Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (18 page)

“Where is this disinterred man?” barked the Captain.

Olden pointed back toward the Mongol camp and said, “Back there. Out cold.”

The Japanese blinked. “Still frozen?”

Olden shook his small head rapidly. “No. Out cold, as in unconscious.”

“He lives?”

“Absolutely.”

The Captain turned to his aide and barked out quick orders, which he transmitted to the pilots. Two men were sent back into the Mongol camp.

Then, the Japanese officer turned his attention to the sleeping Mongols. It was clear they could not be roused from their weird slumber. A great effort by kicking boots and pounding rifle stocks had been expended to demonstrate this fact.

Olden volunteered, “Doc Savage bombed them. Used gas. The gas makes a man sleep for a very long time.”

The Japanese officer nodded wordlessly. He studied the Mongols and their horses, then went to the camp and scrutinized the armored man who had been excavated from the ice cave. This individual remained unconscious.

Upon his return, Cadwiller Olden was interrogated about the ice cave, and then the Japanese captain went to investigate that. He saddled up a horse and took two men with him. The group was gone several hours.

When he reappeared, the officer seemed rather grim, or rather, more grim than before, for he wore a very severe visage throughout.

BY EVENING, the Mongols were coming out of their heavy slumber. Pistols and rifles were trained on their heads as the Captain addressed them in their own language.

There followed considerable shouted insults and excited exchanges. The Mongols were clearly unhappy to see Japanese marines in their home pasture. For a while, it looked as if a battle was about to break out. But as the hot exchanges progressed, tempers cooled, and attitudes simmered down to mere tension and distrust.

After some more of this, the Japanese officer returned to Cadwiller Olden and said to him, “The story these bandits tell matches the story you told, far-fetched as it is.”

“It is the truth,” assured Olden.

“You say that you are the enemy of Doc Savage?”

“He is the poison in my milk, the thorn in my side, and the burr under my saddle.”

“Then you and I may be destined to be friends,” said the Japanese officer. “For I have encountered this bronze devil before. My name is Captain Kensa Kan.”

Hearing those welcome words, Cadwiller Olden brightened. Suddenly, he felt as if his prospects had vastly improved, much like a man facing the gallows might feel if he was told he was simply going to be in prison for the rest of his life. It may not have been good news, but it was better news—far better a fate than swinging by a rough rope.

So the little man spoke the only words he could think to say. “How may I help you?”

“Help me seize the bronze devil, and I will see that your life is spared, and insure that you have the gratitude of my Emperor.”

When he spoke the word Emperor, Captain Kensa Kan snapped his spine into rigidity, as if someone had stabbed him from behind. A worshipful light came into his dark eyes. It was a strange sight to see.

Chapter XXIII

CORPSE CONFUSION

THE CABIN OF Doc Savage’s large transport plane was unusually quiet as it hammered north in the direction of the Mongolian capital of Ulan Bator.

The cabin was soundproofed, and the four mighty motors operated with remarkable silence for such leviathan engines. So the lack of conversation was noticeable.

Doc and his men were lost in their thoughts. Even Monk and Ham, perpetually at each other’s throats—at least verbally—seemed to have little appetite for exchanging insults. Habeas Corpus had crawled back into the case in which the apish chemist had smuggled him on board. Doc Savage took note of the pig’s presence, but failed to react.

Little caught the bronze man by surprise, and his perpetual poker face retained its metallic cast.

Speaking perfect Mongolian, the bronze man radioed ahead to the capital. A great deal of hi-test aviation gasoline had been expended during their hectic expedition, and they would need to refuel.

Officials in Ulan Bator were hesitant.

“Petrol is at a premium,” Doc was told. “It is wartime. You know this.”

“We understand,” the bronze man told the official respectfully. “But I bring news of grave interest to all Mongolia.”

“What manner of news?”

“A tremendous discovery has been made in an ice cave on your steppeland. Your government will want to know about it.”

“We have more serious matters to deal with. Japanese warplanes have been reported crossing our southern border, in violation of treaty.”

Doc Savage told them, “I have seen these warplanes with my own eyes. I disabled a number of them. You can find them at these coordinates.” He then recited the longitude and latitude of the Mongol camp from memory. It was a remarkable mental feat, but then again Doc Savage had been known to give the correct hour without consulting a timepiece. In fact, the bronze man rarely wore a wristwatch for that very reason.

Doc Savage added, “This is also the approximate location of the great discovery.”

A crackling silence came over the radio loudspeaker.

After a tense wait, the Mongolian official said, “You may land. We will see about fuel. But we will hear your story first.”

THEY were not surprised to be met by a contingent of Soviet officers and armed infantrymen when they arrived. Mongolia was under Russian control, and the U.S.S.R. was at war with Germany.

A commissar with a broad Mongolian face strode up and demanded, “Let us hear your report.”

He was that brusque about it. No ceremony, nor any invitation to sit down and discuss matters.

Continuing to speak in the man’s language, Doc Savage related the account of how he came to Inner Mongolia and what was discovered there.

The bronze man minced no words, but found that he had to embroider the story with extra detail, lest he not be believed. The resurrection of the Mongol warlord who had spent the last few hundred years encased in ice was not a believable one, under any circumstances.

When Doc Savage concluded his account, the Mongol commissar regarded him cryptically.

“Lies!” he spat.

Doc Savage was taken aback. This fact did not show on his metallic features, for he was schooled not to reveal his inner emotions. But the pent silence that followed this accusation told his men that the bronze man was unprepared for this response.

“It is the truth,” insisted Doc.

The Mongolian commissar, who was on the squat side, lifted himself up to his full height, perhaps in a vain effort to tower over the Herculean metallic giant.

“Not many months ago,” he said gruffly, “a Soviet anthropologist opened up the tomb of Tamerlane, and has been examining the remains. The bones that were found in the Samarkand crypt show severe injuries to the right arm and leg—injuries consistent with historical accounts of the wounds suffered by the Mongol warlord.”

Doc Savage’s trilling piped out, low and vague, slowly rising to a curious wandering of sound. It ebbed away into silence.

Doc stated firmly, “The inscription on the block of ice encasing this man clearly said, ‘If I still lived, mankind would tremble.’ ”

“The identical inscription is to be found on the tomb in Samarkand,” retorted the other.

Of all of Doc Savage’s men, only archaeologist Johnny Littlejohn spoke the Mongol tongue. He had heard and understood every word.

The skeletal archaeologist came striding up, and inserted himself into the discussion. “What is the name of this anthropologist?” he demanded of the Commissar.

The name was given.

Johnny made a whistling mouth, but no sound emerged. He turned to Doc Savage and said in English, “The man in question has an excellent reputation.”

Doc nodded, for the anthropologist’s name was well known in the west.

Frowning, Johnny asked, “If the man who has been disinterred from Tamerlane’s tomb is, in fact, the historical warlord, then who on earth did we dig up?”

“That,” returned Doc, “is the question of the hour.”

Round features impatient, the Mongol commissar demanded that they speak the local language.

Doc Savage explained, “My assistant is wondering which of the two disinterred men is the actual Tamerlane.”

A rough laugh emerged from the Mongol’s open mouth.

“The one who was buried in his tomb. Who else?”

The others fell to laughing, as if the bronze man’s question was somehow idiotic.

Then, the squat Commissar added, “The ice cave you mentioned is a thousand miles from the Otrar, in the Kazakh S.S.R., where history tells us that Tamerlane succumbed to the cold of winter back in the early Fifteenth Century.”

Doc Savage admitted that this was true. The two spots were very far distant. And history did record the body of Tamerlane was carried south to the city of Samarkand where it was entombed under a block of black jade in a great domed edifice.

There was no explaining away, or accounting for, the discrepancy. It did tend to cast doubt on the bronze man’s rather bold assertions.

Doc Savage changed the subject slightly. “The discovery of a man who has been in suspended animation is tremendous scientific import,” he pointed out. “No matter who this individual is, his story should be heard. If the Japanese come into possession of him, that knowledge will be lost to Mongolia, and to modern science.”

The Commissar said shortly, “We are not worried about the loss of this iceman you claim to have found. We are at war with the Germans, and that is what must not be lost. This war.”

No arguing that point. So Doc took a different tack.

“We will leave it to your government to address these issues. We may have made this discovery, but it is in your country. And therefore it is your business more than it is ours.”

Johnny started to object, but a sharp glance from Doc Savage’s golden eyes quelled him.

Doc said, “There is a dangerous man with the Mongol bandits who have the iceman. His name is Cadwiller Olden, and he is less than four feet tall—”

The Mongolian commissar popped his eyes and showed huge discolored teeth as he roared out another peal of laughter.

“A dangerous man, you say—standing almost four feet in height?”

Doc suppressed any urge to argue the point. “He was our prisoner, but managed to slip away. Olden is a wanted criminal in America, and we would like to take possession of him.”

The Commissar nodded, regaining control of his mirth.

“If we capture him, and he survives, we may mail him back to you in America. Provided we can find the proper postage.”

And the Commissar shook his great belly with fresh laughter.

DOC SAVAGE made bronze blocks with his metallic fists, and seemed on the point of losing his normally tranquil temper. The golden flakes of his uncanny eyes swirled more briskly, as if an aureate snowstorm was brewing therein.

Instead of responding as he felt, Doc reminded, “We are stuck here. We cannot refuel.”

“You carry money with which to buy gasoline?”

“We do.”

“American dollars?”

Doc nodded.

“Good! American dollars are worth a great deal. If you have sufficient dollars, we will fill all your tanks.”

It seemed that the bargain was as simple as that. Doc Savage produced his greenbacks, and hoses were brought forth to fill his fuel tanks. They were commodious. This took about an hour.

This time the bronze man and his aides conferred in the security of their plane cabin, which had been thoroughly searched in their absence. Some items were missing. Nothing important, however. Knowing of the suspicious inquisitiveness of the Russian authorities, Monk and Renny had taken pains to lock up all weapons before landing.

Monk wanted to know, “Now that we got gas, do we fly back to the Mongol camp, or do we head home?”

Doc Savage replied, “Our hands are evidently tied. With this new information, there is sufficient doubt cast upon the identity of the man pulled from the ice cave. We may have to let the Mongolian authorities sort the matter out.”

Johnny looked crestfallen, but said nothing.

“What about Olden?” asked Ham.

“As much as it may rankle us,” replied Doc, “we are at the mercy of Soviet authorities. If they capture Olden, we will press for his return.”

Long Tom muttered, “We can’t just let that sawed-off rascal get away from us.”

“This is a nation at war,” counseled Doc. “We do not want to overplay our hand.”

Monk pounded a furry fist into a meaty opposite palm. “So we just take off and go home with our tails between our legs? We hardly got to do any fightin’.”

Doc remonstrated, “We did not come here to fight. This is a scientific expedition, you will recall.”

There was not a great deal of emotion in the bronze man’s admonition, but Monk immediately subsided as if there had been.

It was Johnny Littlejohn who raised the next objection.

“Doc, hear me out. What if the man in the ice is the real Tamerlane? Suppose he falls into the hands of the Japanese?”

The bronze man was slow in replying. He was evidently calculating possibilities.

“Tamerlane was marching on his way to conquer China. Japan has done a fair job of seizing portions of it in our time. It is difficult to see, or even predict, which way events might flow. In any event, the United States is not at war with any nation in this part of Asia. We cannot become embroiled in events which might spiral out of control.”

Johnny Littlejohn’s coat-hanger shoulders sagged. He looked as if he wanted to weep. Instead, he took out his monocle magnifier and began polishing it in a grim silence.

There was no arguing with Doc Savage. But it was plain that the gangling geologist was unhappy with the present course and future trend of events.

Noticing that Johnny was over-polishing his magnifier, Renny clapped him on his knobby spine and boomed, “Cheer up! Maybe you’ll find another ice cave somewhere with something better preserved inside.”

Renny’s well-meaning gesture all but knocked the wordy archeologist off his booted feet. The big-fisted engineer, who for a pastime liked to haul off and bust in stout doors just to show that it could be done, often forgot his own strength.