.
  The stockade interior was occupied by numerous large  buildings, most of them with barred windows. Long
  Tom was not given  much time to look around. They hauled him across the court and he found  himself
  standing before a wall. 
  The electrical wizard twisted his head to get a look  at the wall. What he saw caused him to swallow. The wall
  was full of  pits which had been made, no doubt, by rifle bullets. So here was where  they shot their spies.
  "A blindfold?" General Vigo inquired, much too  politely.
  "Yes," Long Tom said promptly.
  General Vigo seemed surprised, but before he could  speak, Long Tom explained.
  "I don't want to be looking at the fellow who kills  me," he said. "He might have bad dreams."
  Contrarily enough, that struck General Vigo as  extremely funny. His roar of laughter echoed off the walls,
  and sounded  exactly like the noise of a farmyard turkey.
  "Ready!" he bawled at the execution squad.
  That shouted word was very loud. It carried beyond  the compound wall and reached the ears of the crowd
  which had gathered  outside. These curious persons had not been admitted to the stockade.  Apparently no
  spectators were allowed. A tense silence settled over  this small throng.
  "Aim!" They all heard General Vigo shout the word. 
  If anything, the tension, the silence, increased. 
  On the outskirts of the listening crowd stood the  insignificant man with the pocked face, the fellow who had
  been  observing the proceedings with such interest. He strained his ears.
  "Fire!" came General Vigo's command.
  It was almost drowned by a volley of rifle shots. In  the midst of the ragged fusillade, every one in the
  listening throng  distinctly heard a cry of agony, exactly such a scream as a man would  utter when he feels
  death lead in his vitals.
  Silence followed that.
  STRANGELY ENOUGH, only one man in the throng outside  the stockade smiled. Every one else was sober.
  Death was not a pleasant  thing.
  But one man smiled, and that man was the pock−faced,  curious spectator. After permitting himself the smile,
  he turned and  scuttled back among the huts. He lost himself in the shabbier part of  the village.
  In one respect this village resembled the capital  city of Santa Amoza, Alcala. It had stray pigeons. There was
  not a  great number of them, but, nevertheless, there were pigeons.
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  29
  
  So no one noted one particular pigeon which arose  shortly from the village and winged in the direction of
  Santa Amoza.  Certainly, no one caught the significance of the bird, because carrier  pigeons look very much
  like ordinary pigeons.
  Long Tom Roberts was dead. The bird carried word of  the end of Doc Savage's aide.
  Chapter 6. ATTACK IN THE AIR
  THE AIR SPEED indicator needle stood near  three−hundred−miles−an−hour; but the instrument was not
  entirely  reliable. Not that it was defective—up here in the stratosphere there  were wind currents, terrific in
  velocity, which carried an aircraft  hither and yon so that only by celestial observation could speed be  reliably
  calculated.
  Doc Savage, a giant of bronze, leaned over a lighted  map board, marking their position.
  "At this speed, we should be in Alcala, capital of  Santa Amoza, in another three hours," he said quietly.
  Monk, a grotesque, baboon figure in the vague light  of the stratosphere airship control cabin, lifted a furry
  hand to  stifle a yawn.
  "This chariot sure can travel," he muttered sleepily.
  No clouds were about them, for they were too high. A  cotton mass of vapor was some thousands of feet
  below. It was night.  The clouds underneath had the aspect of silver which needed polishing  in spots.
  Overhead, the sky looked remarkably black, the stars  unnaturally bright.
  Ham, dapperly clad as usual, was in the rear of the  control room, applying a bilious looking substance to the
  tip of his  sword cane. The bilious concoction was a drugged mixture which would  produce abrupt
  unconsciousness should a victim be pricked. Ham finished  his task and came forward.
  He said, "Doc, if you wish to get some sleep, Monk  and myself can handle the craft."
  Doc Savage shook his head. "Not tired. You and Monk  turn in."
  Ham nodded agreement, turned, and immediately  stumbled over something that emitted a startled grunt.
  Monk's bulky form straightened, his homely face  contorted with what, if it was not rage, was an excellent
  imitation.
  "Be careful, you fashion plate!" Monk howled. "You  kicked that hog on purpose."
  Ham sniffed and managed to do it with great dignity.
  "Get your insect out of the way," he requested.
  The homely Monk, registering great indignation,  began to examine the object over which Ham had stumbled.
  This was a  pig. The shote was one of striking appearance, having a scrawny body,  the legs of a dog, an
  inquiring snout, and ears which induced thoughts  of a young elephant.
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  30
  
  The pig was Habeas Corpus, Monk's pet.
  Monk picked Habeas up by one over−sized ear, looked  him over, and sat him down again, then glared at
  Ham. The dapper lawyer  glared back. They did this as a matter of habit. Not only did they  never speak civilly
  to each other, but they invariably looked as if  they were on the point of indulging in mutual murder.
  Doc Savage had resumed his position calculations.  The speed of the dirigible and more especially the velocity
  and vagary  of the air currents made frequent checks necessary. The  lighter−than−air craft was much more
  subject to being swept off its  course than would have been a heavier plane.
  ALL SEEMED peaceful, safe, aboard the unusual  aircraft. But appearances are deceptive.
  Dirigibles are, of necessity, complicated craft,  with many structural intricacies. In this one, for instance, there
  was  a little tunnel of a catwalk running underneath from bow to stern, and  another on top. There were various
  chimneylike tunnels with ladders. It  was possible to reach almost any part of the gas bag by this system of
  passages. They were there so that repairs might be made easily while in  the air.
  They furnished an excellent hiding place; and, as  such, they had been taken advantage of.
  Two men crouched in one of the tunnels. Both of them  had been with the gang which attempted to murder
  Doc Savage with the  elevator trap in New York City. One was the burly fellow whose physical  build
  somewhat resembled that of a box with short legs.
  It was very cold up here in the stratosphere. The  two skulkers, stowaways in fact, were blue, and almost too
  stiff to  shiver. They had to hold hands over their mouths so that breath could  warm their blue lips, in fact,
  before they could whisper to each other.  They had been doing this for the last few moments, preparatory to a
  conversation.
  "We can't hold out much longer," whispered the  box−of−a−man's companion.
  The burly fellow tried to agree with a nod, but was  so cold he could hardly manage even that slight motion.
  "We're gonna  freeze stiff," he said.
  "This is a helluva hiding place," the other  complained.
  "We was damn lucky to get away with even this," the  burly fellow told his companion earnestly.
  "This Doc Savage ain't such hot stuff," said the  first. "He didn't find out we were aboard."
  The other man now managed a pronounced shiver which  was not due entirely to the cold.
  "Don't fool yourself," he mumbled. "The bronze guy  took off in a heck of a hurry for South America."
  They were silent for a time, suffering from the  chills. Moving their arms and legs did them little good. They
  had not  stowed away entirely unprepared, it might have been noted. Each had a  small rubber bag, which was
  one of the chemical heating pads frequently  sold by drugstores. That these were losing their potency was
  evident.
  "We gotta do somethin'," said the small man.
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  31
  
  The box of a fellow nodded. He crawled to one side,  taking great care to avoid noise, and peered down
  through a tiny  opening which he had made in the dirigible's skin. He joined his  companion hurriedly.
  "Looks like Santa Amoza below," he grunted. "It's  time we opened our keg of nails."
  The small man got up hurriedly. His expression was  vicious, bloodthirsty, and just a bit uneasy.
  "You think this is gonna work?" he grunted.
  "Sure," said the other. "It can't fail."
  They crept downward.
  DOC SAVAGE, plotting a Sumner line in the course of  his navigation calculations, abruptly heard a slight
  sound. He heard it  twice before giving it much attention. The noise was metallic, not a  clanking, but a
  grinding and gritting, such as might have been made by  pliers working upon metal.
  Doc Savage swung a glance at the instrument panel.  The dirigible was being guided by a robot pilot, a
  gyroscopic affair,  not greatly different from those employed in big planes. The dirigible  was exactly on its
  course.
  Doc Savage abruptly decided Monk and Ham were not  making the noise. Monk and Ham, in fact, were
  probably asleep.
  The bronze man left the control room, went down a  passage which was narrow, barely wide enough to permit
  him to pass, in  fact.
  Doc Savage reached the compartment which Monk and  Ham used for sleeping. There were two of these, one
  on either side of  the central passage.
  The bronze man at once noted a strange fact. There  were fastenings on the outside of the compartment doors.
  These were now  secured. Monk and Ham, it appeared, were each locked in. Whether they  were asleep could
  not be told. It was by no means silent enough for  snores to be heard.
  Doc Savage was looking at the barred doors when  another door directly ahead of him opened. This door led
  into the after  catwalk which ran up to the tail where the rudders and elevators were  affixed.
  A small man with a pinched face that would have been  an excellent visage for a movie villain, stepped out.
  He held his hands  up, empty. He looked scared, in fear of receiving immediate bodily  damage.
  "Wait," he shrieked. "Lemme explain."
  He jerked both hands back of him and upward as if  trying to indicate something above.
  That was a trick. It was a bit too obvious. Doc  Savage spun.
  Another door down the corridor behind Doc Savage had  opened. A huge man, with the body of a box and a
  face of no  intelligence, had stepped out. This one had a revolver.
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  32
  
  Doc Savage found himself looking into the muzzle of  the gun. There had been no time to do anything.
  "Just hold it," said the little man who had first  appeared. He now took a gun from his clothing.
  Doc held it. He stood very stiffly. However, a close  observer might have noted certain large arm muscles
  swelling in the  bronze man's coat sleeve. The sinews coiled, bundled, swelled up,  strained against the coat
  fabric.
  But the two captors were too canny. They wrenched  small oxygen respirators—gas mask affairs—from inside
  their shirts and  clamped them to nostrils and lips. They must have used these previously  on such occasions as
  the dirigible had gone so high into the  stratosphere as to reach air that would not sustain human life.
  Doc Savage relaxed. The big muscles in his arms  subsided. These two men must know a few of his tricks. In
  a concealed  pocket in his coat sleeve Doc Savage carried tiny glass balls of an  anaesthetic which produced
  quick unconsciousness once it was breathed,  but which lost its potency after being in the air a few moments.
  He had  been on the point of breaking the balls with his arm muscles to release  the gas.
  "Just one more trick," said the box of a man, "and  it'll be too bad for you."
  The box of a man, it was clear, was not nearly as  stupid as he looked.
  The two came close, but did so very carefully. Their  hands snaked into Doc's pockets, ran over his person.
  The hands brought  nothing to light.
  "Huh!" grunted the box of a man. "He don't even  carry a gun."
  "Don't let that fool you," muttered the other.
  They made gestures with a plain meaning. Doc Savage  turned, walked toward the control cabin. The guns
  made twin pressures  against his back. He reached the control room, stepped inside.
  A giant fire−cracker seemed to go off on top of his  head.
  IT WAS ONE of the few times when the bronze man came  close to being taken completely by surprise. The
  fact that he was so  nearly deceived was probably due to the noise of the dirigible's  engines. This covered
  most of the sounds which the box of a man made as  he clubbed with his gun. Not all of them, however.
  Doc moved enough to evade much of the blow's force.  He went down because that is what they would expect
  him to do, but he  did not go entirely flat. While still slightly above the floor, he  seemed to explode.
  Spinning, Doc Savage got one of the box man's legs.  He jerked. The fellow went down; but the manner of his
  descent  furnished a surprise.
  The box man was a wizard with his strength. He was  uncanny. Not only did he have terrible strength, but he
  knew how to do  fantastic things with his hands; and he was only a little slower than  chain lightning.
  The box man landed full on top of Doc Savage, and  his blunt, stubby fingers were instantly in the bronze
  man's neck,  exerting horrible pressure on certain particular nerves and spinal  segments. His legs went around
  Doc's middle in a peculiar scissors  which completely stopped breathing.
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  33
  
  Doc Savage's hand gripped the man's head, twisted it  one way, then the other, so rapidly that the fellow could
  not get  strain in it, then roared bull fashion; but the fellow's neck muscles  had surprising strength.
  The fellow hit Doc, a very scientific blow which  brought pin points of light into the bronze man's gold flaked
  eyes.
  Doc got hit again.
  The bronze man wilted. The tenseness went out of his  body and arms, and his head sank until his arms
  touched the floor.
  The box man looked very glad and his grip did not  relax. He hit again and again. Then he got Doc's throat,
  and for long  moments he kept his position, squeezing, legs crushing. Finally, he  began to relax, sensing
  victory, and a slow grin slit his square  dumb−looking countenance.
  "I guess I ain't so bad," he gloated between labored  breaths.
  His legs loosened and he started to lift himself  from Doc Savage's limp body.
  Then the bronze volcano exploded. As if he had been  a mere featherweight, the box man felt himself tossed
  into the air,  slammed down with a headlock, lifted and whirled in what is commonly  known as an airplane
  spin, a very dangerous predicament in which to be,  crashed to the floor.
  Doc Savage did not stand and watch. He flashed for  the small man. The latter had been an observer, a gleeful
  one at first,  a discomfited one now. He was trying to get his gun into action.
  The little gunman was canny, much more canny than it  appeared on the surface, as it later developed.
  The fellow dropped his gun, spun and ran. He got out  of the control room, banged the door behind him.
  Doc did not pursue him. There was a very good reason  for that. The box man had only been resting,
  recovering from his dazed  condition. He was on his feet, roaring, berserk. The fellow charged,  closed with
  Doc Savage and began to use more of his innumerable tricks.
  THERE HAD BEEN method in the flight of the box man's  small companion; but there were no observers to
  note that. The lean,  evil−faced fellow had climbed upward to a spot immediately above the  control cabin
  where there was a second cubicle which held the apparatus  that conditioned the air in the control rooms.
  The man produced a flashlight. He seemed not  unfamiliar with machinery as he worked his way through the
  banks of  mechanism, stopping beside the battery of tubes which carried the air  into and out of the cabins
  below.
  The small man began to work with valves. In a moment  the man had shut off the oxygen supply.
  He hurriedly retraced his way toward the control  cabin. 
  In the cabin, Doc Savage and the box of a man were  still at it. That the bronze man was up against a very
  accomplished  opponent was evident in several bruises which he now carried. His skin  was broken in a place
  or two.
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  Chapter 6. ATTACK IN THE AIR
  34
  
  But the box of a man was growing weak at the knees.  Shoulders hunched to protect his jaws, he sidled back
  and forth,  striving to escape the bronze man rather than approach him. His thick  arms darted out repeatedly.
  There was still speed in them.
  Unexpectedly, Doc caught the fellow's wrists,  yanked, and the man came toward him helplessly. The blocky
  man grasped  wildly at his opponent. The next instant he was giving an excellent  imitation of an attempt to
  stand on his own face on the floor. He never  did know by just what process he had been tripped, up−ended in
  that  fashion.
  The squarish fellow rolled over. He was whipped. He  made no effort to get to his feet.
  Doc Savage watched warily, as if suspecting a trick.  He was breathing more rapidly than usual, which was
  another thing that  showed how strenuous the scrap had been. His physical condition was  excellent.
  So slowly that it was almost imperceptible, the  bronze man's face began to change expression. His lips
  seemed to set  more firmly together. For a moment, a small weird sound was audible  over the moan of the
  engines in their special enclosed compartments. It  was very vague this sound, a trilling, an uncanny note, one
  which  defied description, except that perhaps it might be likened to the  exotic noise of a wind filtering
  through a tropical forest.
  The bronze man took two rapid strides toward the  controls. Then his knees collapsed slowly. He went to the
  floor. 
  He fell almost directly before the instrument panel,  one dial on which registered the air condition. The needle
  on the  oxygen portion of this dial was over on the red section, which meant  dangerously low.
  Back in the cabin there was a great clamor, a  beating of fists on metal, howling and shouting. Monk and Ham
  had been  aroused; but they had found themselves locked in their compartments and  the doors were solid.
  The blocky man's small, wizened companion appeared,  gliding toward Doc Savage's prone form. The fellow
  now wore his small  oxygen supplying device. The man made sure Doc Savage was unconscious.  Then he
  listened to the uproar Monk and Ham were making. That seemed to  cause him to become uneasy.
  The box man, the terrific fighter, was lying  motionless, gasping a little. The small fellow walked over, drew a
  revolver, and quite casually knocked his associate senseless.
  THE SMALL MAN got binoculars, peered downward  through the survey port in the bottom of the control
  cabin. There were  lights below, slightly ahead. The fellow seemed to recognize them. He  grinned thinly, and
  immediately went to the radio apparatus.
  The man was no stranger to radio, his movements  proved. He studied the outfit briefly. Then, without
  hesitation, he  turned the proper knobs, got the transmitter and receiver in operation.  He took his mouth from
  his oxygen apparatus to speak into a small  microphone.
  "Reporting," he said calmly.
  He turned to a certain wave−length on which there  must have been a listener. For there was no wait, no
  preamble whatever.
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  Chapter 6. ATTACK IN THE AIR
  35
  
  "Report," said a voice over the receiver.
  "Message to the Inca in Gray," said the small man  over the radio. "White Legionnaire number two reporting
  capture of Doc  Savage's dirigible."
  That was all. He waited. Several moments passed.  Monk and Ham still made a great deal of noise trying to
  get out of  their cabins, but failing. As a matter of fact, those cabins had been  constructed with the idea that
  they possibly might serve as prison  cells on occasion. Escape from them was almost impossible.
  A message came over the radio. It was not in  English, that message, but in a code which would have been
  absolutely  unintelligible to a listener. The small man in the dirigible, however,  seemed to understand
  perfectly.
  "Message to Inca in Gray," he said finally.  "Instructions understood."
  He shut off the radio apparatus, arose from the  desk, and again examined Doc Savage. The bronze giant's
  chest was not  moving. He seemed to be lifeless. Showing a callous indifference, the  small man paid no
  attention to his late companion, the burly fellow  whom he had cracked over the head.
  Running now, the small man made for the portion of  the dirigible where they had hidden themselves since the
  craft had left  New York. From a spot where it had been concealed among the girders,  the fellow hauled out a
  bundle, and this, it developed, held two  articles.
  One of the articles was a bomb.
  The other was a parachute.
  The man carried the bomb, scrambled downward, sought  out the most vital part of the ship, exactly
  amidships. He placed his  bomb, showing some knowledge of explosives in the act. A clockwork  detonator
  was attached to the infernal machine. The man set this. Then  he fled.
  His hands trembled with haste as he fastened the  parachute harness. Then he all but fell down into the control
  cabin.  Light, non−shatterable glass extended all around the control cabin  floor. Most of it was immovable;
  but there were sections on either side  which could be raised, hatch fashion. The man worked at one of these,
  got it open.
  Cold air, air many degrees below zero, rushed into  the ship. The man shivered. The man thought of
  something, leered and  hurriedly opened the other hatches. He had made it three to one that  Doc Savage and
  the others would die. There was a lack of oxygen, the  bomb, and this cold, which would soon freeze them.
  The man hesitated and then calmly stepped through  one of the open hatches, counted the usual ten seconds
  very carefully,  then pulled the ring of the rip cord. The chute sprouted whitely above  him.
  He fell very rapidly, and the clouds which had at  first seemed nearly carpet smooth became rugose, nodular, a
  forest of  bulbs and clefts of vapor.
  Off ahead a short distance the clouds ended. Beyond  these, so small as to be barely distinguishable, more of a
  blur than a  definite array of dots, were the lights of Alcala, capital of Santa  Amoza.
  The clouds followed the man descending by parachute.  The fellow was cold, stiff, in fact.
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  36
  
  The man had been trying to glance upward, but he had  long ago lost sight of the airship. Minutes passed.
  Again and again he  stared upward. He seemed to be waiting for something.
  The something, judging from his intense attitude,  was slow in coming. The fellow looked worried. A frown
  of concern  grooved his forehead.
  Suddenly it came. There was a flash, distinctly  lighting the clouds about him. Following that, some moments
  later,  there was a sound remindful of a great crack and whoop and gobble of  thunder. Echoes of that
  tremendous report romped through the cloud bank.
  The man in the parachute seemed satisfied. He sighed.
  He made an expert landing in a patch of tall brush  which scratched him somewhat. He disengaged himself
  from the parachute  in a great hurry. Then he scuttled away.
  Chapter 7. AN OFFER TO SURRENDER
  SOUNDS OF THAT titanic explosion in the sky were  heard over the entire city of Alcala. It caused some
  thousands of  people to promptly rush to their bomb−proof cellars. For aërial bombing  raids were not
  unknown in Alcala. Others of the populace swarmed into  the streets, these being sold to curiosity exceeding
  the demands of  safety and good sense. They stared at the sky, hoping to see the  spectacle of an air raid.
  The observers saw what seemed to be great streamers  of flame dropping through the sky, flaming fragments
  falling toward the  earth from a tremendous height perhaps. These burned themselves out  long before they
  reached the ground. Searchlights around Alcala pointed  lean white fingers into the sky, and waved about
  hungrily, trying to  locate possible raiding planes from Delezon. Anti−aircraft guns barked  a few times. Quiet
  finally returned.
  Under cover of the excitement, however, certain  sinister movements had been going on. Various men who
  always kept to  the darkness and took great pains that their faces should not be seen  had been moving toward a
  certain common spot. It was not difficult for  them to move about undiscovered for Alcala, after that first
  explosion,  had been promptly darkened in anticipation of an air raid. 
  Almost in the shadow of the rather impressive  presidential palace of President Carcetas the meeting occurred.
  The  spot was the deserted home of a certain wealthy man who had been in  sympathy with the enemy country
  of Delezon and had found it wise to  flee some two years previously. Except for a muttering of passwords
  there was no other sound as the men met.
  Eventually, however, there was a stir of activity, a  muttering.
  "The master comes," some one whispered.
  "The Inca in Gray," another breathed.
  A moment later, their sinister master stood among  them. No fosforos, the little paraffin matches popular in
  Santa  Amoza, were struck. Nor did any one thumb on a flashlight. To have done  so would probably have
  meant prompt shooting or a knife, and it would  have disclosed nothing anyway.
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  37
  
  The Inca in Gray was disguised simply and  effectively. A long shroud of gray cloth, so dark a gray that it was
  almost black, encased the figure from head to foot. There were no  eyeholes, but the cloth of the hood was
  thinner so that the eyes inside  could peer out through the fabric.
  The Inca in Gray spoke in a voice that was  painstakingly altered so as to be unrecognizable.
  "Has White Legionnaire number two arrived?" was the  question.
  The small man who had left the bomb in Doc Savage's  dirigible now stepped forward and identified himself.
  He launched  immediately into a description of his feat.
  "There was T.N.T. in that bomb," he finished,  speaking Spanish with the difficulty of a man who has just
  learned it.  "You can take all of that airship that they'll find and put it in your  eye."
  The Inca in Gray was ominously silent.
  "A little more respect in your manner, please," said  the voice back of the hood.
  Although the voice of the disguised master mind was  excellently disguised, a close listener might have
  detected one  possibility. The English which the being spoke was better than the  Spanish. The English words
  came more freely.
  The assembled followers of the Inca in Gray seemed  to know what they were there for. No orders were given.
  The Inca in Gray simply said, "We will act now,  señors."
  The meeting dispersed.
  THE SINISTER cloaked figure of the Inca in Gray  appeared alongside the presidential palace shortly
  afterward. There  were no lights, but sentries could be heard shifting back and forth in  the darkness.
  The Inca in Gray listened to the sounds the sentries  made. Some moments of this was sufficient to furnish an
  excellent idea  of the beats the fellows patrolled. The vague form that was the Inca in  Gray scuttled forward.
  Santa Amoza had been at war a long time; and war  means that political leaders must take more than the
  average  precautions against an assassination. President Carcetas had, as a move  to protect the life of his
  daughter, caused a tall, thick screen of  shrubbery to be thrown up around the palace verandas.
  Pretty Señorita Anita Carcetas was at this moment  resting herself on a veranda, where she not only was
  hidden from the  street, but from any one in the palace grounds as well. The young woman  was reading the
  local newspapers which were filled with the usual  claims that Santa Amoza had the enemy, Delezon,
  practically whipped.
  The young woman actually considered herself  perfectly safe. If she heard a faint sound behind her, she
  dismissed it  as being made by a servant. A large pad of cloth was over her mouth  before she was aware of
  danger. The cloth was saturated and reeking  with a well known hospital anaesthetic. The young woman
  struggled  furiously. She could not see her captor. She kicked backward, contacted  shins.
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  38
  
  For a moment she got her face free of the wet cloth.  She emitted piercing screams, and, because she had
  gotten a glimpse at  the grim covering of her assailant, she jumped at a correct conclusion.
  "The Inca in Gray!" she screamed. "Help!"
  Then her attacker got the soaked cloth back over her  nostrils, lifted her and carried her way. The anaesthetic
  had her  senseless before she had been taken far.
  EXCITEMENT RAN like fire through the presidential  palace. Sentries dashed about. An attempt was made
  to turn the lights  on, but it was discovered the power lines had been cut. The enforced  darkness only
  increased the confusion.
  President Carcetas of Santa Amoza dashed out of his  private office. He asked questions of an excited sentry
  "Señorita Anita—"
  "Carried away," the soldier blurted.
  President Carcetas became very pale at that.
  "Stop this wild dashing about," he roared in  Spanish. "Order all streets in the vicinity of the presidential
  palace  blocked. Have squads of soldiers search the houses. Notify the police.  Quickly!"
  The soldiers scurried away.
  President Carcetas moved to the left wing of the  presidential palace and soon stopped in front of a closed
  door. He  lifted his hand and knocked, got no answer, knocked again. His black  eyebrows ran up on his
  forehead. He hesitated, then turned the knob and  entered.
  At first glance, it appeared the room was vacant.  Sheets and blankets had been thrown back from the bed, as
  if had been  slept in. A taboret near the head of the bed was upset. A glass of  water that had been on it had
  wetted the carpet.
  A groan sounded. It was muffled.
  President Carcetas's eyebrows ran down, then up, and  he sprang forward, hot lights in his piercing eyes. He
  sank beside the  bed, looked under it, and a moment later pulled a bound figure into  view. The fellow was
  gagged, but removal of this speech impediment took  only a moment.
  The bound man who had been under the bed was long  and lean. The hair on his bullet−shaped head was close
  cropped.
  The man was Count Hoffe, munitions salesman. His  presence at the presidential palace was no mystery.
  President Carcetas  of Santa Amoza had been placing a new order for munitions, and terms  had needed
  discussing. Hence, Count Hoffe had remained at the palace  for the night.
  "What happened?" President Carcetas demanded.
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  39
  
  Count Hoffe groaned. An ugly bump showed on the side  of his head. One of his eyes was all but closed, and a
  small stream of  scarlet crawled from one nostril.
  "A sinister figure in a gray cloak was creeping  through my room." Count Hoffe explained. "When I
  awakened, he struck me  down."
  "Did you see the face of this assailant?" Carcetas  asked.
  Count Hoffe hesitated, moistened his lips.
  "I did."
  "Who was it?" President Carcetas barked.
  "The information will not be pleasant," Count Hoffe  mumbled. "It will be a shock,"
  "Who was your attacker?" the chief executive of  Santa Amoza requested grimly.
  "Ace Jackson," said Count Hoffe.
  PRESIDENT CARCETAS was genuinely shocked, it was  plain. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened.
  "Ace Jackson," he said grimly. "Are you sure?"
  Count Hoffe nodded painfully. "I am sure."
  "But Ace Jackson is lying in the hospital badly  burned," reminded President Carcetas. "He could walk only a
  few paces."
  Count Hoffe was free of the fastening rope now. He  sat on the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands.
  "You might have the hospital called to see if Ace  Jackson is still there," he suggested.
  President Carcetas barked an order. One of his many  secretaries immediately got in touch with the hospital
  where Ace  Jackson had been confined. The secretary came scampering back with a  surprised look on his face.
  "Ace Jackson is gone," he said.
  "Now we know the identity of the Inca in Gray,"  Count Hoffe growled.
  President Carcetas said nothing in reply. He seemed  to be too deeply stricken for words.
  The section of the city in which the presidential  palace stood was now in an uproar. Machine guns had been
  erected in the  streets. Lines of soldiers blocked the thoroughfares. No one was  allowed to enter or leave.
  Squads of soldiers were searching houses regardless  of whether the occupants wanted it or not. President
  Carcetas dashed  here and there. He waved his arms; he shrieked. His demeanor was  altogether that of a man
  on the verge of going to pieces.
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  Chapter 7. AN OFFER TO SURRENDER
  40
  
  This was surprising. President Carcetas was  ordinarily a taciturn man who kept his temper. Ordinarily, he
  never  flew into rages, and because he kept his head level his decisions were  usually just. This was what made
  him probably the most genuinely  respected president Santa Amoza had ever had.
  Now, however, President Carcetas was a different  man. The seizing of his daughter had done that. If he
  remained in his  present condition, he would be unfit to guide the destinies of the  republic. He was, in fact,
  liable to commit all kinds of blunders.
  "Why should the Inca in Gray seize my daughter?" he  screamed repeatedly.
  Count Hoffe took pains to shake his own head  sorrowfully. If he had any ideas on the subject, he did not
  voice them.
  President Carcetas snapped frightfully at those who  tried to comfort him; even when an officer brought a
  sentry who claimed  he saw a strange figure escaping the grounds.
  "Did you see the individual's face?" roared  President Carcetas.
  "I am not sure," spoke the sentry. "But I think—"
  "You think what?" Carcetas was frankly frantic.
  "I think it was Señor Don Kurrell, the oil man,"  said the sentry.
  THE EFFECT of the soldier's words was that of a  minor explosion. Ominous mutters went up.
  Count Hoffe, disbelief on his militaristic features,  shouted, "That must be a mistake! It must have been Ace
  Jackson!"
  "It resembled—Don Kurrell," insisted the sentry.
  If President Carcetas had been imitating a madman  before, he put much more zest in the performance now.
  He all but bowled  his chief of staff over, shouting, "Get Don Kurrell! Have him brought  here at once!"
  Soldiers scampered out, entered fast official cars,  and these roared away. It was well known that Don Kurrel
  maintained a  suite in Alcala's finest hotel.
  Within twenty minutes, the officer in charge of the  soldiers sent to get Don Kurrell telephoned. He was
  speaking from  Kurrell's hotel.
  "Don Kurrell has not been seen all evening," he  reported.
  President Carcetas went into a fresh spasm at this.  He ordered guards all over the city quadrupled. He
  directed that the  airport be watched, the trains be searched, that all automobiles be  stopped and thoroughly
  examined.
  Official cars had been making a great deal of noise  in their going and coming, but this was nothing to the
  uproar of sirens  which now accompanied the arrival of an expensive foreign limousine,  trailed by four
  military automobiles bearing a personal bodyguard of  soldiers. There was a coat of arms on the foreign
   DUST OF DEATH
  Chapter 7. AN OFFER TO SURRENDER
  41
  
  limousine for every  one to see and thereby know who rode within.
  Señor Junio Serrato, minister of war, commander in  chief of the armies of Santa Amoza, was the man who
  was second in power  to President Carcetas. War minister Serrato's face wore a worried look  as he alighted
  and dashed into the presidential palace.
  He got a jarring greeting from President Carcetas.
  "Where have you been?" howled the chief executive of  Santa Amoza. "When I need you, you are not around!"
  "Shut up!" said war minister Serrato, with equal  brusqueness. "Read this. It was shoved under the door of my
  home."
  Serrato presented a folded paper for the other's  inspection.
  To be delivered to President Carcetas:
  Your daughter is by now in my hands. In the room  next to her a firing squad will be oiling rifles. Whether or
  not the  girl stands before this firing squad depends on President Carcetas. If  Santa Amoza surrenders to
  Delezon, the girl will be released unharmed.  If there is no surrender, she will, I can assure you, be shot.
  General Fernanez Vigo,
  Dictator General of Delezon.
  President Carcetas' hands seemed to die in a limp  way. The paper dropped from his hands to the floor.
  "Vigo—has—Anita!" he gasped.
  War minister Serrato, his Latin handsomeness  somewhat stark, made a grim mouth. He rubbed a fingernail
  over the thin  line of his black mustache.
  "What moves shall we make?" he asked.
  President Carcetas drew himself up. He was very pale  as if about to faint.
  "Order an unconditional surrender immediately!" he  snapped.
  War minister Serrato's mustache jerked a little.  Determination came over his face, settled there so heavily that
  it made  his features almost ugly.
  "No!" he snarled. "Santa Amoza will never surrender!"
  TENSION CAME into the room, a tension which was as  real and which affected every one as if it had been a
  cold wind. There  were present a number of old generals who had been through revolutions  before the day of
  President Carcetas. These canny old fellows drew to  one side and dropped hands to the guns which they wore
  at their belts.  They became expectant, tense.
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  42
  
  President Carcetas was glaring at war minister  Serrato. The chief executive of Santa Amoza looked
  somewhat stunned,  and, for a moment, his calmness was almost deadly.
  "You heard my orders," he said grimly. "We  surrender."
  "I heard your orders," minister Serrato told him.  "We do not surrender!"
  President Carcetas blew up.
  "You are no longer a war minister!" He turned to the  soldiers and screamed, "Arrest this man!"
  The officers present had obeyed President Carcetas  for a long time. Habit got the best of them. They moved
  forward.
  War minister Junio Serrato drew himself up. His  little mustache was a straight line, and he now made a
  speech that went  down in Santa Amoza history.
  "Wait!" he said. "The future of Santa Amoza depends  on what we do within the next few moments. The
  situation which  confronts you has behind it, I believe, more than meets the eye. I  refer, of course, to the
  sinister depredations of this mysterious fiend  known as the Inca in Gray."
  War minister Serrato paused to look over the  assemblage. They had stopped, were listening to him.
  "The Inca in Gray has seized Señorita Anita  Carcetas," Serrato continued quietly. "There was a purpose
  behind that  seizure, a purpose that is plain. The purpose is about to be  accomplished. President Carcetas is a
  man whom we all love and revere  and respect, but he is not himself now. He is a man driven insane by
  danger threatening the one he loves. I do not censure him for that. No  one can. But I do not think you, the
  generals who have fought with me,  or I, should permit the surrender of Santa Amoza. For that is obviously
  the thing the Inca in Gray intended to happen."
  That was all he said, but it was enough to make the  others think. It was a crucial moment. President Carcetas
  did the thing  which really swayed the course of action.
  Waving his arms, screaming shrilly, President  Carcetas shouted, "Santa Amoza must surrender! The life of
  my daughter  depends upon it!"
  That decided the assembled generals. Thousands of  men had already died in the war. It was a terrible decision
  which  confronted them, but they, as soldiers, saw their way clear. The life  of one person, even of attractive
  Señorita Anita Carcetas, must not  lose everything for Santa Amoza.
  President Carcetas was seized. They carried him,  screaming, gibbering to a secluded portion of the
  presidential palace.
  Señor Junio Serrato looked on quietly. If there was  elation in his heart, he hid it. He did not look like a man
  who had  just become actual ruler of Santa Amoza.
  Count Hoffe, munitions salesman, had been an obscure  onlooker. Count Hoffe had taken pains to stand well
  in the rear, but it  was purely by chance he positioned himself near a tapestry. He had paid  no attention to that
  tapestry. When a voice now reached his ears, he  did not, at first, realize it was coming from behind the
  hanging.
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  Chapter 7. AN OFFER TO SURRENDER
  43
  
  "You have just witnessed a rather unusual  revolution," said the voice, which was low and cultured. "Should
  war  minister Junio Serrato himself be the Inca in Gray, he could not have  planned more skillfully. By this one
  stroke, he has made himself all  powerful in Santa Amoza."
  Now this speech was one which might well prove not  to be the healthiest of utterances. Men have been shot
  for less.
  Count Hoffe turned to see who had spoken. His eyes  flew wide. He actually jumped some inches off the floor.
  "Doc Savage!" he squawked.
  Chapter 8. SABOTAGE
  COUNT HOFFE'S shout was very loud and very  surprised. It promptly drew all eyes to the giant bronze man
  who had  just stepped from behind the tapestry, which, incidentally, covered a  window that admitted to the
  palace grounds.
  No one said anything for several moments. Perhaps  the silence was due in part to the impressive presence of
  the bronze  man. For, as he stood there, his giant size, the strange power in his  flake gold eyes, his
  combination of bronze skin and slightly darker  bronze hair, were very impressive.
  War minister Junio Serrato stepped forward. His thin  mustache warped a smile. He executed a brisk bow.
  "Santa Amoza is honored," he said. "May we hope that  you had an interesting trip down?"
  "It proved to be interesting enough," Doc Savage  said dryly.
  War minister Serrato caught the double meaning,  promptly demanded, "What do you mean?"
  Doc Savage was a student of human nature, and knew a  great deal about the most effective methods of going
  about obtaining  his ends. A frank statement of his position frequently avoided  misunderstanding and
  difficulties. So he told exactly what had happened  including the attempt on his life in New York and ending
  with the  dirigible flight southward after he had learned Long Tom was missing.  He described the fight in the
  dirigible. That part was interesting.
  The airship control cabin, it seemed, was equipped  with emergency oxygen apparatus, which went into
  operation  automatically when the main source of supply failed. The emergency  equipment had saved Doc
  Savage's life. In fact, he had only been  unconscious for a brief period, reviving in time to observe the small
  man leaping with the parachute.
  A hasty search had located the bomb, and it had  required no great skill to disconnect the clockwork
  mechanism so that  the infernal machine would not explode.
  "We carried the thing to a hatch, reset the clock  mechanism and tossed it overboard," Doc explained. "It went
  off in the  air, far below us. That was to lead the would−be killer to think his  plot had succeeded."
  "Where is your dirigible?" war minister Serrato  asked. 
   DUST OF DEATH
  Chapter 8. SABOTAGE
  44
  
  "In the stratosphere above Alcala." Doc explained.  "It seemed advisable to let our mysterious enemies think
  we were dead.  An auxiliary plane brought me down to earth. Monk and Ham are with the  dirigible."
  "You say you employed—an auxiliary plane?" War  minister Serrato seemed puzzled.
  "A very small craft carried inside the dirigible,"  Doc told him. "Not a new procedure, as you may know."
  "Where did you leave the plane?" the other queried.
  "At a small airport west of the city," Doc replied.
  War minister Serrato smiled slightly, but without  humor. "You got past the presidential palace guards quite
  easily."
  "They nearly caught me several times," Doc  corrected. 
  Serrato seemed to be considering that. When it  became apparent that he was to have nothing more to say on
  the subject,  Doc Savage spoke.
  "Long Tom—Major Thomas J. Roberts," the bronze man  reminded. "His whereabouts is the most important
  thing to me at  present."
  War minister Serrato looked grim at that, his  mustache an upside down arc. "We have, as you might expect,
  an  espionage system in the enemy country of Delezon."
  Doc Savage's flake gold eyes were steady. "And your  spies have reported what?"
  "That Señor Long Tom Roberts was yesterday shot as a  spy," Serrato said.
  DOC SAVAGE'S expression, strangely enough, did not  alter in the slightest at that; but a moment after he
  had heard the  news concerning Long Tom, there was a sound in the room, a small eerie  mysterious sound, a
  trilling. It might have been the note of some  fantastic tropical songster, so vague that it all but defied
  recognition, and possessed of a ventriloquial quality which made it  seem to come from everywhere. It trailed
  up and down some vagrant scale  of its own and died away.
  "This report was reliable?" he asked.
  "Quite," war minister Serrato nodded. "There's not  the slightest doubt."
  "Tell me what you know of this Inca in Gray," the  bronze man suggested abruptly.
  War minister Serrato blinked, then replied. The  bronze man listened silently to the review of the sometimes
  rather  horrible activities which were delineated. The tale told a very  definite story of its own. Time after time
  the Inca in Gray had smashed  offensives which had seemed certain to give victory to Santa Amoza.
  "That makes it seem as if the Inca in Gray were a  representative of your enemy, Delezon," Doc suggested.
  War minister Serrato nodded his head. "We have  thought so, but there has never been proof."
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  45
  
  Doc Savage said nothing more, but turned toward the  door.
  "What do you plan?" Serrato demanded.
  "A visit to General Fernanez Vigo, general dictator  of Delezon," Doc Savage said.
  The other's thin mustache was a rapidly bending  line. "But—"
  "General Vigo executed Long Torn," Doc said quietly.  There was no rage in the bronze man's voice, no
  crashing wrath; but the  controlled tones held something else, held a quality so chilling, so  determined that
  war minister Serrato took a step backward. He bowed.
  "The facilities of Santa Amoza are at your  disposal," he said.
  "Thank you." The bronze man hesitated. "My  preference is to work alone."
  He stepped through the same window by which he had  arrived, and, although there were guards in the
  grounds, and in the  surrounding streets, his departure was undiscovered. The bronze man was  a master of
  stealth, a wizard at going places without being seen.
  There were a few lights along the streets of Alcala  now. The night was hot, and even a military edict could
  not keep doors  shut and windows shuttered. Even an excellent system of  street−lighting, however, would not
  have made the avenues of Alcala,  especially in the poorer section, easily traversed after nightfall.  Over in the
  old town, on the west side, streets were all narrow, and,  more often than not, rough, some lined with débris.
  Could an observer have noted the progress of the  bronze man, that person would perhaps have sworn that
  Doc had the eyes  of a cat. As a matter of fact, the bronze man possessed something  better than that.
  He wore goggles of peculiar construction—they had  lenses complex, fully as large as condensed−milk cans.
  In one hand he  carried a box of a device which resembled an oversized magic lantern.  The lens of this was
  very large and almost intensely black. It seemed  to give off no light—which was deceptive. The box was a
  lantern for the  projection of light rays outside the visible spectrum, and the goggles,  amazingly complex,
  made it possible for the bronze man to see with this  unusual light.
  Hence, although he traveled through what was  apparently intense darkness, he could actually see with fair
  distinctness what went on about him.
  Running easily, he sped through the streets, dodging  obstructions, making fast time toward the small airport
  on the  outskirts of the city. He was careful to keep clear of pedestrians, and  when he saw cars coming he
  ducked into darkened doorways.
  He reached the airport. He came on the scene  silently, using the "black light" lantern. That accounted for the
  fact  that he took a number of men by surprise.
  THERE WERE seven of them. They wore civilian  garments, and it was necessary to no more than look at
  them to  understand why they wore such clothing. A recruiting officer, even in  war time, would hesitate to
  pass such ugly looking specimens as these.
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  They drew near the plane. Without seeming to change  his stride, Doc Savage's speed increased. He made no
  noise. Although he  could see clearly, there was intense darkness around the little  airport, and the eyes of the
  men, of course, failed to register the  presence of the black light.
  Doc Savage closed in on the rearmost. He could hear  them talking.
  "Hurry, amigos," the one who seemed to be in  charge was saying. "There is little time."
  "Why does the Inca in Gray wish the plane  destroyed?" one muttered.
  "That is the question of a child," sniffed the  other. "Have you not heard of the aërial push against Delezon,
  which  Ace Jackson this afternoon ordered from his hospital bed?"
  "I heard many planes in the air," one grunted.
  "There are no other aircraft in Alcala for Doc  Savage to use," said the first speaker. "Hence, if we destroy this
  ship, he will have to remain in Alcala."
  That was not all Doc Savage would have preferred to  hear, but they were starting to wreck the ship. That
  would have to be  stopped. The bronze man drove out a beam of an arm. A man moaned,  dropped under the
  blow.
  Doc Savage picked up the fallen fellow as though he  were weightless, and whirled him, club fashion. When
  he released him,  two more men were bowled over.
  Doc Savage whipped backward, making no noise,  circling. He still held the black light lantern, but now he
  placed this  on the ground, its rays playing on the group about the plane. Then he  charged.
  A man tried to drag out a flashlight. Doc went to  him, clipped him alongside the temple. The fellow fell.
  The survivors were shouting, charging about madly,  falling over the fallen forms of their companions.
  One, by the rankest of good luck, got a grip around  Doc's neck. The bronze man reached back, grasped his
  assailant, whipped  him swiftly. The man screamed in the air. The shriek was ended with a  hollow, unpleasant
  sound as his body hit the ground.
  There were two survivors now, and they got  frightened. They put their heads back, their chests out, and ran.
  Nature probably invented fear as a stimulant to make her children move  swiftly when there is need to do so.
  These men were frightened, and  thought death was at their heels, and they probably ran faster than  they ever
  had before.
  Doc Savage was delayed a moment when one of the men  who had already gone down in the fight strove to
  get to his feet. He  sank when Doc Savage clipped his jaw, and remained down, only breathing  showing that
  he was alive.
  Doc Savage pursued the two who had fled. Fast as  these two traveled, Doc Savage was swifter. He did not,
  however, catch  them until they had covered all of two hundred yards. The breath was  coming out of their
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  47
  
  lungs with whistles like the barking of small dogs.
  He felled them as they ran by pulling up alongside  them and using his fists. The first sank easily. The second
  made a ball  out of himself and went head over heels with a loud slopping noise.
  Doc Savage was examining them when he heard a plane  motor roar into life.
  DOC SAVAGE straightened, listened. It was a plane,  certainly. Its roar was coming from back at the field.
  There was a bass  crash of power about the motor that enabled Doc to recognize it  instantly—his own plane!
  The bronze man ran toward the field. What had  happened was unexpected. The men he had left there, his
  assailants—six  out of the eight—would certainly still be senseless. He knew how hard  he had struck them.
  Doc was heading for the unusual lantern which  projected the black light, and which he had left on the ground
  at the  scene of the fight. He found it, picked it up, and twisted a rheostat  on it making the beam stronger.
  Ordinarily, he did not use it full  strength, because the small, powerful batteries would be quickly  exhausted.
  He doubled around shrubbery, raced through a clump of palm  trees, and the invisible rays from his lantern
  picked up the plane.
  The ship was in motion, traveling rather fast,  wavering a little uncertainly. Palm trees lined the opposite side
  of  the field. Straight for these the little all−metal craft scudded.
  With devastating force the ship hit the palms. Wings  snapped off. The motor left the craft and went on ahead
  like a bullet.  There was a spectacular crash, a whoosh! as the gasoline caught.  The flames spread, not only
  enwrapping what was left of the plane, but  climbing the palm trees and turning them into pillars of fire.
  Doc Savage did not go toward the ship; it was  ruined, of course.
  The bronze man had kept on running throughout the  whole thing. He merely changed his course now, veering
  toward the spot  where he had left the six unconscious men. His strange light device  picked them up an instant
  later. He counted, all six of them. They were  exactly as he had left them.
  But no! Not as he had left them. They had been alive.
  Now they were dead.
  Doc Savage was still using the black light. The  aspect of things, as viewed with this light was somewhat
  unnatural,  high−lights and shadows being more starkly emphasized; but it was  certain that the six were dead.
  There was something else also, a weird appearance of  the skin, a vague glow somewhat like
  phosphorescence. Doc Savage  switched off the light, removed the goggles, and extracted a small  flashlight
  from his clothing. He thumbed it on.
  The instant he looked at the six dead men his  strange trilling came into existence. The sound seemed smaller,
  more  eerie than ever, and it persisted only a moment.
  A grayish powder covered the hands, the faces of the  dead men. The stuff might have been an unclean dust.
  The mark of death by the hand of the Inca in Gray!
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  Doc Savage went swiftly to a knee. Reaching into a  pocket, he extracted an envelope, not an ordinary paper
  envelope, but  one of a varnished silk, both water and air proof.
  He did not touch the powder, but with blades of  grass brushed some of it into the envelope. He rolled the top
  of the  envelope tightly and fitted over it a metal clamp, which rendered it  air−tight. He pocketed this.
  He had been listening; and now he heard the sound he  had expected to hear. A man moving.
  DOC SAVAGE advanced toward the sound. He made no  effort to move noiselessly, but his progress was
  almost silent. His  keen ears caught the sound of more motion ahead of him. Some one was  creeping away.
  Doc donned the goggles, turned the infra−light  projector on again. The invisible rays—invisible to the
  unaided  eye—disclosed no one. The skulker was inside the undergrowth which  surrounded the field.
  Doc Savage decreased his speed slightly as he  entered the growth. That was necessary to maintain silence. He
  heard  his quarry more often. The fellow seemed to be moving faster,  attempting to get away from the vicinity.
  With a burst of speed that was a bit dazzling, had  there been light to observe it, Doc Savage shot forward. He
  discerned a  crouching, running figure. The marauder was quickly overhauled.
  The bronze man struck no blow. He merely grasped the  fugitive's arms just above the wrists, lifted the fellow
  and slammed  him to the hard ground.
  They remained thus an instant. Neither spoke.  Neither moved. Then Doc Savage transferred both the fellow's
  wrists to  the vise grip of one bronze hand, and with the other hand extracted his  electric flashlight and
  brushed off the goggles. He switched the flash  on.
  The captive was a tall angular mummy of bandages. He  had a face that looked as if it had gone through many
  a fight. His nose  was particularly flat, giving his countenance the aspect of an English  bulldog.
  The captive grinned widely.
  "I've heard a lot about you," he said. "An' I'll  tell the wide−eyed world that you live up to advance notices."
  "Who," Doc Savage asked, "are you?"
  "Ace Jackson," the prisoner said.
  Chapter 9. CRACK−UP
  DOC SAVAGE'S fingers, clamping the man's wrists, did  not loosen. The grip was tight and painful. The grin
  disappeared from  Ace Jackson's face and he writhed a little.
  "Take it easy," he requested. "After all, I'm  supposed to be an invalid."
  Doc Savage suddenly slapped Ace Jackson's arm and  chest lightly. He slapped numerous spots. Only twice
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  did the flyer  wince.
  "You are supposed to be very badly burned" Doc  Savage told him. "Actually, you seem to be in fair
  condition."
  Ace Jackson flushed, quite distinctly. He moistened  his lips; he wrinkled the flat nose that gave his face the
  bulldog  aspect.
  "Lookit," he muttered. "If you had a pretty girl who  came to see you every day and held your hand and stuff
  like, that  wouldn't a hospital look pretty good to you? Fact is I coulda been out  two weeks ago, but I been
  doing a little faking."
  Doc Savage said nothing, looked at the man. Ace  Jackson grinned wisely, plainly hoping his story would be
  believed.
  "That's straight," insisted the flyer. "But, for  gosh sake don't tell Anita."
  "What were you doing here?" Doc Savage asked  abruptly.
  "I was following a guy," said Ace Jackson.
  "Who?"
  "Don Kurrell," Ace Jackson grunted.
  "You suspect him, too?" Doc queried.
  "I'm a very suspicious guy," said Ace Jackson. "And  I suspect everybody. The plain nasty truth is I haven't
  got ideas  enough to suspect anybody in particular."
  "Granted that Don Kurrell is the Inca in Gray," Doc  Savage said, "what would be his motive?"
  "Plenty," said Ace Jackson. "He's an oil man. These  oil guys pull all kinds of stunts. He may have a deal with
  old General  Vigo of Delezon whereby, if Vigo whips Santa Amoza, Don Kurrell's  company gets oil
  concessions in the combined republics."
  "Any proof of that?" Doc asked.
  "Nope," Ace Jackson admitted. "But you never can  tell." 
  A hoarse scream sounded suddenly, startlingly. It  was wordless, but it did not need words. It was a plea for
  help. Ace  Jackson leaped erect, although his wrists were still in Doc Savage's  grip. They moved toward the
  source of the scream, and Doc Savage still  held the flyer.
  They could hear a body plunging through the  undergrowth, undoubtedly the one who had screamed. The
  fellow was  coming toward them. He came into view an instant later.
  He was a short plump man, and, when he saw them and  stopped, he did a small peculiar thing, evidently a
  habitual mannerism.  He drew himself up on tiptoes, as if to look taller.
  "Don Kurrell!" Ace Jackson barked.
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  DOC SAVAGE'S flake−gold eyes appraised Don Kurrell.  There was nothing particularly distinguishing
  about the small man who  represented a European oil concern, except his diminutive size and his  small efforts
  to make himself appear as large as other men.
  "What is wrong?" Doc Savage asked.
  Don Kurrell took hold of the bronze man's arm as if  to draw strength and encouragement from the contact.
  "You are Doc Savage?" he gasped. "I've heard much of  you, have seen your pictures."
  "What is wrong?" the bronze man repeated.
  "The Inca in Gray is trying to kill me," Kurrell  gulped.
  "Just now?" Doc queried.
  "Twice," Don Kurrell said rapidly. "Once at my  hotel, when I escaped. I started to go to the presidential
  palace, but  on the way I heard soldiers talking. I learned that I was suspected—the  Señorita Anita Carcetas
  had been kidnaped, and I was accused."
  When he heard the words stating that Señorita Anita  Carcetas had been kidnaped, Ace Jackson looked as if he
  had been struck  with a whip. He seemed too stunned to speak. If it was acting, it was  good.
  Don Kurrell continued rapidly, "I also overheard the  soldiers say that your plane was here. So I came to head
  you off to  talk with you. I need your help. I want you to clear me. I'm in deadly  danger."
  "Why should the Inca in Gray try to kill you?" Doc  Savage queried.
  "I do not know," Don Kurrell said. "That is  absolutely true. I do not know. And this other thing, this charge of
  making away with the girl. Why, they may shoot me on the mere  circumstantial evidence of that soldier's
  word that the man looked like  myself."
  Ace Jackson screamed suddenly, "Anita gone! You did  it!"
  The flyer wrenched free of Doc Savage and pitched  himself headlong at Don Kurrell. He was so much larger
  than the oil  representative, so much more of a fighter that he would have made short  shrift of his victim; but
  Doc Savage got between them, did things with  his arms and one leg, and Ace Jackson was suddenly flat on
  his back,  gasping for breath.
  Ace Jackson screamed, "Damn him! He's the Inca in  Gray!"
  SILENCE FOLLOWED that, an interval during which Ace  Jackson's hysterical shout seemed to echo
  through the night.
  Don Kurrell retreated a step as if the very force of  the accusation had knocked him back. Next he did a quite
  senseless  thing. He began to brush his bedraggled clothes. He was not trying to  make himself look tall now.
  He seemed very small, almost pitiful.
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  51
  
  "You—why I—" Suddenly he straightened. Up on his  tiptoes he went. He drove an arm out rigidly at Ace
  Jackson.
  "You!" he barked. "Why haven't I really thought of  you before?" Excitement made him almost inarticulate.
  "Meaning what?" Doc Savage asked abruptly.
  "Meaning that I should have thought of Ace Jackson  before," Don Kurrell snapped. "He is a paid war pilot, a
  mercenary, and  he always seems to be on or near the scene when the Inca in Gray is  active. He is the man
  who kills with the strange gray dust. He is the  man who had Señorita Anita Carcetas kidnaped. Ace Jackson
  is the Inca  in Gray!"
  Ace Jackson stood and took the accusation, but his  bulldog face was purpled and his mouth worked strangely.
  Doc Savage's flake−gold eyes missed no move of the  little tableau. If he believed one or the other of these
  two, his  expression betrayed no evidence of the fact.
  "Can either of you men prove your opinions?" Doc  asked.
  They only glared. It was plain they could not.
  Doc Savage grasped each by the arm and hurried them  through the undergrowth. They reached the spot
  where the other two  members of the party of eight, which Doc had overpowered, had been left.
  The two forms were still on the ground. Ace Jackson  looked at the pair and emitted a sharp gasp. Don
  Kurrell, looking also,  seemed to lose some inches of his hard−fought−for stature.
  The two were dead, horribly so. On all parts of  their exposed skin the grisly gray dust, which was the special
  mark of  the death of the Inca in Gray, lay filmed.
  Doc Savage separated Don Kurrell and Ace Jackson,  released them, then bent over the two bodies. There had
  been no time to  search the others, but there was opportunity to examine these. The  bronze man went over
  them carefully, wearing rubber gloves, which he  drew from a pocket, and which he carried for numerous
  purposes—handling  electric wires, leaving no fingerprints, working with chemicals.  Removal of the victims'
  clothing uncovered no marks that might have  brought death. Yet, their features were contorted, their eyes
  staring  and hideous. Death, when it had come upon them even while they were  unconscious, had been no
  pleasant thing.
  The examination took some time, and when it was  over, Doc Savage guided Don Kurrell and Ace Jackson
  back to the tarmac  of the flying field. There they all got a surprise.
  A flashlight blazed unexpectedly.
  "What seems to be happening here, Señor Savage?"  said a smooth voice.
  War minister Junio Serrato stepped from the shadows.  When Doc had last seen him, the war minister of Santa
  Amoza had been  neat and immaculate; but now he was somewhat disheveled. He had  perspired. He wore no
  coat. There was dirt on his shoes, and his hair,  and one trouser leg.
  The man evidently seemed to think some accounting  for his appearance was due.
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  "I came to the airport to see that you got away  safely," he said. "I saw the burning plane. I tried to extinguish
  the  flames, but unsuccessfully."
  Doc Savage did not nod. Nor yet did he show in any  way that he might disbelieve the story.
  "Your guards came with you?" the bronze man asked.
  "I came alone," said war minister Serrato. "It was  quicker."
  The manner in which he snapped out the words gave a  hint that the questioning was not exactly welcome.
  Doc Savage's metallic eyes sought the sky, which  seemed perceptibly lighter. Dawn was coming.
  "There are no planes at all available in Alcala?" he  murmured questioningly.
  "Correct." War minister Serrato scowled at Ace  Jackson. "This man ordered all planes to the front. He did so
  without  consulting me."
  Ace Jackson put out his jaw and said, "The air force  of Santa Amoza is a separate unit. That was my
  understanding when I  took it over. What I say goes, and I don't have to ask anybody."
  War minister Serrato smiled much too grimly and  said, "It is possible that arrangement will be changed."
  Ace Jackson snorted. He turned to Doc Savage.
  "There's one plane here," he said. "It ain't such a  hot bus. It's my old barnstorming Jenny that I flew up here
  in. But  it's here and you're welcome to it."
  "Take me to it," Doc Savage requested.
  The bronze man walked away from the others, went to  a clump of brush at the edge of the field. He took from
  the brush a  small bag which he had concealed there when he first arrived in his own  plane. Carrying the bag,
  Doc walked back to the others.
  War minister Serrato, it developed, had a car  waiting some distance away. They went to the machine and
  Serrato drove.
  Doc Savage rode in front, and shortly war minister  Serrato found occasion to lean over and whisper in his ear,
  "Don  Kurrell and Ace Jackson—each accused the other of being the Inca in  Gray. What do you wish done
  about that?"
  "Nothing," Doc Savage said.
  War minister Serrato swore expressively under his  breath and said, "If it is vaguely possible that either of
  those  señores is the Inca in Gray, I will have them both shot."
  "No" Doc Savage said.
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  DOC SAVAGE said nothing when he saw Ace Jackson's  old Jenny. Probably that indicated as much as
  anything that had gone  before just how great was the bronze man's self−control. The Jenny was  an airplane,
  although there might have been some who would have looked  at it and promptly made denial. In contrast to
  the sleek streamlining  of Doc's little ship that had been destroyed, this one gave the  impression of a slow
  moving and clumsy snail.
  In comparison with a modern fighting ship, this  crate looked as antique as the glorified kite with which the
  Wrights  had startled the world at Kittyhawk.
  Doc Savage checked the engine. It was old, but had  recently been overhauled. It might hold together. He put
  the small bag  behind the stick.
  There was nothing decrepit about the machine gun,  however. This was nearly new, and modern as they came,
  and the ammo  belts were fully charged. Doc removed the canvas cover and checked this  also. It was on a
  scarf ring. No Bowden control wires to rust out in  the tropical dampness. You simply pulled the trigger. It
  was not  synchronized to shoot through the prop.
  "With cowl guns sunk through the prop, you gotta aim  at your ship," Ace Jackson explained. "You're damn
  lucky to keep this  old hen in the air, much less aim her at anything."
  Ace Jackson whirled the prop. Doc shouted,  "Contact." The motor gave one loud bark and stopped. They
  tried again.  It caught, banged and whanged and shook the whole ship. Dust and leaves  fell off the wings.
  Doc Savage looked at the instrument panel. Bullets  had done for the altimeter some time in the past. The
  tachometer read  thirty−three hundred, which was obviously a lie. The oil gauge was  knocked out entirely.
  "You just smell of her," Ace Jackson explained.  "When she begins to stink, she's too hot. An' you look
  around for a  place to squat."
  "Pull the chocks," Doc Savage requested.
  Ace Jackson got the blocks from under the wheels. He  had to squall to make his voice heard over the motor
  racket.
  "Good luck!" he said.
  The ramshackle motor barked harder. The ship seemed  to try to shake itself to pieces, after which it moved
  forward,  gathered speed. Doc went forward with the stick, and began to think the  tail would never come up.
  Then the bus was off. Doc banked. The plane  went back over the little field, sounding like a boiler factory.
  Of those looking on, Ace Jackson alone knew that  they had just seen something of a miracle.
  "For the love of little billygoats!" Ace Jackson  gulped. "That guy's a wizard. He got her off with a fourth of
  the run I  usually have to take."
  That, coming from Ace Jackson, was a compliment  indeed.
  Doc Savage gave the throttle more notches, which, if  it did nothing else, made the motor more noisy. He held
  the stick back  in a steady climb. When Ace Jackson had said the old ship's ceiling was  enough to clear
  barbwire fences, he had exaggerated a little, but not  much.
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  Doc Savage glanced upward. But the light of dawn is  tricky. There were a few clouds. He failed to see his
  stratosphere  dirigible, which was not unexpected. The airship was probably up there  higher than any modern
  commercial plane could rise.
  Doc Savage experimented with the throttle. He lashed  the stick, climbed up and did things with the carburetor
  so that the  motor lost some of its racket and settled down to something vaguely  resembling a hum. Its
  performance now would have astounded the already  surprised Ace Jackson. The old ship had found its master.
  The craft also gathered more altitude. The sun came  up, and the height of the plane saved Doc from feeling
  the sudden  terrific heat that daylight brought; but he knew the tropics, and the  green jungle below was
  deceptive in its appearance of coolness.
  But the jungle did not extend far. Ahead there was  desert, spotted with scrawny bushes and out in that was a
  line of haze,  a vague transparent rope. Doc Savage had seen battle lines before. This  was the front. The haze
  was dust stirred up by big shells. Some of it  was the smoke of battle of which poets write. Before long he
  could  discern tiny lines dug into the blistering soil. The trenches.
  Unexpectedly, a rattling, snarling and jarring  sounded from the left wing bank of the ship. Doc looked.
  Splinters were  falling off the wing. Fabric was peeling back.
  He had seen that phenomena before, too. Machine−gun  bullets.
  THE BRONZE MAN was no stranger to bird battling  tactics. He acted before he looked, booting the rudder,
  slanting the  stick. His ancient chariot seemed to grunt and slide sideways. It got  out of the lead storm.
  Doc glanced upward then. Three planes were attacking  him. They had come out of the sun, and it was no
  reflection on his  ability that they had taken him unawares. The human eye is not made  that can look into the
  sun and pick up a plane.
  They were modern, foreign built, these attacking  ships. They came down like buzzing meteors. One held its
  course. The  other two angled out.
  If Ace Jackson's old Jenny had behaved surprisingly  well before, it began to perform miracles now. It rolled,
  went into a  slip, then a dive, and suddenly a perfect Immelmann turn. The three  attacking ships popped past
  while their pilots stared in surprise.
  Doc Savage looked closely at them. He saw enough to  tell him what he wanted to know. War planes of
  Delezon and Santa Amoza  would be marked. These carried no identification whatever.
  Doc took the right−hand ship. Out of its Immelmann  the old Jenny curled half over and seemed to wiggle
  itself into a  groove. Bronze lingers wrenched the machine gun around on its scarf  ring. A little redbird
  seemed to perch on its muzzle and sing with a  voice of thunder. Every fifth bullet was a tracer. That helped;
  but it  did not account for the wizardry of the shooting. Only iron nerve,  alloyed muscles and much practice
  could account for that.
  Motor cowling fell off the enemy ship. The propeller  lost a blade, only one blade, which was more
  unfortunate for a ship  with a racing motor. It tore itself from its mount, or almost so,  before the pilot could
  shut it off. It hung like a thick scab on the  snout of the plane as the craft gyrated downward. The pilot lost
  control, then regained it. He should be able to manage a landing he  could walk away from.
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  55
  
  The outcome of the scrap surprised the other two  planes. Doc Savage was close to them before they could get
  their wits  together. They banked furiously, evaded him. Their ships had cowl guns.  That was a handicap,
  perhaps not in ordinary bird battling, but  certainly against a marksman of the bronze man's ability.
  The two ships flew side by side while the pilots  thought of ways and means. Then Doc Savage did something
  that looked  foolish. He executed a manoeuvre that put him directly ahead of the two  planes, below them. All
  they had to do was dive, riddle him.
  They sloped down to get their meat. The pilots were  excited, eager. There was a moment when they could not
  see the Jenny,  the old ship being below the noses of their war craft. During that  moment when he was out of
  sight, Doc Savage doubled over, got something  from a small bag which he had placed beside the control
  stick. The  objects resembled grenades. And after he threw them over they did  explode, but softly. They threw
  off not chilling fragments of steel,  but a bluish vapor.
  Doc Savage threw the old plane into the beginning of  what an expert might well have sworn would be suicide
  manoeuvre—an  outside loop; but he rolled as he went into it, down and under.
  The two attacking ships followed him. Both were  confident. Probably they never saw the small clouds of blue
  vapor.  These had widened, spreading rapidly. The planes flew into them.
  Both motors stopped, not together, yet not more than  thirty seconds apart.
  Doc Savage looked back and saw the propellers come  to a standstill. His metallic face held no expression.
  The grenades he  had thrown had contained a highly expanding gas. This stuff had been  drawn into the motors
  of the two attackers. It had simply caused a  chemical reaction which had rendered the gasoline mixtures
  non−explosive. Both engines would have to be thoroughly cleaned before  they would run again, since the
  vapor would congeal on carburetor  intakes and cylinder walls.
  The pilots of the two planes promptly nosed down.  They were in no danger, provided they could find a spot
  for a  dead−stick landing.
  Doc followed them down. His assailants, there was  more than slight reason to believe, might be killers
  dispatched by the  Inca in Gray. What else could account for the planes bearing no  markings? Doc Savage
  intended to land to question the fellows.
  But the occupants of the three planes had other  ideas. They worked furiously at their cowl machine guns.
  These, it  developed, were of a type which could be dismounted quickly. They  rested them over the fuselage
  and began firing. They were not bad  gunners. Their lead scabbed fabric off the Jenny.
  Doc Savage banked away like a hawk grown suddenly  wary. Then he made a most unwelcome discovery.
  His gasoline tank had been punctured.
  HE GOT THE JENNY clear of the open space where the  three planes had landed. Then he stood up in the
  cockpit and looked  about for a suitable spot to set his own ship down. There was none  nearer than several
  miles. The brush below was a scrawny thick mat  patch on the edge of the desert.
  The planes had moved a good bit during the sky  fight. They had crossed the lines. This spot was well in
  Delezon  territory.
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  Doc Savage reached his decision in short order.  Trying to make a landing back in the clearing in the face of
  those  machine guns would be suicide. He straightened the ship out, pointed it  for the nearest patch of desert,
  and lashed the stick.
  Scrambling forward, he hung in what for anything  less than muscles of trained metal would have been an
  extremely  dangerous position. He tore away fabric, got at the gas tank. The hole  was large and it was too late
  to do much about it. Most of the gasoline  was gone. Doc stuffed a handkerchief in the aperture the bullets had
  made.
  The engine began to cough, sputter. The Jenny grew  logy. Then its nose went down. It was like a stricken
  bird.
  There were moments when it seemed the bronze man  would not make it; but he was successful. Onto the
  desert at the edge  of the growth he settled. There was soft sand, no helping that. The old  tires rolled on top for
  awhile; then they went in.
  The ancient Jenny grunted, did a stand on her nose.  There was a loud crash as she broke her back and the
  wings went off.  Fine sand in a cloud enveloped everything.
  Chapter 10. THE KILLER LAUGHS
  THERE WAS AN UPHEAVAL in the wreckage while it was  still settling, and Doc Savage's head protruded
  from the cockpit of the  broken and torn Jenny. The non−shatter glass of his goggles was crashed  in, but,
  when he removed them, his eyes were unharmed. He stripped off  his flying helmet, exposing his straight
  bronze hair which was like a  metal skullcap. He listened.
  There was shouting, but it was distant; soldiers  undoubtedly. Having seen the planes come down, they would
  arrive before  long. Doc Savage got out of the wreckage hastily. His clothing had  suffered. He was cut in a
  place or two. He secured the bag which had  been behind the control stick.
  The brush had looked thick from the air, but it  looked even more dense from the ground. Doc Savage did not
  dash  directly into it, but walked in backwards, and he carefully erased each  footprint which he left in the
  sand. This required some moments, for he  did a thorough job.
  The voices were coming closer. Their barkings were  in Spanish. Doc grasped the boughs of a small tree,
  swung up, whipped  to another with the accomplished ease of a circus aërialist, and  vanished from view.
  A squad of Delezon soldiers trotted up. Dust clung  to their uniforms and made mud on their sweating faces.
  They gathered,  cackling in Spanish, about the wrecked Jenny.
  The sergeant in command of the squad looked puzzled  after he had made an examination. There should have
  been a body in that  wreckage, but there manifestly was none. Scratching his head, the  sergeant inspected the
  sand. He failed to detect a sign of footprints.
  "Diablo!"
  he gulped. "This is strange." 
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  The soldiers tramped into the brush—that is, they  all tramped but one. This fellow was tall, heavily built, and
  he had  avarice in his eyes. The purpose of his lagging behind soon became  evident. He was after loot. He dug
  into the plane wreckage, striving to  reach the instruments. Had he known just how worthless those
  instruments were, he might have been a little less ambitious.
  His whole attention was concentrated on his  thievery. He did not see a giant bronze figure ease out of the
  underbrush, tread silently through the sand toward him. He realized  nothing was wrong, until he was seized
  from behind. Then the knowledge  was a bit tardy.
  The husky Delezonian soldier struggled briefly,  terrifically, only to go limp, and that without as much as
  seeing his  attacker.
  Doc Savage shouldered the fellow and carried him  from view. It would not do to have the marks of a
  dragging body found.
  Minutes passed, hot, blistering minutes. Soldiers  began to come from the underbrush. More than one of them
  was drenched  with perspiration. That jungle was terrible in heat such as this. The  sergeant appeared and
  demanded, "Find anything?"
  He was assured they had not.
  Then some one had a stroke of brilliance and  volunteered, "Bueno! I have it. The pilot of this plane leaped
  with a parachute. Probably he leaped miles from here and the ship came  on to crash."
  "Si, si,"
  agreed the sergeant. "I believe you are right. Fall in. We will  continue our march." 
  The rest of the soldiers now came out of the jungle.  Among them was the tall, heavy−set individual whose
  shoulders drooped  slightly. This man drew only one or two glances, those casual.
  He looked exactly like the soldier who had lagged  behind to loot the fallen ship.
  The squad of soldiers seemed to be bound back from  the lines for a period of rest. They looked as if they
  badly needed it.
  AS THEY ENTERED the general headquarters village,  the tall, heavy−set, stooped soldier with the squad
  began to loiter  behind. Discipline was lax so he got away with this. It would have  taken a close observer to
  have detected the slightest difference  between this man and the one whom he resembled so closely.
  They entered the squalid outer fringe of the  village. The usual swarm of dogs and camp hangers−on greeted
  them, and  discipline became even more lax. The burly soldier with the stoop fell  even farther behind. His
  fellows drew ahead. He made no effort to  overhaul them, instead he turned off abruptly into a side street.
  Now his pace changed. He moved slowly, warily.
  It was, however, certain that he would be challenged  by the Delezon equivalent of military police. Numbers
  of these  gentlemen, wearing their distinguishing arm bands, were on the streets.  Two of them, looking neat
  and cool despite the heat, confronted the  burly soldier unexpectedly with a challenge.
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  The heavy, stooped soldier glared at the two M. P.s.  The soldier was caked from head to foot with dust, and
  his visage was  muddy, his eyes, habitually thin slits as if from exposure to the  tropical sun. He put out a jaw
  at the two military policemen and  sneered his contempt.
  "You are looking at a man," he said belligerently.  "I have fought the heat, the fever, the insects, and the
  enemy. I would  enjoy fighting two fat old women such as yourselves. One side! Let a  man pass!"
  Had it been anywhere but South America, these words  would have precipitated a prompt fight. As it was, the
  M. P.s scowled  and drew aside. Not only were these soldiers returning from the front  accorded extra
  privileges on order of General Vigo, but the hardships  of the front sometimes rendered the soldiers a little
  mad. It was not  healthy to fool with them.
  The tall, heavy−set soldier went on, still with his  stoop. He used somewhat more care and was not again
  challenged.
  It was not difficult for him to locate the building  used by General Vigo for headquarters. This was a large
  structure,  evidently a private residence prior to the war. Strangely enough, it  was of modernistic construction,
  boxlike, with very large windows.
  The burly soldier loitered past the front of the  headquarters. Numerous soldiers were about. He mingled with
  them. There  seemed to be no reason why he should not do this.
  But there was, it developed, a reason.
  So unexpectedly that it was like lightning out of a  clear sky, he was covered by rifles. Three Delezonian
  officers had  suddenly presented the weapons, muzzles first. The pieces were cocked.  The burly soldier lost a
  little of his stoop, blinked foolishly at the  guns and the men who held them.
  "Would you please try to escape, señor?" invited one  of the officers.
  The burly soldier ignored the invitation. He merely  continued his dumb blinking.
  "Take him to General Vigo," directed one of the  officers.
  GENERAL FERNANEZ VIGO, general dictator of Delezon,  had appropriated for his office what had once
  been the sunroom of the  modernistic house which was so out of place in this humble village.
  General Vigo was walking angry circles around a  shiny glass and chromium table, putting each foot down
  with a violence  that shook the floor. General Vigo wore two pistols and a bayonet. His  uniform, which bore
  no insignia, was torn and ripped in several places.  There was a bandage around his head, and another around
  one arm. That  very afternoon General Vigo had personally led a charge into the Santa  Amoza trenches.
  General Vigo managed to do a spectacular thing such  as this occasionally. It inspired his soldiers, probably
  accounted for  the good showing which Delezon, a potentially weaker country than Santa  Amoza, had made in
  the war thus far.
  General Vigo stopped his pacing when the prisoner  was brought into his presence.
  "Bueno!"
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  he howled. "One of you we have finally captured!" 
  The prisoner executed several snappy salutes and  gulped, "I do not understand."
  "Oh, yes, you do!" roared General Vigo. "I ordered  your detachment of soldiers back from the front
  especially so that you  could be arrested. You slipped away from the squad, and we thought you  had become
  suspicious. But no, you were merely out prowling."
  The bulky soldier looked utterly astounded. He  swallowed several times.
  "I do not understand," he mumbled again.
  General Vigo made a fierce face at him.
  "You are a spy, an employee of the Inca in Gray!"  roared the general dictator of Delezon.
  Soldiers gripped the prisoner. Sharp points of  bayonets pressed against his back. Any attempt at escape would
  have  been suicidal.
  "No, no, mi amigo,"
  the prisoner stuttered. "This is not true." 
  "What!" Fabulously, ugly General Vigo waved an arm,  shrilled, "Search him!"
  They began to strip the prisoner. The coat came off  first, then the shirt. A hissing of surprised gasps went up.
  "Caramba!"
  General Vigo exploded, eyes bulging. "Such muscles on a man I have  never seen before." 
  They finished stripping the prisoner, and, when they  stood back, more than one man was pop−eyed with
  amazement. They had  uncovered a physical giant, with incredible muscles. The officers who  had brought the
  prisoner in shivered a little, and wondered if they had  not just had one of the narrow escapes of their lives.
  Most striking of all, perhaps, was the remarkable  fineness of the prisoner's skin texture and its striking bronze
  color.
  General Vigo stared. He worked his thick shoulders  inside his coat as if trying to get rid of an invisible
  weight which  had just settled upon them.
  "Who," he demanded, "are you, señor?"
  "Doc Savage," the prisoner said quietly.
  General Vigo had a fit. He jumped up and down. He  screamed and beat his own chest with his fists.
  "Doc Savage!" he shrieked. "So you are working for  the Inca in Gray!"
  General Vigo jumped up and down some more, mauled  himself, and slavered a little in his rage.
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  "No!" he howled. "You, Doc Savage, are probably  yourself the Inca in Gray!"
  DOC SAVAGE had schooled himself to show no emotion  unless he so willed. So the fact that his
  countenance now remained  inscrutable did not mean he was unsurprised. He was learning things.
  According to previous information, the Inca in Gray  had been an affliction peculiar to the republic of Santa
  Amoza; but  here was General Vigo of Delezon flying into a rage over the name of  the Inca in Gray. That
  angle would bear investigation.
  "What is the Inca in Gray?" Doc Savage asked.
  General Vigo went through the motion of a grotesque  jumping jack.
  "He is a devil!" he screamed. "He is a fiend, this  Inca in Gray! He is a tool of Santa Amoza!"
  "Will you be more specific?" Doc requested.
  "Some of my leading generals have been murdered,  murdered strangely with a weird gray dust on their faces
  and hands,"  General Vigo snarled. "There has been other sabotage. And, worst of  all, there is the uprising."
  "What do you mean?" Doc Savage queried.
  "The natives, the uncivilized Indians of the  jungle," General Vigo growled. "For generations they have been
  peaceful  and have given no trouble. But lately they have gone on the warpath.  They are raiding our villages."
  He paused, scowled darkly at Doc Savage.
  "It is the work of the Inca in Gray," he continued.  "The Inca in Gray is a devil. He has convinced the natives
  that he is  the leader destined to bring back their ancient power and glory."
  Doc Savage persisted, "What ancient power and glory?"
  "The natives are descendants of the Incas," General  Vigo advised. "They have a natural hate of all white men.
  The Inca in  Gray has capitalized on that."
  Doc Savage was silent a moment.
  "Would it be any use," he queried, "to assure you  that my presence here is for the purpose of ferreting out the
  Inca in  Gray—and ascertaining what happened to my aide, Long Tom?"
  General Vigo's expression changed slightly. He  looked as if he half believed the bronze man.
  "Turn on the machine," General Vigo told one of the  orderlies. "We will examine this man's clothing."
  The orderly went into the next room. In a moment, a  weird hum sounded from the chamber.
  Doc Savage stood calmly as the clothing he had worn  was picked up and carried into the next room. Doc
  Savage was marched  after the clothing. His guards kept their guns ready.
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  A queer machine stood in the adjacent room, a large  box of an affair from which wires ran to a generator on
  the floor. Both  the box and the generator were making the humming noise.
  "Guard the door," directed General Vigo. Then the  general dictator of Delezon frowned at Doc Savage. "You
  know what this  device is?"
  Doc nodded. "Certainly. An ultra−violet ray machine."
  "Then you probably guess why I have it?" suggested  General Vigo.
  Again the bronze man nodded. "The device will bring  out hidden messages on cloth, paper and—"
  "Enough," grunted Vigo. Then to his orderlies,  "Examine the clothing."
  They seized the uniform which they had removed from  Doc Savage and held it under the black lens of the
  ultraviolet lantern,  a piece at a time. The shirt, the trousers, the blouse, revealed  nothing. 
  Far from looking disappointed, General Vigo seemed a  bit relieved.
  Under the ultra−violet lens they shoved the  undershirt which Doc Savage had taken from the burly soldier he
  had  overpowered back by the wrecked plane.
  And on the undershirt appeared a crude map, and row  after row of figures.
  AN ENRAGED ROAR came from General Vigo. He was  plainly surprised; and even Doc Savage, with his
  great composure, was  momentarily moved into a flicker of annoyed astonishment.
  Doc Savage knew instantly what had happened. There  had been no chance to tamper with his clothing after
  he had taken it  from the burly soldier. Therefore, that soldier had been a spy.  Probably there were many of
  these in Delezon. It had been the bronze  man's misfortune to impersonate one of them.
  The writing on the undershirt had been done with  invisible ink; but few invisible inks are impervious to
  detection with  ultra−violet light. This one certainly was not. When the room was  darkened, the writing
  glowed out distinctly.
  General Vigo examined the map. He seemed to swell  with rage.
  "Our front line!" he snarled. "It shows our gun  emplacements, our supply roads, our airports—everything!"
  Doc Savage began, "The clothing came from a man  whom—"
  "Silence!" roared General Vigo.
  Doc Savage did not grow silent. He raised his voice,  and its thunder beat down the objections of the general
  dictator of  Delezon. The bronze man talked, spoke rapidly, heedless of the bayonets  which menaced him at
  first. And General Vigo, because there was nothing  else to do, listened, heard him through.
  Doc Savage told the whole story, omitting nothing,  beginning with the attempt on his own life in New York,
  telling the  adventure on the dirigible, and ending with an account of exactly what  had happened in Santa
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  Amoza. He got several surprising reactions from  General Vigo.
  "I did not seize Señorita Anita Carcetas!" howled  General Vigo. "I do not have to kidnap women to win my
  wars!"
  "But there was a message to minister Serrato, saying  that you had the young woman and that she would be
  executed unless  Santa Amoza surrendered," Doc told him.
  "It was no message from me, señor!" General Vigo  shouted. "Some one else must have sent it. Either that or
  war minister  Serrato lied."
  "There are certain indications pointing to minister  Serrato as the Inca in Gray," Doc Savage said.
  General Vigo was obviously engaged in deep thought.  He turned off the ultra−violet lantern, then took
  several slow turns  about the room, hands locked together behind his back.
  Suddenly he stopped, cracked an order at his  officers.
  "Assemble a firing squad," he directed.
  Small lights came into the bronze man's flake−gold  eyes.
  "You do not believe me?" he queried.
  "I believe you are Doc Savage," said General Vigo.
  Doc began, "Then why—"
  "Don those clothes," General Vigo snapped.
  Because there was nothing else to do, Doc Savage  obeyed.
  DOC SAVAGE, closely guarded, was marched toward a  high stockade, the adobe walls of which were
  perforated along the top  for machine gun emplacements. The only door in the wall of this fort  was narrow.
  They headed for it.
  Mingling with the crowd of onlookers, making himself  inconspicuous, was the small man with the pocked
  face and the evil  grin. Without being too forward about it, he was gathering all the  information he could. The
  pock−faced fellow craned his neck time and  again and managed to get several good looks at Doc Savage.
  Doc Savage walked with a steady tread, his bronze  features showing no slightest sign of fear. He did not
  argue.
  The bronze man was led through the narrow door into  the enclosure, the same enclosure into which Long
  Tom had been escorted  some hours previously. Doc was marched to the same bullet−pocked wall  against
  which Long Tom had stood. He was backed against it. The  soldiers withdrew.
  "A bandage for your eyes?" General Vigo asked  bluntly.
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  "No," Doc Savage said distinctly.
  The door through the stockade was closed. The firing  squad lined up before their victim.
  Outside the stockade, the pock−faced little man with  the evil face mingled with the throng. He kept a hand
  tucked behind an  ear, listening intently. He managed to pick up the ominous commands  from within. General
  Vigo was giving the execution orders himself.
  "Ready!" roared the general dictator of Delezon.
  "Aim—"
  "Fire—"
  A volley of shot blazed out, frightening pigeons off  the roofs of near−by buildings.
  In the comparative silence that followed, a strange  sound was heard. It was a trilling, small, eerie, fantastic,
  carrying  from within the stockade in amazing fashion. It might have been the  song of some exotic feathered
  thing of the jungle. The trilling was  quite distinct at first, but it faded slowly, seeming to go away into
  nothingness until only the memory of its weird tremolo remained.
  THE SMALL, pock−faced spectator crept away as soon  as he could do so without attracting attention. He
  went directly to a  squalid house in the poorer section and entered. The house, after the  South American
  fashion, had a patio, a tiny court in the center. The  dwellings of Delezon had these patios, regardless of how
  poor they  might be.
  Shortly, a pigeon arose from the patio. The bird  attracted no attention, for there were other pigeons in the
  village,  and their resemblance to the carrier breed of bird was close enough to  cause confusion.
  No one paid much attention to pigeons anyway.
  Chapter 11. DISASTER
  DOC SAVAGE'S stratosphere dirigible hung motionless  considerably more than a score of thousands of feet
  over Alcala,  capital city of Santa Amoza.
  Monk, the homely chemist, was using the device,  which, for lack of a better name, was called the "infra eye."
  This was  simply an elaboration of the portable apparatus which Doc Savage had  used in the darkness. It
  consisted of a projector which sent out light  waves of a wave−length invisible to the human eye downward.
  There was a  scanning panel for observation purposes.
  Monk had been observing for some time. His small  eyes were acquiring a strained squint.
  "Wonder what's happened to Doc?" he grumbled. "That  fire we saw a few hours ago on the edge of a flying
  field, I wonder if  that could have been something happening to his plane?"
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  "Our orders were to stick up here until we got some  word from Doc," Ham said shortly. "Doc wanted this
  Inca in Gray,  whoever he is, to think the dirigible had been destroyed."
  Monk went on with his muttering. "No planes have  left Alcala except that crate that looked like an old Jenny.
  Blazes, I  expected some word from Doc before now!"
  Monk reached suddenly for a powerful telescope, one  of Doc's own design. Then he seized the controls of the
  airship,  manipulated them, and the craft began to descend.
  There was a bank of fleecy clouds below. This hid  the earth completely as far as inspection with the naked
  eye was  concerned. The infra rays however penetrated the dense cloud bank,  which was the reason they had
  been using the rays.
  "What is the idea, you missing link?" Ham demanded.
  "I see something," Monk told him. "Shut up."
  The ship sank, altimeter needles marching slowly  backward. There was almost no sound since the motors
  were turning over  very slowly. They entered the clouds.
  "Some one will see us from below," Ham snapped.
  "Use your head," Monk retorted. "This bus is  camouflaged so you can't hardly see it from below. An' that
  infra eye  ain't so hot when you want to make a detailed inspection. I saw  somethin' I'm gonna use this
  telescope on."
  The clouds began to thin out. The ship had  penetrated to the under side.
  "Hold 'er," grunted Monk.
  Ham took the controls and leveled the dirigible out. 
  Monk opened a floor hatch, lay down beside it, and  focused the powerful telescope carefully. He seemed very
  interested in  what he was studying. It was noticeable that the telescope was not  pointed directly at Alcala
  which was almost below, but was slanted off  to one side—toward the battle front, in fact.
  "Well," Ham snapped, "do I get a look?"
  Monk surrendered the telescope reluctantly.
  Ham focused the lenses to his own vision.
  "Just a plane," he said.
  "Yeah, but watch how it's actin'," Monk grunted.  "An' notice them little patches of white vapor behind it."
  Ham inspected the patches of vapor which had been  mentioned. These were very vague, and were some
  distance behind the  plane.
  "Smoke from anti−aircraft shells," said the dapper  lawyer. "What is queer about that?"
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  "Just keep watching," Monk advised.
  Ham watched. He had not been doing that long when he  stiffened.
  THE PLANE they were observing was behaving somewhat  uncertainly. It did not stay level. Numerous times
  it slipped. Once it  fell off in a short spin before it was hauled out.
  "Something wrong with the plane," Ham said. 
  Monk nodded. "Practically unmanageable. Probably  some of its control wires have been shot away."
  They continued to watch. It was doubtful if the  dirigible could be distinguished with the naked eye from the
  earth  below. Powerful glasses might have revealed it, but even that was a bit  doubtful, due to its
  camouflaging.
  Monk leaped to the controls, adjusted them, sent the  airship toward the front lines. This enabled Ham to
  observe the  strangely acting plane more distinctly.
  Unexpectedly a puff of white smoke came from the  tail of the ship. The craft veered, straightened. Another
  puff of smoke  appeared. Then a third.
  The plane flew some distance. Then smoke appeared  again. This time it came for a longer interval. It stopped.
  A moment  later it resumed.
  "Catch on?" Monk grunted.
  "Dry up," Ham said. "Watch this."
  A few moments later the plane had deposited three  balls of smoke in the air, three rather long wads of smoke,
  then three  more balls.
  "Continental code," Monk barked. "I can read it with  the naked eye now."
  "S.O.S." Ham agreed. "It means whoever is down there  wants help."
  "Think it's Doc?" Monk demanded.
  The two men exchanged glances. The usual animosity  with which they inspected each other was missing.
  They seemed to reach  a common conclusion without the use of words.
  "Down we go," Monk grunted.
  The homely chemist lunged to the controls. He  wrenched the throttle levers open. The motors blurted out a
  great howl.  He stroked another lever. A scream came from the tail portion of the  dirigible. The rocket tubes
  had been put into operation. The airship  began to give an excellent imitation of a bullet as fast as speed was
  concerned.
  Details of the scene below took on distinctness. The  earth seemed to swell. The front line trenches became
  discernible.
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  The plane, it developed, was farther away than had  first appeared. It was, in fact, well within Delezon
  territory, and  would be deeper in Delezon before they overhauled it, for it was flying  at a good speed,
  although its behavior was as erratic as before.
  Monk seized the telescope, focused it, stared.
  "It's Doc!" he barked.
  "How can you tell?" Ham demanded.
  "He isn't wearing gloves," Monk explained. "His  hands look like bronze."
  They began to manipulate the dirigible's controls,  shutting off the rocket tubes first. This was necessary in
  order to  decrease the speed of the craft so that it would not overshoot the  plane below. They managed this
  very efficiently. The airship drew  alongside the plane, slightly above it, perhaps a hundred yards  separating
  the two aircraft.
  Monk used the telescope again, readjusting the  lenses for the short distance. What he saw caused him to emit
  a bark of  surprise. He lunged to the rudder wheel of the dirigible, turned it and  whipped the airship almost
  alongside the plane. He stared again.
  "That guy ain't Doc!" Monk yelled. "He's got make−up  on so he'll look like Doc."
  The plane suddenly shed its erratic manner of  flight. The pilot delved into his cockpit and came up with a
  hand  machine gun.
  "A trap!" Ham shouted. "Take 'er up!"
  MONK HIT the altitude controls of the airship. The  big, reinforced alloy metal bag jumped.
  Simultaneously, a shattering roar came from the side  of the control cabin, a sound as of many drumsticks
  beating very hard.  They looked at the windows. These were becoming cobwebbed with cracks.  The glass was
  bullet−proof, and obviously machine−gun lead was crashing  into it.
  Shadows of an attacking air squadron swept over them  like a dark cloud. The ships zoomed, circled and came
  back again. Their  machine guns were winking red eyes on the cowl. There were half a dozen  of these ships,
  and not one of them bore a marking to designate it as  belonging to the military force of either Delezon or
  Santa Amoza.
  Their lead made a great drumming and roaring on the  dirigible. It was not, however, doing a great deal of
  damage. The  control cabin was proof against anything less than a field gun shell.  The gas bags, the dirigible's
  skin, of course, could not be made  bullet−proof, due to the necessity for lightness. But puncturing the  bags
  would do no great damage. For the gas cells were coated inside  with a spongy substance which expanded and
  closed all but the largest  of apertures.
  Monk had the altitude control lever far back. The  ship was all but standing on its tail. He jerked other levers.
  The  rocket tubes began to make moaning sounds.
  "They ain't gonna faze us," Monk grunted.
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  Ham nodded and snapped, "Notice the lack of markings  on the ships. They must be followers of this
  mysterious Inca in Gray."
  "Whoever he is, that Inca in Gray ain't no piker,"  Monk mumbled. "He does things on a big scale."
  The dirigible was beginning to leap upward in the  sky.
  There was a moan off to one side as an attacking  plane came down, then hauled up swiftly. A small bomb
  detached from its  under side, and came boring for the dirigible.
  "Watch it," Ham yelled.
  Monk wrenched the controls. The big dirigible, for  all of its terrific speed, veered abruptly. The bomb—it
  must have  weighed in excess of a hundred pounds—missed them, and hurtled down to  dig a great pit in the
  jungle below, well behind the war front of  Delezon.
  Monk peered downward at the pit the explosive had  made, mentally visualizing what would have happened if
  it had struck  them. It was not a pleasant mind picture.
  Suddenly Ham was screaming again. "Drop 'er! Drop  'er!" 
  Monk looked up, too late. One of the planes was  rushing toward them. It was almost upon them. The pilot
  was out of the  cockpit, hanging on with one hand, using the other hand to handle the  stick and guide his ship.
  He was going to crash them, ram them deliberately  with his own plane. It was a desperate expedient, and
  probably the only  one which would insure success under the circumstances.
  At the last possible moment, the enemy pilot pitched  clear of his plane. He was a cunning fellow. He held his
  body so that  the very force of the air and his momentum caused him to hurtle  downward under the dirigible.
  The plane hit the gas bag squarely. It buried itself  almost completely in the cellular structure of gas
  compartments and  girders. The concussion was terrific. Flame burst from the plane, which  had been turned
  into a missile. This fire, however, was almost  instantly snuffed out, for the gas which furnished buoyancy to
  the  airship was not only non−inflammable itself, but was effective as fire  extinguishing vapor in smothering
  flames.
  Both Monk and Ham were stunned by the impact.
  SHOCKS HAVE rather a strange effect upon the human  system. A shock will produce unconsciousness,
  while another and similar  shock, perhaps of lesser violence, will, under the proper combination  of
  circumstances, have the effect of returning that consciousness. It  was thus with the crash as the dirigible
  struck.
  Not all of the ship's buoyancy had been lost. So  that it did not fall very hard. The jungle cushioned its landing
  also,  and the stout metal framework of the control room preserved Monk and  Ham. A loud hissing came from
  the ruptured pipes of the mechanism which  conditioned air.
  Monk's sturdier constitution caused him to come to  his feet first. He listened. The planes were moaning about
  overhead.
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  Came a jarring explosion. Fifty yards distant, earth  and tree fragments spouted upward. The earth gave a
  distinct jerk. It  was a bomb dropped by one of the planes above.
  Ham was sitting up. There was in his eyes that  unclearness which indicated he still did not fully comprehend
  what was  occurring.
  "Ham!" Monk shouted, then slapped the dapper  lawyer's face.
  Ham growled, "I'll skin you alive for that," and  came to his feet.
  "Run for it!" Monk barked. "They're laying eggs on  us!" 
  The homely chemist opened the hatchway and stumbled  out into the thick jungle growth, closely followed by
  his more slender  companion. Staccato rattle of machine guns sounded overhead, and  bullets pattered in the
  brush about them. They ran.
  A squealing grunt from behind brought Monk up short.
  "Habeas!" he cried, and turned.
  "Forget the hog!" Ham barked.
  That suggestion was proof that Ham had almost  completely recovered himself.
  Monk shoved out a foot, upset Ham ignominiously in  the brush, and yelled, "That hog is worth six lawyers!"
  The homely chemist plunged back through the  undergrowth toward the stricken ship, heedless of danger from
  bombs and  machine−gun bullets. His long, apelike arms stretched ahead of him to  part the dense jungle
  creepers.
  Ham got up from where he had fallen when Monk  tripped him, scowled darkly, then followed the homely
  chemist. He drew  near the dirigible wreck in time to see Monk disappear into the  hatchway.
  Almost simultaneously, a squad of men in clothing  almost unbelievably dirty and bedraggled burst into view
  and ran for  the fallen dirigible.
  "Monk!" Ham shrieked. "Watch out!"
  The men, it appeared, were armed. They lifted  rifles. These whacked. A storm of bullets drove Ham into
  cover.
  Inside the dirigible, Monk was bawling angrily. He  burst out of the wreckage, carrying the pig, Habeas
  Corpus, by one  saillike ear. It could not be said that Monk gave Habeas the gentlest  of treatment. The instant
  the homely chemist saw the armed men, he  hurled the pig through the air into the nearest clump of brush.
  Then Monk doubled around the dirigible wreckage in a  frantic effort to escape.
  "Run!" Ham bawled encouragement.
  Then Ham suddenly discovered that he had more to do  than vocally encourage Monk. There were more of the
  strangely shabby  men in the jungle. They were creeping up on him. They were, in fact,  only a few yards
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  distant. Now they rushed.
  Ham was no unskilled fighter. Particularly was he  adept at use of his sword cane, but that had been left
  behind in the  excitement. It was somewhere in the ruined airship. Ham struck out  furiously with his fists.
  But he was fighting men who were not afraid, and who  had some ability. They swarmed over him. He was
  hopelessly outnumbered  and beaten down, tripped, held.
  "Monk!" Ham shrieked again. "Run for it! I'm all  right!" 
  There was a crashing and thumping and struggling in  the brush near by, and after that had continued a while
  it approached.  A swarm of men were bringing a captive.
  The prisoner was Monk.
  He looked at Ham and growled, "So you're all right.  What a liar!"
  In the brush, Habeas Corpus grunted anxiously. 
  "Ah, a peeg," one of the dirty, disheveled men  murmured in bad English. "We shall have fresh meat."
  Two or three of the men were deployed. There was  brief, tumultuous struggle, followed by several startled
  squeals.
  "Got heem," said a voice.
  THE MAN who seemed to be in charge of the party  approached them, looked them over. The fellow's face
  was not a nice  thing to examine. He smirked evilly at them.
  Then the fellow walked a few yards away into an  opening in the jungle, and, with his arms, made signals to
  the planes  which still buzzed about overhead. The pilots of the ships observed,  waved back. After that the
  aircraft moaned away over the jungle and  their sound was soon lost to hearing.
  The leader of the jungle party came and stared down  at Monk and Ham. He jerked his head in the direction
  taken by the  departing planes.
  "They will bear good news to our master, The Inca in  Gray," he said.
  Somebody in the back of the group laughed, spoke in  Spanish.
  "And they will return bearing even better news, let  us hope," this man said.
  "Si, si,"
  the first man agreed. "The Inca in Gray is striking fast now. It  will not be long until his plans are completed and his ends
  are gained." 
  Monk, who could speak Spanish, put in, "And what end  is this Inca in Gray after?"
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  The homely chemist received a resounding kick for  his temerity in putting the question. Eyes pain blurred,
  Monk looked at  Ham. The glance the dapper lawyer returned did not hold much sympathy.
  The captors now began to hold a consultation. They  spoke loudly, frankly, and as they did so, they watched
  their prisoners  as if enjoying the reaction which the words produced.
  "Would it be better to kill them now?" one  ruminated. "Or should we receive orders from the master, the Inca
  in  Gray.
  "Now," a man voted.
  "No, no," said another.
  "Why not?" demanded the first. "They are our  enemies. Death to such."
  "I know." said the first, "but the Inca in Gray  prefers to know all and to direct all moves. It is to our
  advantage to  receive instructions. The prisoners will be killed anyway, of course."
  "That is as it should be," said another. "They are  followers of that bronze man, Doc Savage."
  The man who said this spoke the words somewhat  nervously, much as one might mention a very real personal
  devil. This  caused some of the others to chuckle mirthfully.
  "Our brother has the heart of a flower," they  laughed. "He fears a dead man."
  "I do not," insisted the other.
  "Doc Savage is dead," he was reminded. "And you fear  him."
  Chapter 12. THE HUMORIST
  DOC SAVAGE'S death, to paraphrase the statement  attributed to a famous man of letters, was somewhat
  exaggerated.
  Doc Savage was in a room which was not merely dark.  It was black—black with an intensity that seemed to
  deny the  possibility of any light existing anywhere. This darkness was the more  noteworthy, because
  somewhere outside there should be brilliant  tropical sunlight.
  The bronze man was in a dungeon somewhere under the  compound's walls. He had been there some time.
  Long Tom Roberts was in  the dungeon with him.
  Long Tom was talking, had been talking in exactly  the same tone and repeating many of the same words for
  some time. Long  Tom was not a man who indulged in profanity. He was using no swear  words, but he
  managed to put into his monotonous voice a good deal of  gripping vituperation.
  Long Tom had ridded himself of opinions concerning  the hot weather, Santa Amoza, Delezon, General Vigo,
  the Inca in Gray,  South America in general, and had now gotten around to those gentlemen  who are
  frequently blamed for wars.
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  "Munitions makers," Long Tom intoned, "they suck the  blood from nations . . . . murderers of the masses . . .
  . they've got  me here . . . . fiends . . . . 
  It was strange talk for Long Tom. It was exactly  such conversation, in fact, as might be attributed to an insane
  man.  There was a madness in the tone, too. The guards outside, hearing the  interminable condemnation
  exchanged knowing glances. They had heard men  go mad before in these dungeons. It did not, however,
  usually happen so  soon.
  However, a close listener might have detected  another sound which was almost drowned by Long Tom's
  interminable  talking. This was a series of low whizzings. These tiny noises kept up  steadily. The guards
  outside were not close enough to hear them.
  Long Tom finished with munitions makers and went  back to the Inca in Gray for conversational matter.
  "Infernal devil," the pallid electrical wizard  mumbled, "killing people . . . . no visible reason . . . . something
  big must be behind him . . . ."
  A guard pacing outside shivered. The air down here  was stifling for want of ventilation. The guard tried to
  smoke a  cigarette, but it stuck to his lips. He felt thirsty.
  The dull monotone of Long Tom's incantation went on  and on, sentences disjointed, thoughts half phrased.
  Under it, the  small mysterious scraping and buzzing continued.
  The buzzing was inside the dungeon. Suddenly a tiny  pin point of light appeared. This grew to an irregular
  slit, but very  slowly. Minutes were required for the phenomena. The slit lengthened,  changed direction. It
  assumed the shape of a "U" lying on its side.
  The lock was being cut out of the heavy door.
  Doc Savage spoke in a low voice.
  "It is ready," he said simply.
  Long Tom ceased his mumbling.
  "Whe−ew,"
  he said in a perfectly normal voice. "It's about time. I was  running out of things to talk about." 
  LONG TRAINING had put an incredible power in Doc  Savage's fingers. The cracks in the door which
  afforded his only grip  were not large, but, employing them, he managed to swing the heavy  portal inward.
  Dim light from outside filtered into the room.  Falling across the floor, this luminance disclosed the ingenious
  drill  which the bronze man had fashioned from two belt buckles—his own and  Long Tom's. A piece of wood,
  ripped from a bench, provided a handle.  Long Tom's interminable conversation had been to cover the sound
  the  drill was making as it cut around the lock.
  "Come," said Doc Savage. "But be careful about the  noise."
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  "I know," Long Tom breathed. "The guard."
  With a stealth and lack of noise that a tomcat would  have envied, the bronze man stalked along the dim
  passages. He could  see the sentry shortly. The fellow had gone to a water bucket, which  stood on the passage
  floor, and was drinking. He was taking the water  noisily as some diners take their soup.
  There was no noise, no struggle of consequence,  after Doc Savage seized the man. Bronze fingers simply
  found nerve  centers on the back of the fellow's neck, squeezed, and the man became  unconscious. Doc laid
  him gently on the ground.
  Closely trailed by Long Tom, the bronze man worked  upward. The inside of the stockade wall, which looked
  so thick, was  hollow, in part, being honey−combed by stairways, passages, and small  rooms. These afforded
  them a method of reaching the top.
  They came out through a small door upon the runway  which ran around the inside of the stockade. A single
  good leap would  put them atop the stockade. Doc Savage made it. He extended a helping  hand to Long Tom,
  for it was quite a jump.
  They did not kill time. The drop below them was not  a thing to be taken casually. One thing was in their
  favor, however.  The stockade wall was not vertical by any manner of means. It sloped  outward, and, although
  it could hardly be climbed from below, one might  slide down it and friction would somewhat delay the
  descent.
  "Let me tackle it first," Doc Savage said. "And be  careful." 
  Without perceptible hesitation, the bronze man  stepped over the edge of the wall. There was loud whizzing
  sound as he  went down. This attracted the attention of a soldier across the street.  The fellow stopped and
  stared, mouth open. Apparently, it did not occur  to him to shout, or to unsling the rifle which he carried
  across his  back.
  The shock absorbing qualities of tremendous leg  muscles came into valuable play as the bronze man hit the
  packed ground  at the foot of the stockade wall. He did not try to remain upright, for  that would have been
  impossible. He let himself go down, almost flat,  but he was up again instantly.
  "Now," he called to Long Tom.
  Long Tom patently did not like what was ahead of  him. He made a fierce face, sucked in a full breath, and
  stepped off  the edge. He had used the best judgment. Friction burned him through  his clothing. His skin was
  blistered in several places.
  The next instant he was on the ground. Doc Savage  had caught him, cushioned in part the shock of his
  landing.
  They ran.
  Across the street, the soldier came to life; he  emitted a howl that would have done credit to an Andes jaguar.
  He  fought to get the gun off his back.
  Doc and Long Tom leaped toward him. They reached the  fellow before his rifle came into use. They fell upon
  him. Doc used his  fists and the man was abruptly silent.
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  There was doorway near by, open. They dived into  this, carrying the soldier. The room was empty. They left
  the soldier.
  A door took them into a patio from which they  climbed onto a roof, and eventually reached the next street. It
  was the  hot part of the day, the siesta hour. Even the war could not break the  habits of the Delezonians. Most
  of the soldiers were having their hour  or two of slumber.
  "Where now?" Long Tom demanded.
  "This way," Doc Savage said. "We have a job to do."
  AROUND THE headquarters of General Vigo there was  quiet. A single sentry paced patrol, and his manner
  was drowsy. He  stopped frequently to perch on the veranda rail and smoke.
  There were bushes immediately below the veranda  rail. The sentry sighed and drew deeply on his cigarette.
  The next instant he was off the rail. He made almost  no sound. The bushes fluttered only slightly as he
  disappeared into  them, drawn by a pair of corded bronze arms.
  For some moments Doc Savage worked on the nerve  centers at the back of the fellow's neck. The sentry
  became limp, and  seemingly slept. Smoke, which he had drawn out of a cigarette, curled  slowly from his lips
  and nostrils.
  Long Tom whispered, "That was nice."
  "Wait here," Doc Savage breathed back.
  The bronze man made a cautious survey. No one was in  sight. The shouting of the soldier who had observed
  their escape from  the compound had failed to attract attention. Two things could explain  this. The
  Delezonians were a people who naturally did a great deal of  shouting over trivial things. There was also some
  drinking among  soldiers back from the front on leave.
  Doc Savage eased over the veranda rail.
  The windows of General Vigo's quarters were open.  Gliding to them, Doc noted the layout of the room. The
  door to the  corridor was next to, and at right angles to one of the windows. The  bronze man went to this
  window. He eased through, crossed the room, and  caught sight of his quarry.
  General Vigo was alone, leaning over a map into  which he was sticking colored pins. He chanced to be
  standing so that  he was almost certain to observe Doc Savage as the bronze man entered,  and he gave no sign
  of intending to move.
  Doc Savage had no intention of waiting until General  Vigo decided to shift his position. The unconscious
  sentry might be  discovered at any moment, or they might find that he and Long Tom had  escaped from the
  stockade dungeon. The bronze man flexed the muscles of  his throat in peculiar fashion.
  "General Vigo," he called in Spanish. His voice was  different, meek and mild as if it were a common soldier
  speaking. "Come  quickly, I wish to show you something."
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  Now, remarkably enough, these words did not seem to  come from Doc Savage, but from the other side of the
  room in which  General Vigo stood. Doc was using ventriloquism. General Vigo faced the  spot from which
  the words had appeared to emanate. A door was there.
  Seeing no one, General Vigo snapped, "What is it?  Who wants—"
  His voice was abruptly choked off by corded bronze  fingers which had clamped upon his throat. General
  Vigo was no  weakling. He struggled violently, kicking backward, driving his fists.  Doc Savage received two
  terrific blows. He kept his throat grip.
  The bronze man hit General Vigo, not as heavily as  he intended, on the jaw. Vigo only struggled more
  violently. Doc tried  again with his fist. Fist and jaw, meeting, made a sound as of two  hardwood blocks
  colliding violently.
  WHEN GENERAL VIGO awakened to sit up and rub his jaw  and make numerous ugly grimaces, there was
  scrawny brush about him. He  listened. He could hear plane motors, and, straining his neck, could  see
  indistinctly a number of his own military airplane hangars. He was,  he decided, near the airport on the
  outskirts of his headquarters  village.
  General Vigo looked at Doc Savage. The bronze man  stood near by. His metallic features were
  expressionless. Long Tom was  on the opposite side.
  General Vigo looked as if he wanted to swear.  Instead, he grinned.
  "It is not healthy to kidnap the general dictator of  a country the size of Delezon," he said.
  Doc Savage began speaking.
  "Why did you fake those executions?" the bronze man  asked.
  "What executions?" General Vigo demanded.
  "Those of Long Tom and myself," the bronze man  elaborated. "You stood me against that wall, and, in a very
  loud voice,  gave the order for the firing squad to shoot. They fired into the wall,  but far to one side of where I
  stood. Long Tom says you did exactly the  same thing in his case."
  "For which you owe me thanks," General Vigo grunted.
  "And for which you owe us an explanation," Doc  Savage told him.
  General Vigo shrugged. "The reason is simple."
  "Suppose you explain it," Doc told him.
  "I desire the end of the Inca in Gray," General Vigo  snapped. "I would not hesitate to shoot the devil. But I
  did not want  to execute innocent men. I do not believe in executions. Therefore, I  arranged the fake shooting.
  The men in the firing squad can be trusted.  Word would be spread that you were dead. To all intents and
  purposes,  you would be dead."
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  "Which would get you what?" Doc queried.
  "If the Inca in Gray suddenly dropped out of sight,  after, for instance, I had pulled my little execution trick on
  you,  that would be suspicious, eh?" General Vigo demanded.
  "So that was the reason," Doc said.
  "It was," the general dictator of Delezon growled.  "And now, suppose you let me go, señor."
  Doc Savage shook a slow negative. Then he stared  steadily at General Vigo.
  The bronze man's eyes were capable of doing strange  things. Nature had given them an unusual appearance;
  but long practice  had given them a good deal more power, had enabled them to express  things. The
  flake−gold eyes had almost as much ability to express  emotion as had the face of an experienced actor. The
  bronze man's eyes  were grim now, and utterly threatening.
  General Vigo squirmed uneasily.
  "Dios mio,"
  he mumbled hoarsely. "I believe you intend to kill me." 
  That was exactly the impression Doc Savage had been  trying to create.
  "You have," the bronze man said, "one chance to  live."
  "What is it?" growled General Vigo, somewhat weakly.
  "Do as you are told," he was advised.
  General Vigo swallowed several times. He said  nothing. 
  Then Doc Savage did a totally unexpected thing. He  drew from his clothing a heavy automatic military pistol
  and extended  it to General Vigo. The latter took it, and looked stunned.
  General Vigo would not have admitted it himself, but  he was scared. Just how frightened he was, how
  thoroughly cowed, was  evident from his action now. He held the gun in his hand, but made no  attempt to use
  it.
  "The weapon is not loaded," Doc Savage said. "You  will walk behind us, pointing the gun at us as if we were
  your  prisoners. We will walk on to the airport. You will ask for your  special plane; presumably, you have
  one, have you not?"
  General Vigo nodded. He was watching  the bronze man’s eyes. That was a mistake, but the general dictator of  Delezon
  had no way of knowing that he was subjecting himself to what  was literally a hypnotic spell. 
  "I have a private plane," he admitted.
  "Walk," Doc Savage directed.
  General Vigo got up. Doc Savage and Long Tom strode  a little ahead of him, one to the right and one to the
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  left,  maintaining such a position that they could watch the man behind them.
  They marched out on the tarmac of the Delezon  military airport.
  SENTRIES CHALLENGED the moment they were in view.  General Vigo gave what was evidently the
  password for the day, and he  added for good measure, "These men are my prisoners."
  The sentries passed them.
  They approached the hangars. Their presence was  observed, and officers came out, lined up, saluted. The
  commandant of  the field advanced.
  "My private plane," General Vigo told him. "Get it  ready for the air at once. I will fly it myself"
  The officer looked dumfounded, saluted, said, "But  you cannot fly, general mio."
  General Vigo got himself out of that very nicely. He  put his ugly face out and growled, "Do not question my
  orders. I will  show you whether or not I can fly."
  General Vigo's plane was a five−place cabin ship, an  American job, modern, fast, new. A single twist of the
  propeller  started the motor roaring. Long Tom and Doc Savage climbed into the  cabin.
  There were two bucket seats for pilots forward. Doc  Savage took one of these. Controls were before both.
  General Vigo got  into the other bucket.
  "Good work," Doc Savage told him.
  General Vigo scowled, looking very much as if he had  just eaten a full meal of green apples. He stuck his
  unlovely visage  out of the plane window and bawled an Order. The chocks were pulled.
  General Vigo grasped the control wheel; but Doc  Savage did the flying. The motor bawled. The plane ran
  across the  field, picked up its tail, and jumped.
  Doc Savage headed the ship for Alcala, capital city  of Santa Amoza. The motor droned steadily. It was a
  good motor with  plenty of power to spare. Long Tom, back in the cabin, kept silent, but  watched the jungle
  and desert below.
  "See if you can find binoculars," Doc Savage called  from the controls.
  Long Tom searched, probing through door pockets, and  in little compartments above the seats.
  "You will find them toward the rear," General Vigo  shouted gruffly.
  Long Tom looked, located the binoculars, and passed  them to Doc Savage. There was a glass hatch
  immediately above the  control cockpit. This was grease−smeared from the motor. Doc Savage  opened it for
  clearer vision and focused the binoculars at the sky.  There had been clouds earlier in the day, but these had
  dispersed. The  heavens were an inverted bowl of white and heat.
  The bronze man evidently did not find what he was  looking for. He passed the binoculars back to Long Tom.
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  "Keep an eye open for the stratosphere dirigible,"  he suggested.
  Long Tom nodded and worked with the fastening which  secured the cabin windows. He did not have his
  window open when Doc  Savage's voice came again, a grim crash.
  "Never mind," the bronze man said.
  Something about the words, or perhaps it was the  sudden grimness in the bronze man's voice, caused Long
  Tom to spin and  stare. Doc Savage was looking at something ahead, to one side, on the  earth. Long Tom
  followed the bronze man's glance.
  It was the dirigible—the wreckage of it, rather. Doc  Savage banked the plane sharply, sent it toward the crash
  scene.
  The dirigible now looked like nothing so much as a  silver egg which dropped urgently in the jungle. The egg
  aspect,  however, did not persist for long. The true size of the stratosphere  craft became apparent as they drew
  closer. Then, too, they could see  that the aërial vessel had hit with a great deal of force.
  Doc Savage put the plane very low. Wind from the  propeller stirred the jungle leaves as they hurtled along. It
  was  obviously his intention to examine the dirigible as closely as possible.
  They flew past the airship.
  Long Tom spoke in a voice that might have come from  Death himself.
  "No sign of them," he said. "They must have been  crushed in the cabin."
  DOC SAVAGE banked the plane, went past again. Their  second scrutiny was no more availing than the first.
  Nor did a third  show them a sign of life. Doc Savage backed on the stick and the ship  took a little altitude.
  They looked for a spot that would do for a  landing.
  The jungle ran for miles. Clearings were scarce,  small; but there were a few. The nearest was at least two
  miles distant.
  The clearing, when they reached it, caused Long Tom  to shake his head. It was smooth enough, but it was
  terribly small. Doc  Savage sent the plane for it. Long Tom shuddered. They would not make  it, even with the
  bronze man's magnificent flying skill.
  But they did make it. The craft jerked into what  seemed a certain stall just at the edge of the clearing, coasted
  out of  that, went into a slip, straightened, then, miraculously, seemed to  have almost no momentum when it
  landed.
  Long Tom got out and looked around and his neck got  red. They had something near two hundred feet to
  spare.
  "Long Tom," Doc Savage said, "want to watch the  plane?"
  Long Tom knew the answer that was expected to that  one. 
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  "Sure," he said.
  "Take it into the air at the first sign of an  attack," Doc Savage directed.
  "Sure," said Long Tom. The heartiness in his own  voice surprised him. He did not feel it. In fact, he was quite
  sure  that he could never fly a plane out of that small clearing.
  Doc Savage seated General Vigo in the plane in one  of the wicker seats, and lashed him there. He made the
  tying a secure  job.
  "Merely to avoid any complications," the bronze man  said.
  Doc Savage moved to the jungle, disappeared. The  growth was very dense, hot, full of insects. The bronze
  man took to the  trees, the upper boughs of which interlaced to a large extent. He  traveled now in a fashion
  somewhat amazing.
  His agile climbing, his breath−taking swings from  one bough to another, the long drop through space from
  one bough to  another, were hardly exceeded by a swarm of jungle monkeys which he  passed within a few
  minutes. The monkeys, chattering excitedly,  followed him for some little distance, made great uproar.
  An individual with less knowledge of animal nature  would have thrown sticks at the little beasts, with the
  result that  they would have been excited even more. Doc Savage simply put on speed,  hurtling from one tree
  to another, running along swaying boughs with  the ease of a tightrope walker. He had removed his shoes. His
  feet, his  toes, it might have been noticed, were possessed of a remarkable  prehensility which adapted them
  somewhat to the unusual mode of travel.  He left the monkeys behind.
  He reached the dirigible.
  Some twenty minutes he searched the wreck and its  vicinity. He found footprints, plenty of them. Scores of
  men, most of  them barefooted, had swarmed around the ship. The bronze man found  empty machine gun
  shells, but, since these frequently lay where there  were no human tracks, he knew that they must have been
  dumped from  grabsacks attached to airplane machine guns.
  Monk and Ham's trail he finally found. He traced it  out. He came to the spot where they had been captured;
  and there he  found ominous signs.
  There were scarlet stains on the trampled leaves,  leakage from human bodies obviously. There were two
  indentations where  forms had fallen. Doc studied these. They about fitted the statures of  Monk and Ham.
  BEFORE CONTINUING his hunt, the bronze mar removed  from the dirigible lockers a small metal case
  equipped with carrying  straps. He carried this and continued his search. Tracks lead away from  the spot,
  footprints in profusion. He studied these closely. Nowhere  did he find a print which could be identified as
  belonging to Monk or  Ham. He would have recognized these had they been there. For the bronze  man
  retained in his remarkable memory accurate knowledge of the sizes  of footprints made by all of his men.
  He lost the trail. The fact that he did was no  reflection on his ability at following spoor. The footprints joined
  unexpectedly a jungle trail which seemed to be a route much in use by  soldiers and light artillery in going to
  and from the front lines.
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  A good deal of traffic had used the trail recently.  A squad of cavalry came up while Doc Savage searched and
  the bronze man  withdrew to cover to let the Delezonians pass. When they had gone, he  continued his hunt.
  It was hopeless. The party which had captured Monk  and Ham and might be carrying their bodies must have
  gone in one  direction or the other, but it was impossible to tell which. Their  footprints had been blotted out
  completely.
  Doc Savage returned to the spot where he had left  Long Tom, General Vigo and the plane. Nothing had
  happened there. Doc  took the controls while Long Tom untied General Vigo. The ship taxied  to the edge of
  the clearing, came about with one wheel braked, and  stood there with both wheels braked while the motor
  revved up. With the  wheelbrakes released, the craft was off like a shot. It took only a few  leaves off the trees
  as it got out of the clearing.
  Doc Savage flew directly to the trail, followed it  toward the rear for several miles. He saw marching soldiers,
  artillery,  more cavalry. He flew low and inspected them. No sign of Monk or Ham.
  The bronze man flew back toward the front, still  hunting, but with equal futility. He flew very low, but the
  plane was  not shot at.
  "Was the capture of Monk and Ham reported to you?"  Doc asked General Vigo.
  "No!" snapped General Vigo. He sounded too angry to  be lying.
  Doc Savage lifted the plane, headed it toward the  front and the republic of Santa Amoza, which lay beyond.
  Ugly General Vigo looked curious and uneasy.
  "What crazy things are you going to do now?" he  demanded.
  "We are going to try to promote a merger," Doc  Savage told him.
  "Merger?" The general dictator of Delezon scowled.  "Talk sense, señor."
  "Santa Amoza and Delezon have a common enemy," Doc  Savage told him.
  "I still do not understand, amigo," Vigo  growled.
  "The Inca in Gray," Doc Savage said.
  General Vigo blinked, wet his lips. He understood.
  "Si, si,"
  he said slowly. "But I do not understand this merger talk." 
  "Think," Doc Savage directed him. "Take everything  into consideration. The Inca in Gray has been harassing
  you. If you  will analyze the crimes of this mysterious master mind, you will find  that they have come at such
  times as it seemed you were on the point of  whipping Santa Amoza. Is that true?"
  General Vigo thought briefly. "It is. Caramba! It is."
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  "Exactly the same thing has happened in Santa  Amoza," Doc continued. "The Inca in Gray has been keeping
  this war  going."
  General Vigo performed a typical American gesture.  He scratched his head.
  "This thing, señor, she is just a bit too incredible  to believe," he mumbled.
  "The Inca in Gray has a tremendous organization,"  Doc Savage said. "This is no small thing. Whatever the
  Inca in Gray is  after, it is big and undoubtedly will affect the lives of many people."
  Vigo nodded, then barked, "What about the merger?"
  Doc Savage did not answer. He sent the plane toward  Santa Amoza.
  Chapter 13. CHEMISTRY
  A SMALL BUT RATHER important thing happened in the  jungle some miles from the wrecked dirigible
  after Doc Savage had taken  his plane out of sight. A pigeon arose. It did not behave as an  ordinary wild
  pigeon would have. It flew in circles until it had  attained a considerable height. Then it lined out—flew
  straight for  Santa Amoza and its capital city, Alcala.
  One who knew carrier pigeons would have recognized  this bird, from its actions, as belonging to that type.
  Monk and Ham had watched the bird released. Both  Monk and Ham were very much alive, although
  somewhat battered. They had  been beaten, but they had not been entirely on the receiving end of the
  punishment, it was evident from the battered countenances of several of  their captors. Some of these had
  noses which had been recently  bloodied. It was, as a matter of fact, the drippings from these  proboscides
  which Doc Savage had found.
  "They tied a note to that pigeon," Monk growled.  "Wonder what it was?"
  "How would I know?" Ham demanded sourly. "Did you  notice them showing it to me?"
  The two prisoners fell silent, listening. Four  guards were with them. All the rest of the party had departed, the
  departure being coincident with the appearance of a plane which had  cruised back and forth a few minutes
  ago.
  Monk and Ham, having been under the mat of the  jungle, had not seen the plane, hence had no way of
  knowing Doc Savage  had been in the craft. Nor did they have the slightest inkling that the  decreased number
  of their captors meant that some of them had dashed  off madly in an attempt to apprehend the bronze man as
  he examined the  dirigible. Thickness of the jungle had thwarted this attempt, the  expeditionary force not even
  getting close enough for Doc Savage to  become aware of their presence.
  Monk listened to the grunting of his pig, Habeas  Corpus. The shote was tied to a tree in the near−by jungle.
  His tether was a wire. It was rather long, and  Habeas, by moving to the end of it, could stand a few feet
  within the  tiny clearing where Monk and Ham were being held.
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  The shote appeared now, stood looking at his master,  Monk, big ears distended.
  Probably that was what gave Monk his big idea. The  homely chemist rolled over on his side, spoke in a low
  voice to Ham. He  used Mayan, a language which very few people outside Doc Savage and his  five aides
  understood.
  "Get ready for some fireworks," was the gist of what  Monk said in Mayan.
  Ham glared as if Monk had just told him they were  going to poison somebody, but that was only Ham's
  manner. He made it a  point never to be polite to Monk.
  Monk faced Habeas Corpus.
  "Señores," said the pig in Spanish. "I object to  this treatment."
  Nature has neglected to give pigs human voices, so  it was manifestly impossible that Habeas did the
  speaking; but it  certainly sounded as if the speech was coming from the porker.
  The guards were dumfounded. One even dropped his  rifle.
  "Si, si, amigos,"
  Habeas continued. "For an ordinary hog this sort of treatment  might be in order; but for one of my undeniable abilities—" 
  It was Monk, of course, throwing his voice. The  homely chemist had long ago learned ventriloquism from
  Doc Savage.
  The byplay might have been ridiculous, comical under  other circumstances, but here in the jungle, coming in
  the surprising  manner which it did, falling upon the ears of men who were probably  superstitious to start
  with, it had its effect.
  It gave Monk and Ham a chance to heave unnoticed to  their feet.
  MONK AND HAM were both bound, ankle and wrist, that,  by no means, meant they were incapable of
  movement. They could manage  quite respectable leaps, and they did so.
  Monk howled as he jumped. His war whoop was one that  might have been made by a dozen men. Monk
  always liked his fights  noisy. He crashed his bound hands down on the neck of a guard. The  fellow collapsed.
  Ham took a second guard in the same fashion,  striking the fellow near the base of the skull. Two of the
  captors were  left. Monk took one, his tremendous strength working to great  advantage. Ham got the last man
  down. The fellow was no easy victim. He  knew something of wrestling. He closed with Ham and began to do
  painful  things to the dapper lawyer's slender frame. Ham twisted frantically,  doubled, and suddenly managed
  to get the man's head between his knees.  That was perfect. Ham's bound ankles made it unnecessary to hook
  his  toes for leverage. He squeezed. The victim's tongue began to come out.
  Monk and Ham got to their feet almost together and  Monk grinned from ear to ear.
  "You gotta admit that hog has his uses," he said.
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  Ham sniffed. Rather than give praise to Habeas, he  kept silent. Monk went over and untied the wire from
  around the neck of  Habeas Corpus.
  "Let's see how you can run, hog," the homely chemist  grunted.
  They started to run through the jungle. They ran  without the slightest attention to direction, giving all of their
  attention to keeping the noise down, making speed. After perhaps a mile  of that, they devoted another half
  hour to wiping out their trail. They  did this by crawling through the matted tree tops, by wading in a small
  stream which they found, and by stepping where footprints would not  remain. They did this very assiduously,
  having had their fill of being  prisoners. They did not want their late captors to overhaul them.
  Came the inevitable time, however, when they had to  decide where they were to go.
  "Santa Amoza," Ham said.
  They agreed on that. At least, Monk did not object.
  They looked at the sun. The solar orb was just  enough off center to cause some doubt as what might be south,
  the  direction in which Santa Amoza lay.
  Monk leveled an arm, said, "That way."
  "Wrong," Ham objected. "It's this way."
  Ham pointed in a direction almost opposite from that  indicated by Monk.
  "You're crazy, you shyster," Monk accused. "Weren't  you ever a Boy Scout? Can'tcha tell directions?"
  They proceeded to express audibly and quite  vehemently various unflattering opinions of each other's
  abilities as  jungle guides. Neither was willing to admit the slightest chance that  the other might be right,
  which would not have surprised any one who  knew them.
  "A weak mind goes with a strong back," Ham told the  huge, apish Monk finally. "I am going my own way."
  "Go your own way, you animated law book," Monk  muttered. "I'm goin' where I know Santa Amoza is."
  Without a backward glance, Monk plunged ahead in the  direction he had chosen. Habeas Corpus, the pig,
  grunted unhappily,  eyed Ham with what seemed to be an air of expectance, then arose and  trotted after Monk,
  waving his oversize ears at the pestering flies.
  Ham, although he would never have admitted it, was  nonplused.
  SOUNDS OF MONK'S progress ceased. The jungle became  silent, and its silence was not pleasant. Ham, in
  the course of a few  minutes, fell to glancing about nervously, experiencing that not  uncommon feeling that he
  was being watched by unseen eyes. His lips  tightened. This was no country for one man to tackle alone.
  Neither  himself or Monk.
  Ham reached a decision. It hurt him, but he arose  and grudgingly turned his steps in the direction taken by
  Monk. There  was a faint trail left by the chemist and his redoubtable pig.
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  Ham was very alert. There was no sound about him;  but the impression he was being followed grew. Great
  jungle trees  overhead created an artificial twilight, and in the dimness objects  were difficult to discern with
  clarity. Ham stopped repeatedly to  listen.
  He heard a crashing ahead.
  "Monk," Ham opened his mouth to call, but closed it  grimly. Jungle terror or no jungle terror, he intended to
  have some fun  with Monk. He would devil the apish fellow, make him think he was being  attacked.
  Ham crowded on as noiselessly and as rapidly as  possible. He peered ahead intently, and soon he was
  rewarded.
  Through the trees he could see stooped massive  figures moving along the ground, pushing creepers and
  jungle vegetation  aside with long, hairy arms. The light was very indistinct; but that  stooped, apelike stride
  was unmistakable.
  Ham's smile spread. He picked up a rock, scuttled  forward into a thicket in which the apish form had
  vanished, drew back  his arm and hurled the rock. It smashed into the brush.
  The rock smacked through the leaves. It hit  something—undoubtedly flesh—with a thump that to Ham was a
  wholly  satisfying sound.
  Ham expected to hear a prompt howl from Monk. He was  disappointed. There came a high shriek, a great
  crashing of brush. The  noise came in Ham's direction, and Ham's eyes all but fell out. He  looked at what
  came out of growth.
  It was a monkey. But such a monkey.
  It was larger than a chimpanzee, but smaller than a  gorilla. It had no tail and its hair was rust colored.
  Strangest of all was the astounding resemblance  which the newcomer bore to Monk.
  The strange anthropoid advanced toward Ham, making  small mumbling sounds which were very like those
  Monk made on the  occasion when he talked to himself.
  "Scat!" Ham gasped, and retreated. He promptly had a  bit of bad luck. His heel caught in a root and he fell.
  The simian marvel bounded toward Ham.
  "Scat, drat you!" Ham exploded.
  Ham was frankly scared as the creature sprang upon  him, but his fright evaporated suddenly as the big simian
  flung its  arms around him and clung there, whimpering, scared.
  Ham looked intently into the visage of his new  friend. He could not help laughing.
  "Monk's twin brother or I hope to kiss that pig  Habeas," he gulped.
  The simian chattered amiably and Ham got to his  feet. The chattering made considerable noise.
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  "Go away," Ham directed. "One creature looking like  you around me is enough. Monk will not want any
  competition"
  The tailless anthropoid bounded up and down—a thing  Monk did when he was mad—and gave no indication
  of holding any thoughts  of departure.
  Ham scratched his head and ruminated aloud, "I  wonder how you tell one of these things to beat it."
  The simian made amiable chattering noises.
  "Scat," Ham directed. "Shoo. Sooey. Beat it.  Vamoose. Go along chop chop."
  None of this had any effect. Ham tried clucking as  he were driving a horse. That did not work either.
  Ham gave it up and fell to studying the creature. He  was struck once more by the uncanny resemblance which
  this jungle  dweller bore to the homely chemist, Monk.
  At that point came an interruption. Accompanied by a  faint noise of shuffling leaves and shifting weeds, the
  pig Habeas  Corpus appeared. The shote caught sight of the anthropoid. Habeas  promptly stopped. His big
  ears went like sails. He grunted rapidly.  Plainly, Habeas did not think a great deal of Ham's new companion.
  The feeling seemed to be mutual. The tailless simian  seized a stick, rushed at Habeas, and gave the porker a
  resounding  whack. Habeas fled, emitting a series of wild grunts.
  That decided Ham. He sat down and laughed, laughed  until tears came into his eyes. His predicament was
  completely  forgotten in the glowing light of a great decision.
  "I am going to keep that funny looking baboon as a  pet," he declared. "Boy, will that burn Monk up. And will
  it give that  pig, Habeas Corpus, something to do besides chew holes in my clothes  whenever he can find
  them."
  The tailless simian, having chased Habeas from the  vicinity, came ambling back, carrying a stick over one
  shoulder, gun  fashion. Ham struck an attitude, relaxed, scratched his head, then  straightened.
  "I christen thee Chemistry," he told the simian.
  The remarkable looking anthropoid clucked happily as  if the new name were perfectly agreeable.
  Laughing to himself, Ham struck out again on Monk's  trail.
  CHEMISTRY FOLLOWED Ham closely. When the jungle  floor became tough going, Chemistry took to the
  trees, but still kept  close, swinging along easily.
  "Come down here," Ham directed.
  Chemistry only sat on a limb and looked stubborn.  Ham gave it up and listened. There was no sound.
  Strangely enough, the  feeling that unseen eyes were watching him still persisted. Despite the  heat, he
  shivered slightly. Afraid of nothing he could see the dapper  lawyer was nevertheless experiencing vague
  misgivings, feelings which  he knew, having studied psychology, must be a result of the instinctive  fear of the
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  unknown, handed down from ancestors who had lived in such  jungles perhaps millions of years ago.
  Ham shook himself violently as if to rid himself of  the fear, then called loudly to the ape, Chemistry. The
  homely simian  was a companion at least.
  Instead of coming out of his tree, Chemistry  abruptly began to chatter amiably, then swung forward at a rapid
  pace.  Ham, for no good reason that he could explain, took out in pursuit.  Swinging overhead, unhampered by
  clinging vines and brush, Chemistry  made the better time. Occasionally he disappeared almost entirely. Ham
  expressed unkind opinions of Chemistry under his breath. He picked up a  short stick. It would be just as well
  if Chemistry, at this point,  learned some discipline.
  Something appeared ahead. In the vague light, it  looked like Chemistry. Ham let fly with his small club.
  "O−o−ow," howled a familiar voice. "Who done that?"
  "Monk," Ham called, "it's me!"
  "It would be," Monk said disgustedly. "Fine  business, throwin' clubs at me. It's a wonder I didn't shoot you."
  "Didn't know it was you," Ham snapped, and added so  as not to be misunderstood, "If I had, I'd have thrown
  a bigger club."
  "Who'd you think it was?" Monk growled.
  "Chemistry," Ham said and burst into laughter.
  "Chemistry?" Monk exploded. Then he eyed Ham  intensely. "You gone crazy?"
  A frightened squealing from Habeas Corpus  interrupted them. Both men wheeled, ran a few paces through
  the jungle,  and came upon a strange sight. Chemistry had captured Habeas Corpus. He  was holding the pig,
  and diligently searching his hide for sign of  interesting vermin.
  Monk emitted a roar, picked up the most convenient  stick. Ham grasped his hairy arm, restraining him.
  "Wait, Monk!" he barked.
  "Wait nothing," Monk gritted. "I'll teach that funny  lookin' baboon to pick on Habeas!"
  "That baboon," Ham snapped, "is Chemistry."
  "What?" Monk squawked.
  "Chemistry is my new pet," Ham declared. "And  striking him is the same as striking me."
  Just what action Monk would have taken never did  develop, for at that moment Habeas managed to bite
  Chemistry, an  expedient which resulted in his escape.
  "Chemistry," Ham said, "is some animal, don't you  think?" 
  Monk exhibited symptoms of a spasm.
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  "Don't tell me you're gonna keep that—that—thing.  Why, he looks like nothing else on this green earth."
  "I mistook him for you at first," Ham said pointedly.
  Monk squawled, "I won't stand for it."
  "You'll not only stand for it," Ham retorted.  "You'll like it."
  Habeas shoved his nose out of the jungle. Chemistry  jumped at the pig. Habeas hastily took flight.
  Monk began rolling up his sleeves.
  "That blasted thing don't go with us," he said. "If  I gotta, I'll take both you and your baboon apart—"
  Chemistry emitted a sudden weird squeaking sound and  leaped toward Ham. He crouched beside the dapper
  lawyer, knuckles  resting on the ground, little eyes roving nervously over the  surrounding jungle. He was
  scared. An instant later, Habeas Corpus  scuttled out of the undergrowth and stopped near Monk's feet.
  "Blazes!" Monk breathed. "Somethin's around here."
  They both carried rifles which they had taken from  their late guards. They lifted these weapons, waited,
  listened.
  "Whatcha reckon it is?" whispered Monk.
  Ham shook his head, and, in a whisper equally as  thin, said. "Don't know. But maybe—" He broke off
  suddenly. 
  There came a dull noise, a whistle and a plop.
  HAM HAD BEEN standing beside a tree. He ducked  wildly, slamming flat upon the ground. An inch from
  where his neck had  been, in the bole of the tree, there quivered a tiny, feathered dart.
  "Poisoned arrow!" Monk bellowed angrily. He started  to leap forward.
  "Don't," Ham yelled. "They may be all around us." 
  Monk halted, stood perfectly still, rifle ready.  There was intense silence. Chemistry broke it with a shrill,
  almost  human cry. The unusual simian leaped, wrapped small, hairy arms around  Ham's head.
  Ham later decided that Chemistry had made a gesture  at protecting him—at least so he took occasion to
  assure Monk; but at  the moment, all that Ham could make out was that Chemistry's embrace  was keeping him
  from seeing.
  "Blazes!" Monk barked suddenly, somewhat horribly. 
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  Ham freed himself from Chemistry's embrace. He had  been blinded for only a moment; but unpleasant things
  had happened in  that interval.
  Completely surrounding them, having materialized  like ghosts, stood a ring of natives. These were small
  men, somewhat  wizened in their faces. In their hands was the deadly blowgun used by  the uncivilized
  dwellers in these jungles.
  "Don't start shooting," Ham gasped.
  "Think I'm a sucker?" Monk growled. "We ain't got  enough shells to take even a fourth of these little guys."
  Chapter 14. MORE TO DIE
  A NATIVE, somewhat taller and a bit more intelligent  looking than the rest, stepped forward. He wore a
  fierce scowl, and he  jabbed his arms several times at Chemistry. Then he spoke suddenly,  rapidly.
  The native's rattling jargon left Monk's face blank.
  "He says to drop our weapons," Ham told the homely  chemist, and let his own rifle slip from his hand.
  "Good night," Monk grunted. "What language is he  talkin'?"
  "Listen closely," Ham retorted. "If you can't pick  out enough words to give you the meaning, you're as dumb
  as you look."
  The native leader was cackling again. Monk listened  intently. From an expression of deepest gloom his
  features changed to  radiance, almost joyful.
  "Mayan!" he exploded. "It's not the same Mayan  language we know, but it's Mayan."
  "Right," Ham agreed.
  "Then we're among friends," Monk chortled.
  The leader of the natives was barking again. His  syllables were rapid, explosive. He lunged suddenly, and
  captured  Chemistry. The homely simian chattered and squeaked but did not  struggle violently. In fact,
  Chemistry seemed familiar with their  captors.
  Men stepped forward, surrounded Monk and Ham and  seized them firmly.
  "Friends, did you say?" Ham asked Monk sardonically.  "Oh, yes, you can notice it very plainly."
  Monk scowled first at Ham, then at Chemistry.
  "It was that blasted thing you picked as a pet," he  declared. "It squawked and hollered and these guys heard it.
  That's how  they found us."
  The natives were chattering volubly now.
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  "Listen," Ham told Monk.
  Monk strained his ears, an intense pucker on his  brow. He could pick up quite a few words.
  "Chemistry seems to be their sacred ape or  somethin’, as near as I can make out," Monk grunted.
  "Exactly," Ham said. "And that is why our lives have  been spared. The sacred ape was friendly with us.
  That's why they  spared us."
  "You made that last up," Monk accused. "They didn't  say nothin' of the kind."
  The argument was broken up by their captors. Ropes  made of twisted vines were wrapped around their
  chests, imprisoning  their arms. Neither Monk nor Ham attempted to escape. Not only would it  have been
  useless but probably fatal. Those blowguns and poisoned darts  were not things to be trifled with.
  Ham now spoke attempting to use the guttural jargon  of the natives. They seemed to understand him, but they
  did not give  him the courtesy of an answer. The leader of the little men only  shrugged his shoulders.
  "If Doc were only with us," Monk grumbled, "I'll bet  he could get some action."
  FOUR HOURS LATER, Monk and Ham were in no better  position. They were very near the exhaustion
  point. Their little  captors had kept traveling at full speed, and had seemed not greatly  affected by the terrific
  heat, whereas Monk and Ham had all but melted  down.
  Chemistry and Habeas Corpus were still having their  difficulties. Chemistry, long arms trailing, stalked along
  keeping  close to Ham, only separating himself from the dapper lawyer to set off  in pursuit of Habeas at
  intervals.
  A subtle change began coming over the small natives  and it was not induced by their frequent glances at the
  sun which was  flirting with the horizon and giving promise of the coolness of night.
  The reason for their excitement became evident a  moment later. They were nearing a village. It was
  obviously a temporary  settlement. Bamboo was the principal structural material of the huts.  The roofs were
  thatched, and the floors consisted of platforms a few  feet off the ground, this latter structural detail no doubt
  an  expedient to discourage snakes and small animals. None of the huts had  walls.
  The leader of the natives jabbered. Small but strong  hands seized Monk and Ham, propelled them toward a
  hut which was in the  approximate mathematical center of the village.
  "Notice anything strange?" Monk whispered.
  "Yes." Ham nodded. "There isn't a woman about the  place. This is purely a war party."
  "A war party of the Inca in Gray, señor,"  interrupted a new voice in Spanish. It was not a strange voice. They
  had heard it before. Both Monk and Ham started, spun.
  Standing beside one of the jungle huts was a man—one  of the gang which had captured them when they got
  out of the crashed  dirigible. This fellow made a small gesture. Several other men  appeared. These, too, had
  been members of the party from which Monk and  Ham had escaped.
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  "You are surprised, señores?" a man queried.
  "Bugs on you," Monk growled.
  The man showed them his teeth.
  "You will wait here for a time," he said. "Shortly  you will be joined by Doc Savage."
  Monk started. "What's that?"
  "The great Doc Savage will be with you before long,"  said the other. "The Inca in Gray has planned it thus,
  and the plans of  the Inca in Gray have a way of working."
  "What do you mean?" Monk growled.
  "Shut up, Monk," said Ham. "Don't give him the  satisfaction of being able to stand there and brag."
  Monk and Ham were conducted to a hut, one side of  which was shaded by a curtain formed by stacking large
  palm fronds.  This curtain prevented their seeing inside the hut. Their wrists and  ankles were bound. They
  were lifted, tossed onto the upraised floor.
  "Good evening, señores," said a weary feminine voice.
  Monk turned his head, found himself looking at one  of the most beautiful young women he had ever seen.
  She was tied as  securely as were Ham and himself.
  "Who are you?" the homely chemist exploded.
  "Señorita Anita Carcetas," said the young woman, who  was obviously a prisoner.
  MONK GAVE EVERY inclination of a man temporarily  stunned.
  "The daughter of the president of Santa Amoza," the  homely chemist blurted.
  "Yes," said the young woman. "And you?"
  Monk took another look at the young woman and this  had the effect of getting his voice. Monk was very
  susceptible to  feminine beauty; and it was Ham, a little less vulnerable, who spoke.
  "The missing link here is Colonel Andrew Blodgett  Mayfair, better known as Monk," he said. "I am Major
  General Theodore  Marley Brooks, although I am usually called Ham, a nickname I do not  like. We are
  associated with Doc Savage."
  The girl was seized with sudden excitement.
  "Then Doc Savage is in Santa Amoza?" she gasped.
  "Or Delezon," Ham admitted. "We do not know for sure  where he is."
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  The young woman strove to sit erect, but failed.
  "You think he will be able to aid us in our present  predicament?" she asked.
  "Of course he will," declared Ham, knowing that was  the proper thing to say.
  Monk had discovered that, if he took his eyes from  the girl's attractive features, his voice would return. He
  did so and  asked a question.
  "Will you tell us," he requested, "what this is all  about?" 
  The girl nodded and spoke swiftly. Words fairly  poured from her lips. She told them about the depredations
  of the Inca  in Gray, dwelt upon the mystery behind the sinister master mind's  manipulations. She sketched
  briefly some of the rather hideous crimes  committed by the Inca in Gray.
  In particular did she describe the fantastic death  of the gray dust.
  Monk took this all in with great interest. It was  their first opportunity, incidentally, to receive a general story
  of  what was behind the affair. Both Monk and Ham nodded comprehension.
  "The Inca in Gray has been trying to get us out of  the way," Monk said.
  "And doing fairly well at it," Ham added.
  A faint noise came from outside the hut, from the  jungle near by, in fact, a small scurrying sound. Monk's
  head came up  but he could not see what made the noise.
  "What about this death of the gray dust?" Ham asked  the girl.
  The young woman shuddered. "It's—it's horrible. I  saw one victim of it. There was nothing to show where the
  dust came  from, how it got there. It was simply there. The expression on the dead  man's face—he must have
  perished horribly." She shuddered several times.
  The scurrying and fluttering in the brush broke out  again. There was a shrill squeal. Monk lunged against his
  bonds,  fighting to free himself, but getting nowhere.
  "They're tryin' to catch Habeas," he groaned.
  The squealing and grunting became louder as did the  smashing about in the brush.
  "Get heem!" yelled a voice in bad English.
  Habeas Corpus dived into the hut, took shelter  behind Monk. An instant later Chemistry lumbered in,
  grabbed Habeas and  he held the shote in close embrace.
  The pig hunters now appeared. They were the white  men. A few of the natives were with them. They
  approached Habeas  purposefully.
  But the natives got between the white men and  Chemistry and Habeas. They jabbered excitedly.
  Ham listened to the cackling conversation, then  glanced at Monk, panted, "Get that."
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  "Yeah," Monk growled. "They say your dang baboon  obviously don't want Habeas hurt. So therefore these
  other guys have  got to leave Habeas alone."
  "Chemistry," Ham said, "has probably saved Habeas'  life."
  "I hate to admit it," Monk mumbled. "But I believe  you're right."
  There was tension for a few moments, the white men  plainly angered at the objections of the natives. The fact
  that they  were greatly outnumbered was something they evidently kept in mind.  They backed down,
  shrugging, showing forced grins.
  Habeas showed his gratitude for being saved by  biting Chemistry's rather humanlike big toe, which made it
  necessary  for the pig to flee wildly into the jungle.
  "Habeas," Ham said, "has about the same disposition  as the guy that owns him."
  IT MUST HAVE BEEN half an hour later, and the sun  was nearly down, when the arrival of a messenger
  was observed. This  fellow spoke rapidly. There was a hum of grim excitement. Natives and  white men
  approached the hut where the prisoners lay.
  The fellow who could speak Spanish, bad English,  came forward and addressed the captives.
  "Word has come from our master, The Inca in Gray,"  the man said. "You are to he consigned to pits."
  Monk looked puzzled, eyed Ham, demanded, "What does  he mean—pits?"
  The girl, Señorita Anita Carcetas, emitted a short  strangled cry. "The ant pit."
  "Huh?" Monk eyed her.
  "You—you have heard of it," she choked. "A  pit—ants—honey—"
  Hardened though he was, Monk felt himself grow  chilly. He had heard of that method of torture, one used by
  only the  most ferocious of barbarians. It was a slow horrible thing, incredibly  cruel. It kept a man alive hour
  after hour, while he was being  literally eaten alive.
  Ham had evidently heard about the ant pits, too.  Pallor was on his not unhandsome features. But he said
  nothing.
  Rough hands seized the prisoners, yanked them to  their feet, pulled them into the red light of the dusk. Monk
  saw that  the girl was being brought along also.
  "Hey!" he bellowed. "You gonna do that to a woman?"
  "It is the word of the Inca in Gray," said the white  man. 
  But, at this time, the messenger thrust himself  forward. He spoke volubly and vehemently.
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  As a result of the messenger's exhortations, the  girl was separated from the other two prisoners, and placed
  back on the  raised hut floor.
  The Inca in Gray, it seemed, had not only not  ordered her death, but had given specific instructions that she
  be kept  alive. Monk and Ham were marched away.
  "Adios," the girl called after them in a voice that  she tried to keep firm. "You are as I imagined Doc Savage's
  men would  be—very brave."
  "This is gonna come out all right," Monk managed to  shout back at her.
  They came to a clearing. This was not large, but was  absolutely bare, and it was hot, insufferably hot,
  although the sun had  all but disappeared.
  The torture pit was in the center of this clearing.  Men who had gone ahead were scooping it out. There was
  nothing  particularly terrible or ominous about its appearance, it being merely  a shallow hole dug in the baked
  ground.
  Stout pegs were driven into the bottom of the pit  when it was completed.
  Rough hands seized Monk and Ham, shoved them down  into the depression. They were shoved flat. Their
  ankles and wrists  were untied, then tied again, this time to the stakes. They now lay on  their backs,
  spread−eagled, helpless.
  The leader of the white men stood at the pit edge.  He seized a short spear from one of the natives. This did
  not have a  poisoned tip. He flicked it down. It came so close to Monk that it  nicked the flesh of one arm. The
  homely chemist gave no sign.
  "Diablo,"
  howled the white man. "Thees ees no essport. Bring on thees honey." 
  Small natives appeared carrying jars. These held the  honey. Streams of the stuff were poured back and forth
  across Monk and  Ham, and up and down the sides of the pit.
  "You understand what thees ees for?" asked the white  man who spoke bad English. The fellow's face was a
  grinning, hideous  mask. It contrasted starkly with the visage of the little natives.
  The white man was enjoying this. The natives were  not.
  The men carrying the honey jars now walked away  through the jungle, streaming the sweetish substance after
  them,  leaving trail.
  HAM LOOKED at the homely Monk and demanded, "Know  anything about ants?"
  "No," said Monk. "And I don't care about starting my  education now."
  The white man with the sadistic complex laughed at  them. 
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  "You will learn much about ants," he said. "They  like honey. They will follow this trail. They will come upon
  something  they also like—live meat."
  The little men came back with the honey jars empty  and grunted that they distributed the stuff in long lines
  through the  jungle, where it was almost certain to be encountered by ants.
  The white man growled an order, and they all marched  away.
  Monk ruminated aloud, "Wonder what kind of ants they  got down here?"
  "Army ants," Ham told him. "I've read about them.  They eat everything. They march over you. They cover
  your whole body.  You know how one ant stings when it bites you. Well, thousands of them—"
  "You can save the rest of that," Monk told him. "I  got an imagination of my own."
  There was silence. It was broken once by the rumble  of a jungle drum, close at hand. Evidently, the small
  natives were  signaling in this fashion. A few minutes later, from the infinite  distance, another drum rumbled.
  The sounds were throbbing and seemed to  adhere to no particular pattern, but both Monk and Ham knew that
  the  sounds conveyed a message. It was always mysterious, these drum  languages of the jungle people. White
  men seldom fathomed them.
  "Look," Ham barked suddenly.
  It seemed they had been there for hours, yet it was  not yet intensely dark, which meant that not a great deal of
  time had  passed, since twilight did not last long in the tropics.
  A single ant was crawling around the edge of the  pit, following the honey. It worked downward slowly,
  seeming to have no  particular idea. It came close to the two bound captives.
  Monk, with his hairy fingers, managed to pick up a  small quantity of dirt. He flung it at the ant. The insect
  scurried  away. It seemed to have a purpose now. It went directly over the edge  of the pit and disappeared.
  "You made a wrong move then," Ham told Monk.
  "Why?" the homely chemist demanded.
  "Did you ever read anything about these army ants?"  Ham demanded.
  "No," Monk said.
  "They have ant scouts," Ham told him. "You should  have let that insect come close, then made sure that it
  didn't leave to  get its fellows."
  Monk wet his lips. He felt suddenly cold. This was  strange. For the heat in the little clearing must be terrific.
  Only a  few times in his eventful career had Monk felt as he did now, and  always that had been when death
  was close.
  "The Inca in Gray!" Monk mumbled. "Damn him, whoever  he is!"
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  Chapter 15. POLITICS
  THE INCA IN GRAY was a cloud that had covered  Delezon and Santa Amoza. Invisible this cloud, true, but
  so real that  it had touched every citizen of the two republics. The Inca in Gray had  become a symbol of terror,
  just as the bat is the symbol of the night.  The Inca in Gray was as symbolic of death as the skull and
  crossbones.  Yet none knew what he—if the Inca in Gray was a man—thought. Never was  motive or goal
  cloaked in more diabolic mystery.
  General Fernanez Vigo was expressing his personal  opinion of the Inca in Gray.
  "A clever fiend," he said.
  Doc Savage, Long Tom said nothing. The bronze man  was flying the plane. It was General Vigo's private
  ship, and it had  just taken off in the dusk from an outlying spot in the jungle. The  ship, the three men had
  waited there all afternoon, waiting for  darkness.
  The waiting had puzzled General Vigo. He had asked  questions about it.
  "Our purpose demands that we reach Alcala, capital  of Santa Amoza, unobserved," Doc Savage told him.
  ALCALA WAS a vaguely phosphorescent haze on the  earth below. The haze brightened. Separate lights
  became discernible  although there were not many of these, and, no doubt, they would be  extinguished before
  long, due to fear of air raids.
  Doc Savage selected a spot well beyond the outskirts  of the city. He evidently remembered it from his
  previous flight over  the metropolis. It was a vegetable field, smooth enough for a landing.
  The plane swooped down, three−pointed perfectly.  There was only a slight drumming as the wheels bounced
  over ruts made  by vegetable rows. The ship stopped, so perfect was the judgment with  which it had been
  landed, directly in the shadow of a cluster of large  trees. It was not likely to be seen there.
  "Any houses close?" Long Tom demanded.
  "None," Doc Savage replied.
  General Vigo growled, "You must know the country  around Alcala pretty well."
  "Picking up secluded spots such as this" Doc Savage  told him, "becomes a habit when you have been in
  trouble as much as  myself."
  PRESIDENT CARCETAS, elected chief executive of Santa  Amoza, was an old man. He was also a broken
  man. His spirit was  shattered. His morale was at the lowest of ebbs.
  This was somewhat surprising, because President  Carcetas' past life had been a hectic one, a violent one. He
  had fought  in revolutions, always on the side which he believed to be right. Twice  he had been exiled, only to
  return in triumph, finally to reach this  highest position, that of president of his beloved Santa Amoza. He had
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  always been a fair man; but no one had ever accused him of softness or  lack of courage. There had been those
  who claimed he had no soft spot,  that he was an iron man.
  They had been wrong, and the evidence was before  them, if they cared to look. The loss of his daughter had
  wrecked  President Carcetas. It had pulled the plug of the cask of his courage.
  President Carcetas sat alone now in his study in the  presidential palace. There was a knock at the door and,
  without looking  up, he said, "Come in."
  War minister Junio Serrato entered. Serrato's  shoulders were back and he walked sprucely. He looked
  confident, sure  of himself. He looked a bit proud also, and there was reason for that.  For he was now the Iron
  Man of Santa Amoza. He was the power behind the  throne. If he played his cards right, he was a power
  greater than the  throne.
  "The executive committee is holding a special night  meeting," he said. "They await your presence."
  President Carcetas turned slowly in his chair and  looked at the war minister. President Carcetas' eyes were
  those of an  old and beaten man, either that or he was an excellent actor.
  "What is the executive committee discussing?" he  asked.
  "You have forgotten?" war minister Serrato  exclaimed, and looked surprised. "It is a matter of financing
  further  purchases of war material. Count Hoffe's company, as you know, has  demanded that we strengthen
  our credit."
  President Carcetas seemed to think that over in a  semidetached way. He nodded slowly.
  "I will be there shortly," he said.
  War minister Serrato hesitated, then shrugged  elaborately. "Very well," he said and went out.
  President Carcetas took his head in his hands and  sat there. He might have been engaged in deep thought.
  Once he got up  and went to a small mirror, examined himself.
  The lights went out.
  The lights were out all over the presidential  palace, in fact. There was not much confusion at first. Then
  guards  began to scamper around, searching for the source of the trouble.  Flunkies ran here and there.
  Finally the light came on.
  An orderly ran to the door of President Carcetas'  office, knocked, was bidden to enter, and did so.
  "I wished to make sure that your excellency was  safe," he said.
  "Thank you," said President Carcetas.
  President Carcetas now sat before the desk. About  his shoulders was a long cape which he wore on state
  occasions, and  which had been hanging on an ornamental tree near the door. This cape  was very long; it was
  crimson lined; and bore only a single decoration,  a design which indicated the wearer was supreme
  commander of the armies  of Santa Amoza. That ornament was a lie as far as present conditions  went, for war
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  minister Serrato was really the one who led the armies.
  The orderly departed.
  President Carcetas now did a strange thing. He went  to the mirror again, began to examine his own features,
  exactly as he  had been doing when the lights went off. He did not seem to be  satisfied. He drew from his
  clothing a pencil of the type used by  actors. With this he carefully added a line to his countenance.
  President Carcetas was deliberately making himself  look older.
  Satisfied, he turned out the lights and left the  presidential mansion.
  THE EXTRAORDINARY meeting of the executive committee  of Santa Amoza was in full progress. This
  actually meant that the full  government was functioning. Santa Amoza had a parliament, with the
  conventional upper and lower houses, but this was not in session now;  and, when it was not in session,
  governmental functions, even those of  extraordinary nature, were handled by the executive committee. There
  was an air of grimness over the place.
  Arrayed around the room were military guards—and  three spectators. The spectators were Ace Jackson,
  Count Hoffe, and the  oil man, Don Kurrell.
  War minister Serrato had the speaking platform. He  had a harsh, rasping voice such as a fighting man might
  be expected to  have.
  "I have just come from President Carcetas," the war  minister was saying. "He will join us shortly, but, before
  he comes, I  wish to make a request of you gentlemen. President Carcetas has just  suffered a great shock. The
  misfortune to his daughter has been almost  more than he could bear. He is, I deeply regret to say, not himself.
  His condition is something that you men can understand. I know you  gentlemen, understanding this, will
  make the proper allowances."
  A clever man was war minister Serrato. He knew that  President Carcetas was dearly beloved. He had many
  friends. These  friends would be quick to spring upon any one whom they suspected of  opposing the president,
  or conspiring to take away his authority. War  minister Serrato was by far too clever a man to antagonize
  those  friends, especially if he could gain his ends by exercising the proper  amount of guile.
  There was a stir at the entrance. All eyes went in  that direction. Many kindly smiles came on weary faces.
  "President Carcetas," some one breathed.
  President Carcetas came forward, still encased in  the long gray robe. He walked slowly as if he bore an
  infinite burden,  and he did not remove the cloak.
  He walked straight to the speakers' platform,  mounted it, faced the audience and lifted his arms, commanding
  attention. He began to speak in excellent, distinct Spanish. He was  noted as an orator. Never had he spoken in
  a manner that carried more  weight.
  "I have something to say," he said. "Please listen  carefully, for it is very important."
  One of those proverbial pin−drop silences followed  his words.
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  "We have been fighting our neighbor republic of  Delezon for almost four years," he continued. "Many brave
  men have died  on both sides. The murder of one of our border patrol, presumably by  Delezon soldiers, was
  the cause. It was a case of our honor demanding  satisfaction. If there was honor to be avenged, gentlemen, it
  has been  avenged. If there was pride to be assuaged, it has been assuaged. And  yet the fighting has gone on
  and on."
  He paused. It was so quiet that no one seemed to be  breathing.
  "Gentlemen," said President Carcetas, "we have been  fools. We have been pawns. We have been like
  chessmen, played by a  sinister master."
  War minister Serrato broke the silence.
  "What do you mean?"
  "That first border killing that started the war was  not committed by soldiers of Delezon, there is every reason
  to  believe," said President Carcetas. "It was committed by another, a  sinister master mind, who was
  deliberately scheming to start the war.  And he succeeded. That was the first touch of a sinister hand. But it
  was not the last. Time and again things have happened which have kept  the war in progress. This master
  chess player, this dread monster of  greed, who for some unknown purpose of his own has done his best to
  keep the conflict in progress, is a name well known to most of you."
  He paused for the proper dramatic effect.
  "I mean the Inca in Gray," he said bluntly.
  There was a pronounced murmur from his audience. Men  looked at their neighbors. Quite a few lips were
  moistened.
  "The Inca in Gray has been working in Delezon,  exactly as he has here in Santa Amoza," continued President
  Carcetas.
  "How do you know that?" demanded war minister  Serrato.
  Instead of answering, the president of Santa Amoza  held up his arms so as to command greater silence.
  "I will ask a man to speak to you now who knows  conditions in Delezon, as no one else does," he said.
  He paused again.
  "I present," he said, "General Fernanez Vigo,  dictator−general of Delezon."
  General Vigo walked from the door to the speakers'  platform.
  THE SHOCK of he words and the unexpected appearance  of General Vigo created much the same effect as
  would have been secured  by a mass electrocution. Eyes and mouths flew open to their widest. A  few persons
  half arose in their chairs. Yet, so general was the shock,  that not a move was made to intercept General Vigo.
  General Vigo began to speak the instant he was upon  the platform.
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  "We have a common enemy—the Inca in Gray," he said  bluntly.
  The words were so unexpected, the mere presence of  the commander of the enemy forces so astounding, that
  no one said a  word or made a move.
  "I am here to demand something, gentlemen," said  General Vigo. "I demand a truce. I demand more than that.
  I demand  peace. And I demand your cooperation. We must join hands, and together  stamp out the
  organization of this mysterious monster who calls himself  the Inca in Gray."
  General Vigo's words carried great weight. Squat,  heavyset, his ugly face set in firm lines, he was a figure to
  command  respect. The very unthinking courage in his manner was also something  that impressed.
  General Vigo continued speaking.
  "This war has been a hideous mistake," he said.  "Peaceful neighbors have been turned into bloodthirsty
  enemies through  no fault of their own. I ask you, gentlemen, to coöperate in stamping  out this Inca in Gray."
  He surveyed them. The startling effrontery of his  presence was still holding them spellbound.
  "There will be no difficulty over peace terms," he  said. "Delezon demands nothing. Further than that, we will
  do our bit  toward making restitution toward those who have lost most in this  ill−famed struggle."
  It was a very nice speech. It was having its effect.  Should General Vigo say a few more words along this line,
  and he had  them all ready to speak, a mass vote might well end the war,
  But General Vigo's speech was never finished. Came a  scuffle from the door, shrill cries. A man was trying to
  get in, a  wizened, pock−faced fellow who wore civilian clothing. The guards had  grabbed him, were holding
  him.
  It was Don Kurrell, the oil man, who acted first. He  sprang toward the struggling group. The man who lad
  tried to get in was  gasping out something. He had difficulty ejecting the words, for one of  the guards had a
  hand over his mouth.
  But Don Kurrell understood what the fellow was  trying to say.
  Kurrell spun, lifted his voice to a piercing scream  that carried to every portion of the committee room.
  "You are being tricked," he screamed. "The man who  spoke to you first is not President Carcetas."
  Every one heard those words. The import of them  silenced the uproar which had started.
  Don Kurrell bellowed. "Examine the man who looks  like President Carcetas. You will find that his hair is not
  white. It  is powdered."
  It was war minister Serrato who acted now. He  chanced to be standing very close to the man whom they all
  had taken  for President Carcetas. Serrato sprang forward. He was very quick.
  Serrato grabbed at the white hair with one hand,  snatched at the cloak with the other. The results were
  illuminating.  The hair was indeed made white by powder. And the cloak, coming away  from the figure,
  revealed not the wasted, gaunt form of President  Carcetas, but the figure of a bronze giant who obviously had
  tremendous  physical strength.
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  The bronze man was recognized instantly. 
  "Doc Savage!" the shout went up.
  Chapter 16. FLIGHT AND PURSUIT
  TUMULT SEIZED the committee room. Those present were  already emotionally tense. They blew up. They
  went to pieces.
  Doc Savage, abandoning any pretense of further  impersonation of President Carcetas, spun to General Vigo.
  "Look sharp!" rapped the bronze man. "We are in real  trouble!"
  General Vigo used an expression which he must have  gotten from American movies. "You're telling me?"
  The mob surged toward them. General Vigo found  himself grasped by the arms, but struck about furiously,
  freed himself  and retreated. Doc Savage was beside him. They managed to reach a  window which was
  shuttered. They broke the glass and tore the shutter  loose. Guns crashed behind them as they dived through.
  "Kill Vigo!" voices screamed behind them. "Kill Doc  savage! They tried to trick us!"
  "Find President Carcetas!" other men screamed.
  Doc Savage and General Vigo ran. A slight figure  joined them almost immediately. It was Long Tom.
  "What went wrong?" Long Tom demanded.
  "That is somewhat of a mystery," Doc Savage said.  "Some one appeared who knew that I was masquerading
  as President  Carcetas. The fellow had the look of one of the Inca in Gray's men. He  has been about before."
  Long Tom grunted, "But how'd they know about  President Carcetas? Nobody saw us grab him in his study.
  And we left  him bound and gagged."
  "Some one must have happened up on him," Doc Savage  said.
  The three dashed down narrow streets, doubling to  the right, then to the left. Abruptly, Doc Savage stopped.
  "Long Tom, General Vigo," he suggested, "go get  President Carcetas. At least see if he has freed himself.
  Meet me at  the plane."
  "Right," Long Tom agreed. "But what do you plan?"
  It was not often that Doc Savage explained moves  which he contemplated; but he did so now.
  "Don Kurrell," he said, "the fellow acted strangely.  In fact, he gave himself away."
  "You mean that Don Kurrell is the Inca in Gray?"  Long Tom demanded.
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  Doc Savage did not answer. He was gone into the  night. The bronze man moved swiftly, furtively. He took
  the housetops  and traveled there whenever he could, because it was safest.
  He was retracing his steps to the meeting place of  the general executive committee.
  The bronze man reached the building. There was great  excitement in the vicinity. Angry, shouting groups
  paced about. Doc  watched.
  He saw no sign of war minister Serrato, Ace Jackson,  Don Kurrell, or Count Hoffe.
  Then, some five minutes later, he discovered Don  Kurrell. 
  The short oil man was standing on the outskirts of  the crowd, unconsciously indulging in his small habit of
  drawing  himself up on tiptoes to seem taller. His eyes were very busy. He was  plainly watching proceedings.
  Don Kurrell, after a time, wheeled, looked about as  if to make sure no one was watching him, then sidled
  away. He turned  into a darkened side street. He walked very rapidly, looking back often.
  Don Kurrell, if he were actually trying to ascertain  if any one was following him, was a novice at the game.
  Not once did he  observe the shadowy figure that was Doc Savage keeping close tabs on  his progress.
  DON KURRELL, it was evident, had some very definite  destination, and was in a hurry to get there. He
  confined his pace to a  walk only so long as he was in the excitement zone where there was  likelihood that
  soldiers, seeing a running figure, might shoot and ask  questions afterward. Once he was clear, Don Kurrell
  ran. For a small  fat man, he had very good wind. He reached the edge of the city without  being challenged.
  He still ran, down a rutted lane at first, but soon  he left the lane to cut across truck farm land which had been
  cleared  from the jungle surrounding Alcala. He covered some three miles.
  His final destination proved to be an enormous barn,  exactly such a building as might have been found on a
  prosperous  Missouri farm. The barn looked innocent enough, but appearances are  deceiving.
  Planes were being wheeled out of the barn. There  were three of these ships, cabin jobs. They were of the type
  which had  wings that could be folded back against the fuselage. This explained  how three of them could be
  stored in a barn.
  Don Kurrell ran directly to the group about the  planes. 
  Doc Savage, of necessity, used caution in  approaching the spot. Before he was close, the wings of the planes
  had  been hinged out in position, and most of the passengers were aboard.  Two of the motors had started. A
  third motor now started.
  Doc Savage tensed. For an instant, he seemed on the  point of rushing forward.
  Then a man threw a lighted flare from one of the  planes. This was evidently to furnish a degree of
  illumination for the  take−off. The flare lay on the ground and burned brightly.
  It would disclose Doc Savage before he could come  near the plane. The bronze man remained where he was.
  It was the only  wise course.
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  The light also illuminated with remarkable  distinctness the features of those seated in the planes' cabins.
  Some of the occupants of the three craft were  swarthy, evil−faced fellows, plainly satellites of the Inca in
  Gray.
  Some faces in the planes, however, belonged to the  last persons who might reasonably have been expected to
  be seen there.
  President Carcetas, Ace Jackson, Count Hoffe, Don  Kurrell, all were seated in the planes.
  The ships were in motion. The pilots were not  unskilled. They took just the proper run, then lifted the ships
  off,  climbed in conservative fashion, and were lost in the night.
  The three ships roared away in the direction of  Delezon.
  LONG TOM and General Vigo were beside General Vigo's  private plane where it had been left outside
  Alcala when Doc Savage  joined them.
  "We did not find President Carcetas," said Long Tom.
  "Some one must have found him and freed him,"  General Vigo added.
  That was no surprise to Doc Savage. With a few crisp  sentences he conveyed to General Vigo and Long Tom
  what he had seen—the  three planes, their occupants.
  "Ace Jackson was aboard?" Long Tom gulped. "I can't  believe it."
  General Vigo swore in Spanish.
  "I know Count Hoffe personally," he growled. "The  man sold munitions to both Delezon and Santa Amoza.
  But it is hard for  me to believe that he was working with the Inca in Gray."
  "Ace Jackson was aboard?" Long Tom gulped. "I can't  understand this."
  "The whole affair is coming to a head," Doc Savage  told them. "Come. We have very little time to spare."
  They got into the plane, and Doc Savage lifted it  into the air. He did not turn on the lights at wing tips and
  tail, but  flew in darkness and flew high. From time to time he used the  binoculars, attempting to pick up the
  planes ahead.
  General Vigo's ship was faster than any of the three  cabin craft. Its motor was larger, its streamlining better.
  "Think we'll catch 'em?" Long Tom mumbled.
  The bronze man did not reply. The question did not  seem to be one that required an answer.
  After they had been in the air some time, Doc Savage  leveled a bronze arm. "There."
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  Long Tom used the binoculars. He employed them for  some moments, shaking his head at first; but finally he
  nodded.
  "I see them," he said. "They're heading for the  jungle."
  Doc Savage got out of the control bucket, motioned  Long Tom to take the stick.
  "Follow them," the bronze man directed.
  Long Tom nodded, and took over the handling of the  plane.
  Doc Savage went back into the rear. The bronze man  opened the metal case which he had gotten from the
  wrecked dirigible.  This held Monk's portable laboratory.
  Doc Savage took from a pocket a small object which,  unrolled, proved to be the envelope—the waterproof,
  airproof envelope  of rubberized fabric—into which he had, many hours previously, scraped  some of the
  weird gray dust, which always was to be found on the faces  of the victims of the Inca in Gray.
  The bronze man began to work over the chemical  laboratory. His manipulations were complex. General Vigo
  came back and  stared, but could make nothing out of the proceedings, shook his head  and returned to help
  Long Tom watch the planes ahead.
  Hours later, it seemed, although the interval could  not have been that long, Doc Savage came forward.
  "What have you been doing?" Long Tom asked.
  The bronze man seemed not to hear. Long Tom did not  repeat his question. Doc Savage had a small habit of
  seeming to go  suddenly deaf upon occasions when he was asked questions, which, for  reasons of his own, he
  did not desire to answer.
  They flew on.
  "Look!" Long Tom pointed. "The three planes are  landing." 
  It was true. The ships, barely distinguishable in  the bright moonlight, were coming down.
  Doc Savage took over the controls of their own ship.  He promptly cut the motor, and began a long, silent
  glide to the jungle  beneath.
  Doc Savage selected a clearing almost three miles  from where the other three ships had landed, and he came
  toward it from  a direction opposite the spot where the other three ships had  descended. It was not likely that
  they would see him. He was careful in  putting the ship down, not making much noise.
  The three of them alighted.
  "Now what?" asked Long Tom.
  General Vigo spoke up before Doc Savage could make  an answer. Until this point, General Vigo had played
  the part of a  brave man, but he had had a hectic night, possibly the most eventful  one in his existence.
  "I balk, señores," he said.
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  DOC SAVAGE'S flake−gold eyes became intent upon  General Vigo. "What do you mean?"
  "Let me go back to my camp." General Vigo suggested.  "We will need help in fighting this Inca in Gray, and
  I will bring it.  I assure you this war will stop. You've shown me things tonight."
  "No," the bronze man said.
  General Vigo bristled. His face, in the moonlight,  became even more ugly.
  "Why do you want me with you?" he demanded.
  "We may need your assistance," Doc Savage said.
  Long Tom, hearing that, suppressed a desire to  snort. If any individual on earth was less in need of assistance
  than  Doc Savage, that person would be hard to locate.
  Abruptly, Long Tom frowned. Doc Savage wanted  General Vigo with them. Could it be the bronze man had
  learned General  Vigo was the Inca in Gray? The bronze man might have proof that fell a  little short of
  absolute certainty. In that case, if Doc's actions in  the past were any indication, the bronze man would not
  reveal his  suspicions until they were shown as irrefutable facts.
  General Vigo mumbled and muttered to himself.
  "I do not like it, señores," he said at last. "But I  will go."
  They marched; crawled, described it better. They had  lights, but it was not wise to show them.
  It was not long before Long Tom started thinking of  Monk and Ham.
  "They're in a jam," he muttered, "even if they're  only lost."
  Chapter 17. THE GRAY DUST
  MONK AND HAM, at that exact moment, were in a  predicament, which they would have exchanged gladly
  for the mere  difficulties of being lost in the jungle. The two men lay in the bottom  of the torture pit, and the
  ants were just beginning to arrive. The  insects had been a long time coming. That was not strange, and
  evidently not entirely unexpected to their captors. The wait for the  arrival of the ants seemed to be a part of
  the torture, the mental  portion of it. The physical torture was beginning now.
  Monk squirmed furiously, gnashed his teeth, as he  felt the first terrible bite. He was not gagged, and he could
  guess the  reason why. Their captors—the white men, for the natives seemed none  too enthusiastic about the
  grisly affair—would want to hear his screams  of agony.
  There was strange excitement back in the native  camp. Men shouted. Orders were cried out. Shadowy figures
  moved through  the night, but it was very dark under the jungle foliage where the  moonlight did not penetrate.
  Monk heard the sounds, and, more to take his mind  off his present predicament than anything else, he spoke
  of them.
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  "Somethin's happenin'," he said.
  Ham was also in agony. Not many of the ants had  arrived as yet, but they were coming in a slender stream
  that was like  a living rope crawling down the pit side.
  "They probably have scouting parties out in the  surrounding brush," Ham said. "They may be changing
  shifts."
  He was wrong. That was apparent a moment later, when  men shuffled up to the pit. Among them was the
  leader of the white men.  He scowled down at them.
  "Word has come that the Inca in Gray wishes to be  present at your deaths," he said.
  "Kind of the guy," Monk growled.
  The white man laughed. Brittle and harsh, the sound  was like glass breaking. "I think I shall stand here and
  watch you  suffer for a while, señores. The runner who brought word of the Inca in  Gray's coming said
  nothing about treating you gently."
  And the man did exactly what he threatened. He  crouched on the pit edge, from time to time using a
  flashlight to watch  the work of the ants.
  The electric flashlight had a queer effect upon the  small natives. Each time the brilliant white beam lashed
  out, they  started back, as if they considered it magic. This amused the white  man, and he entertained himself
  by throwing the glaring rays over the  natives themselves, sending them scampering into the brush. However,
  when he suddenly discovered a tiny poison dart clinging in the leaves  beside him, he gave up his fun.
  The jungle drums began to thump in the distance, the  sound going on and on in monotonous syncopation. The
  natives listened  to it. Then they gathered about the white man, and they chattered,  making fierce little faces.
  Monk and Ham could understand what they  said for their speech was an offshoot of ancient Mayan.
  "The Inca in Gray is drawing close," was the gist of  what the drums were saying.
  Monk and Ham were untied, taken out of the pit, the  ants carefully brushed off them with leafy twigs. Then
  they were  escorted back toward the little village with its ramshackle, unwalled  huts. Bound hand and foot,
  they were flung upon the floor of the hut in  which lay Señorita Anita Carcetas.
  The young woman greeted them as if she had never  expected to see them alive again.
  "The Inca in Gray himself is coming," Monk old her.  "Listen."
  They could hear sounds, crashing of the brush for  the most part, then tramping of feet, and a file of figures
  came into  the clearing. A small fire, perhaps with ceremonial significance, had  been lighted in front of the
  hut. The newcomers filed toward this.
  In their lead walked a sinister figure encased in a  gray cloak. The Inca in Gray himself!
  The night was hot, travel through the jungle  rigorous. The Inca in Gray had thrown back the hood of the
  strange  cloak, so that his features were recognizable.
  Monk, Ham, Señorita Anita Carcetas, stared. Their  eyes came wide, disbelieving.
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  "The Inca in Gray is—the last person on earth I  would have suspected," gasped Señorita Anita Carcetas.
  Chapter 18. JUNGLE
  DOC SAVAGE was making slow progress through the  jungle on the trail of the Inca in Gray. This was not
  his fault. Alone  he would have had no difficulty in traveling at a good speed and  eluding any possible natives.
  Even with Long Tom alone as a companion,  their pace would have been much swifter.
  General Vigo was the stumbling block. It had been  many years since the dictator general had taken such
  strenuous exercise  as this. Travel through the jungle called for tremendous endurance.  Time after time, Doc
  and Long Tom were forced to halt, to wait until  Vigo regained breath enough to move on. A worried frown
  was on Long  Tom's unhealthy looking face.
  "I'll stay with Vigo, Doc," he suggested. "You go  ahead."
  Doc Savage shook a negative. "We will stay together."
  He did not explain why. There were several reasons,  not the smallest of which was that General Vigo and
  Long Tom, if left  alone, probably could not follow the trail made by those who had come  from the three
  airplanes.
  Doc was following that trail now, and it was vague,  difficult to trace in the darkness. Had there been daylight,
  the task  would have been simplified greatly.
  General Vigo complained loudly, "Amigos, I am  thinking seriously of telling you both to go where they burn
  brimstone.  I have enough of this."
  "Not so loud," Long Tom hissed angrily.
  But the loud voice which General Vigo had used had  already done its damage. Long Tom heard no sound
  from the jungle about  them, but he suddenly found the metallic grip of Doc Savage's bronze  fingers upon his
  arm, and was bundled hurriedly and silently to one  side. General Vigo, surprised at the rough treatment, tried
  to object,  but found a hand clamp over his mouth and received a thorough shaking,  which impressed upon
  him the necessity for silence.
  The three men came to a stop, concealed quite a  number of yards from their previous position. They waited,
  listening.
  A faint rustling of underbrush sounded shortly. A  few yards ahead was an open space where moonlight
  filtered through the  jungle foliage. Two natives appeared, slipping along silently through  this moonlight
  patch. Each little aboriginal held a short blowpipe in  his hand. Darts, poison−tipped, they carried in bamboo
  sections which  had plugs, bottle fashion.
  Doc Savage's metallic hand found Long Tom's shoulder  in the darkness. The hand squeezed, long and short
  squeezes which  transmitted a message in the Continental Code. The sallow−faced  electrical wizard made no
  response, but the touch of his hand upon Doc  Savage's person telegraphed a reply. "O. K."
  The little natives stood in the clearing as if they  liked the moonlight better than the jungle. They moved
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  about; obviously  they had heard General Vigo's voice, knew that quarry was near. One  little fellow stopped
  close to a tree only a few paces from where Doc  Savage and his two companions were concealed. The other
  native moved  ahead.
  Long Tom grimaced disgustedly in the darkness. By  separating, the two little jungle men had complicated
  things. For, when  one was seized, the other might be able to give an alarm. Doc Savage  touched Long Torn,
  telegraphing with his fingers.
  Obeying that silently transmitted command, Long Tom  leaped, caught the closest native from behind, and
  snapping his fingers  down on the fellow's windpipe, cut off an outcry.
  Long Tom had moved swiftly, but his speed was slow  motion compared with the bronze man's action. Doc
  Savage whipped around  the edge of the clearing, keeping in shadow, and was suddenly upon the  second
  native. The little brown fellow did not even succeed in turning,  nor could he yell. Doc Savage's fingers did
  something very briefly to  the back of the fellow's neck, and he dropped, asleep for the time  being.
  When Doc Savage returned to Long Tom, the electrical  wizard had succeeded in making his own victim
  senseless.
  General Vigo muttered, "Bueno. Now they  cannot give an alarm—"
  Long Tom took hold of General Vigo's throat with  both hands.
  "You open that trap again, and I'm gonna wring your  neck," the electrical wizard said.
  General Vigo still had some fight in him. He  bristled indignantly, and combat seemed emminent; but a
  breathed  warning from Doc Savage brought them up sharply.
  "Listen," said the bronze man.
  They listened. Other groups of natives could be  heard approaching.
  ALL NOISE of the approaching natives suddenly  ceased. Long Tom's anxiety increased. General Vigo's
  bluster was  completely broken, and he was remarkably silent, face down. The three  men wriggled through the
  underbrush seeking to escape.
  Birds were fluttering about in the jungle, and that  itself told the story. The natives had spread, had encircled
  the spot.  Doc, Long Tom and General Vigo were completely surrounded.
  A strange, weird cry echoed through the night. It  was picked up, repeated until it came from all directions.
  The little  natives called out to each other. The reason for the noise, at first a  mystery, became apparent.
  A light sprang up in the jungle. It was a torch  which had been lighted. Others blazed, dozens, scores of them.
  Soon a ring of lighted brands completely surrounded  the spot where Doc Savage and the other two lay.
  "Thees ees bad," choked General Vigo, forgetting his  English in his excitement.
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  In charge of the natives was the small chief who had  headed the party which had captured Monk and Ham.
  He gave orders  quietly, speaking the offshoot of the Mayan language which was the  tongue of his people.
  "We have them surrounded," he said. "There is no  doubt of that."
  Warriors, armed and ready, stood behind the men who  held the torches. There were hundreds of the natives
  here, enough of  them to annihilate a small army. Yet, they made no effort to advance.  In fact, they did not
  seem at all bloodthirsty.
  There was the sound of a man approaching rapidly  through the jungle. A native runner appeared. He was
  breathing heavily.
  "The Inca in Gray is sending one of his men with the  dust of death," he said.
  None of the little brown men showed any enthusiasm  at that. They waited. As their firebrands burned up, they
  replenished  them, keeping a ring of brilliant illumination about the place.
  A party arrived through the jungle. A man detached  from this group of new arrivals and came forward. He
  was a white man.  He could not speak the tongue of the natives, but the latter seemed to  know a few words of
  Spanish, and with gestures supplementing these  Spanish words, the white man managed to convey his wishes.
  The white man's party had brought the dust of death.  They desired to make use of it.
  Some of the torches were now extinguished. The ring  of natives began to move. Gently, ominously, their line
  crept forward.  Shadows flitted from tree to tree, from bush to bush, small,  innocent−appearing shadows, but
  each was a tiny man armed with as  deadly a weapon as the jungle has ever produced—blowguns. Light from
  the torches made a red, hideous luminance.
  It was General Vigo who first broke under the  strain. "Get back, you devils," he growled at the natives.
  There was action then. White men detached from the  native ring. They charged forward. They held in their
  hands strange  packages, and shortly their figures were lost in the darkness.
  No one watching on that occasion could have told  just how the death of the gray dust was inflicted. The
  devilish  operation went forward in darkness, silence, except that there were  grunts, cries.
  After a bit, the white men retreated.
  "Eet ees feeneesh," one mumbled in bad English.
  THE LITTLE brown dwellers of the jungle seemed to  have an unnatural fear of the gray dust, which was not
  hard to  understand. They drew back, listened. But there was no sound, no  stirring from the center of their
  ring. They lighted more of the  torches, and, by exchanging shouts, fired their own courage. Then they
  advanced.
  The light of their torches soon shone upon three  prone forms. Guttural exclamations came from the little men.
  They were  not pleasurable sounds, and they were certainly not triumphant, as they  surveyed the three inert
  forms.
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  The leader signaled his little men, and called out,  and they kept their distance from the three bodies. They
  looked upon  the three forms with curiosity.
  One was a giant, a herculean bronze figure. The  second man was pallid, small, rather unimpressive. The third
  man was a  burly and ugly fellow attired in the army uniform of Delezon, a uniform  which bore no rank
  insignia.
  But it was not the prone, motionless figures which  held attention.
  On the face of each was a fine, grayish powder that  gave the motionless bodies a horrible aspect. It was plain
  that even  the little aborigines felt an eerie, creeping sensation, for they drew  back, exchanging uneasy glances.
  "The death of the dust," one mumbled.
  "The Inca in Gray," said another, "has taken more  victims. In truth, this Inca in Gray has no respect for life."
  With one accord the natives retreated. They kept  their eyes downcast.
  "The three white men are dead," they said. "We might  as well return to the camp."
  Chapter 19. THE INCA IN GRAY
  THE SMALL brown warriors had left no lookouts  behind. Had they done so and had the watchers been alert,
  they might  shortly have seen a happening which, no doubt, would have greatly  surprised them.
  Doc Savage lifted his head as if to listen more  intently, then got to his feet.
  "They have gone," he said softly.
  General Vigo whipped erect. There was a madness in  his manner as he wrenched out a handkerchief and
  brushed furiously at  his face getting rid of the gray dust.
  Long Tom also seemed uneasy.
  "You sure the stuff won't get us after all, Doc?" he  demanded.
  "The chances are that it will not," the bronze man  said. "It would have taken effect before now."
  Long Tom began, "Just what is this gray stuff, and  just what—"
  "We should he moving," Doc Savage  cut in. 
  The bronze man set out through the jungle, following  the natives who were returning to their village.
  The trail was a hard one, and it was hot, for the  night seemed to have brought little coolness to the jungle.
  Doc Savage  and his companions, however, made good time. They were close behind the  natives and the
  white men when they entered the village.
  More fires had been lighted in the village. These  furnished considerable illumination.
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  From the muck beside one of the thatched huts a man  came toward the new arrivals. Clad in long flowing
  robes tightly  girdled about the waist the figure was rather indistinct, shapeless.  The robe was gray. It had a
  hood with a mask−like attachment that  almost completely concealed the features.
  The Inca in Gray!
  "What have you to report?" asked the Inca in Gray in  Spanish.
  One of the white killers with the native party  replied in the same language.
  "There were three of them," he said. "We got them  all."
  "Who were they?" asked he Inca in Gray.
  "Doc Savage," replied the other, "his aide called  Long Tom, and the third man was General Vigo."
  That the Inca in Gray was astounded was evident,  even though none of his features were visible. The folds of
  the robe  shook as if the wearer were trembling uncontrollably.
  "Where are their bodies?" the Inca in Gray demanded.
  "We let them lay," he was advised.
  "Fools!" screamed the figure in the gray gown. "You  should have brought them. I will not believe the bronze
  man is dead  before I see his body dismembered before my eyes!"
  The spokesman of the killers squirmed uneasily.
  "The gray death," he mumbled, "was all over them. We  were afraid to carry them."
  The Inca in Gray was screaming now, "You could have  made litters! You should have brought them! Go
  back and get them!"
  Rage was pouring from the robed figure. Curses  roared into the night, curses in the offshoot Mayan, in
  Spanish, in bad  English, and in good English. The Inca in Gray was a master linguist.
  The natives quailed fearfully as did the white  followers of the Inca in Gray.
  They retreated, anxious to return and get the bodies  of their three victims.
  "Wait!" shrilled the Inca in Gray.
  The cloaked figure summoned the others close. Words  were exchanged, low voiced words that did not
  penetrate more than a few  yards.
  Doc Savage, Long Tom and General Vigo, concealed in  the brush near by, failed to catch what was being
  said. They strained  their ears to the utmost, but it was to no avail.
  The natives scurried off, accompanied by their white  companions.
  All seemed very anxious indeed to get the bodies of  the three men who were supposed to be dead.
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  CAREFULLY CONCEALED on the edge of the village, Doc  Savage watched the natives as they departed.
  The voices of the little  brown men came clearly in the night. They were frightened. The rage of  the strange
  gray being, who was their master, seemed to appall them
  Doc Savage stirred, coming quietly to his feet. Long  Tom and General Vigo also got erect.
  "We will try to reach the huts," Doc Savage breathed.
  They eased forward. The night was well along, and  the moon was preparing to vanish. Its disappearance
  would be followed  by a thick darkness, and would greatly complicate attempts to move  without noise.
  They reached the first of the huts. There had been  no sound. Over by one of the fires was a small cluster of
  natives.  These were seated or lying on the ground for the most part, evidently  tired out by the night's
  exertions.
  Doc Savage reached the largest of the huts. The  shadows were almost incredibly dark. Almost nothing could
  be seen of  the interior of the hut. Doc Savage straightened, intending to search  the structure.
  Came a sudden gasp from behind him. It was General  Vigo. The burly, ugly−faced dictator general of
  Delezon cried out in  horror. His fists made sounds as they struck lusty blows. A shrill  angry squeaking
  echoed the blow sounds.
  Long Tom had matches in his pocket. He struck one.  There was no longer need of furtiveness. The noise had
  aroused the  little brown natives.
  General Vigo was engaged in a furious struggle with  a very homely tailless monkey. The thing must have
  come upon him  silently in the night and given him a great start.
  "Chemistry!" came a voice from inside the hut.
  The speaker was Ham. Doc Savage plucked matches from  Long Tom's hand, sprang into the hut. He struck
  one of the matches.
  The elevated hut floor was littered with bound human  forms. Monk and Ham were both there. There was
  attractive Señorita  Anita Carcetas, and her father, President Carcetas of Santa Amoza.  There was war
  minister Junio Serrato, and there was Count Hoffe, the  munitions salesman. Ace Jackson was also a prisoner.
  Only Don Kurrell, the oil man, was missing. Doc  Savage began wrenching at the bonds which secured the
  prisoners. These  were of stout fiber cord, woven by the natives. They were not weak, yet  they snapped under
  the metallic fingers of the bronze giant as if they  had become inexplicably rotten. Monk heaved to his feet,
  free.
  "They got Habeas Corpus tied under the next hut," he  howled and dived outside.
  The little brown men had scattered from their fires.  Grabbing up their blowguns and poisonous darts, they
  had disappeared  from sight.
  Monk came back from the adjacent hut, carrying  Habeas Corpus by one oversized ear.
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  There came a small clicking sound. It was very much  as if a match had been dropped on a hard concrete
  floor, but its cause  was nothing so harmless as that.
  "Poison darts," Doc Savage rapped. "Tear down the  thatch roof of the hut. Use it as a shield while we work
  into the  jungle."
  The bronze man had freed all the prisoners now. They  began tearing the thatch from the hut roof, intending to
  use it as the  bronze man had suggested.
  Long Tom voiced a conviction which he had reached.
  "Don Kurrell is missing," he said. "That means he's  the Inca in Gray."
  "But his motives?" gasped Señorita Anita Carcetas.
  "Undale!"
  shouted General Vigo feverishly. "Hurry, hurry, mi amigos.  We must get away from here." 
  Then came disaster. It struck so suddenly that the  shock of it paralyzed them. From all around the clearing
  rifles  cracked; bullets storming through the thatched roof of the hut forced  them flat on the ground. Poisoned
  darts began to arrive in a deadly  rain. There seemed to be scores of enemies about the clearing.
  "The Inca in Gray!" Long Tom exploded. "He did not  go to find our bodies. He was too clever for that. He
  figured we might  have faked our deaths and would come here, so he spread his men around  the place, set a
  trap."
  "Keep down," Doc Savage said. "Keep the thatching  over you. The dart will not penetrate it."
  Count Hoffe shrieked. "We are trapped! They will  kill us!"
  "We don't need anybody to tell us about it,  brother," Monk growled at him.
  "Quiet," Doc Savage said.
  They all fell silent.
  The bronze man now began to speak, smooth, guttural  words that came swiftly from his lips. He was not
  speaking Spanish or  English but the language of ancient Maya, the pure, untainted tongue of  the race which is
  conceded to have once been the most powerful in the  Western World.
  He was reciting a chant, a chant that was in the  nature of a benediction. Centuries ago these same words had
  been used  by the rulers of ancient Maya to address their subjects. The words  belonged to the Kulca, the
  forbidden language, the language which could  only be spoken by rulers, by the high sorcerers.
  The chant had a remarkable effect. The little brown  natives around the clearing had been shouting out, yelling
  their war  cries. Now they fell silent, ominously silent.
  General Vigo rumbled, "Say, what is this—"
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  "Shut up!" Monk admonished him. "Maybe you didn't  know it, but Doc was once made a big shot among the
  Mayans, and  ordained a son of Kukulcan, the Feathered Serpent, or something like  that. These little brown
  fellows are Mayans, even if they have slipped  a lot from the old days. Listen."
  Doc Savage ended his chant. He began to speak  straight Mayan.
  "You have been used as dupes, Oh men of Maya," the  bronze man said loudly, his voice probably carrying to
  every one of the  listeners. "You have been used by this one who calls himself the Inca  in Gray, and who is no
  Inca at all, but a treacherous killer. He has  doubtless promised you rewards for your assistance, but have the
  men of  ancient Maya brought forth descendants so weak that they must help the  like of this Inca in Gray? Are
  you dogs to fight in hopes of being  thrown a bone?"
  The bronze man fell silent, and it was the turn of  the little brown men around the clearing to talk. They
  shouted at each  other, excitedly at first, then angrily. The gist of what they were  saying was plain from their
  voice tones alone. They had enough of the  Inca in Gray. They had enough of him before this last incident, for
  that matter.
  Came a strangled yell from the edge of the clearing.  The hooded figure shot into view, running madly.
  "The Inca in Gray!" Long Tom yelled.
  "Blades," Monk exploded. "He's coming to us!"
  The cloaked, hooded figure arrived. He stripped the  covering back from his head and it was Don Kurrell, the
  oil man, and he  shrieked, "I am not the Inca in Gray I was only fool enough to help  him!"
  Don Kurrell stopped. His face was horrible in the  faint light that came from the fire on the other side of the
  clearing.
  "I was promised concessions for my oil company, if I  aided the Inca in Gray," he blurted. "I'm only small
  fry!"
  General Vigo got up and roared, "Your lies will not  save you! Here's where you get justice!"
  General Vigo had plucked one of the poisoned darts  from the thatch. He lunged, holding the dart point first.
  Its venomous  tip was buried in Don Kurrell's neck.
  Don Kurrell screamed and tried to run, but got only  a few paces before he fell, in the throes of the sudden
  hideous death  which the little darts brought.
  The end of Don Kurrell did not get much attention.  Other things were happening.
  Doc Savage lunged at General Vigo. The latter  retreated. 
  "It's Vigo!" rapped the bronze man. "He is the Inca  in Gray!"
  THERE WAS BEDLAM around the clearing edge,  screaming, and shouting and shooting. The little brown
  descendants of  ancient Maya had obviously turned on the white followers of the Inca in  Gray. They were
  fighting to the death.
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  General Vigo fled madly. He had a start of a few  yards. That accounted for Doc Savage not overhauling him
  immediately.
  General Vigo demonstrated himself as being perfectly  familiar with the huts. He plunged into one, vanishing
  from sight in  the shadows. Doc Savage followed him.
  There was silence for a moment after the two figures  disappeared, silence that seemed to those in the
  clearing, despite the  uproar of the fight going on all about them and in the jungle, to drag  ominously.
  A scream sounded then. It was long and penetrating  and there was a shake in it, a ripple of utter horror. That
  scream must  have all but taken the vocal cords out of the throat of the one who  uttered it.
  Monk emitted a howl and rushed for the hut. Ham ran  over to the fire, picked up brands for light. He came
  with the  illumination to the hut.
  Inside the hut, Doc Savage stood on the raised floor.
  General Vigo was slumped on the floor, dead  obviously.
  Gray dust—the gray dust that was the special death  of the Inca in Gray—covered both the features of Doc
  Savage and General  Vigo. Vigo was dead. Doc Savage was quite patently alive. The bronze  man stepped out
  of the hut.
  "Keep away," he said, and began brushing the dust  off his features.
  Monk swallowed several times and managed to gulp,  "But why didn't the stuff kill you?"
  "The gray dust," Doc Savage said, "is not dust at  all. It is a tiny parasite, poisonous, a parasite peculiar to
  certain  portions of this jungle. The little bugs are almost of microscopic  size. Actually, they do not bite. They
  sting, and, strangely enough,  after they sting, they die."
  "But they didn't get you," Monk persisted.
  "Merely because of an anaesthetic which I mixed in  the plane, enroute here," Doc Savage explained. "A
  plentiful  application of the stuff on my skin, just before we entered the  clearing was a precaution in the event
  some one should try to use the  gray dust. We used it back in the jungle when we were trapped, but the  effects
  of that application had worn off General Vigo. And actually,  the gray dust there was only faked, so Vigo was
  not afraid, even if my  mixture had not been effective."
  Long Tom jabbed an arm at General Vigo. "But why was  he playing the part of the Inca in Gray? He was
  committing depredations  on his own side, the same as against Santa Amoza."
  "No," Doc Savage said. "You will remember that we  saw no proof of any plotting of the Inca in Gray against
  Delezon. We  had merely General Vigo's word for it, and General Vigo, along with the  rest, was a
  consummate liar."
  President Carcetas of Santa Amoza put in  explosively, "Then General Vigo's aim—"
  "—was trying to smash Santa Amoza," Doc Savage said.  "He wanted to control both countries. It was a case
  of greed, coupled  with a mind of devilish ingenuity."
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  There was still noise of fighting around the  clearing, but not as much of it as before. It diminished rapidly.
  Finally it seemed to be in only one spot, one man resisting. That  fellow tried to flee through the jungle.
  Sounds told the story as  plainly as if they had been watching. The natives pursued him. The  man's one scream
  was a sound that would be remembered. After that,  silence.
  Ace Jackson and Señorita Anita Carcetas were a  little to one side. They had their arms around each other.
  The little brown men began coming out of the jungle,  slowly, keeping their eyes downcast, as if they had
  done something  which they regretted. Their attitude was unmistakably friendly.
  President Carcetas of Santa Amoza looked at them,  said, "The war will now come to an end, of course.
  General Vigo was the  Iron Man of Delezon. No one can carry on in his place, and, in the  peace terms, I shall
  see to it that these little men, these descendants  of Maya, are well taken care of for the service they have done
  this  night."
  PRESIDENT CARCETAS of Santa Amoza proved to be as  good as his word. Delezon, as he had predicted,
  did go to pieces  following the end of General Vigo. Peace terms were easily reached and  they provided an
  ample reservation of Delezon's richest territory for  the native descendants of Maya. The little brown men
  were satisfied.  That is what they had been after all the time.
  Doc Savage and his aides did little but act in an  advisory capacity as peace was restored. Monk and Ham in
  particular  came under the lazy spell of the tropics. This disgusted Ham. He cast  about for some way to restore
  his usual vitality. He hit on an idea.
  He had enjoyed the singing of the natives, even when  they sang their war songs, so he decided to take up the
  task of  learning to play some of the native instruments. Monk was right with  Ham—especially when he saw
  the young ladies who were willing to teach  Ham these melodies.
  It was a splendid idea, and it took up the few  remaining days of their stay there. But neither Monk nor Ham
  realized  that upon their return to New York their interest would continue in  melodies—a new, strange, weird
  kind of melody which would be tagged  Murder Melody, and which would give them much more fighting,
  much  more danger, than the war they had just finished.
  The day before they were to leave Santa Amoza,  something happened that moved Monk deeply—and
  painfully. The chief of  the tribe of the little brown descendants of Maya appeared. He brought  with him
  Chemistry, the most remarkable looking sacred monkey.
  The little Mayan made a long speech, an involved  oration, but the gist of it was that Chemistry was being
  presented to  Ham as a gift, and would Ham accept?
  "Will I?" Ham smiled widely. "Chemistry'll be worth  his weight in gold, if he does nothing but keep that hog,
  Habeas, away  from me."
  Monk watched the gift giving with open mouth. Monk's  groan probably disturbed the condors on the Andean
  mountains.
  THE END
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SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Vault2.0.-.Fiction-and-audiobooks/Books/R/Robeson, Kenneth/032 Dust of Death.pdf